Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."

"As always."

Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."

You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."

"He is my squire."

"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.

"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."

"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"

The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.

"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.

"My lord, my lady."

You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.

The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."

Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.

"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."

"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."

And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.

"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”

“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”

Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”

Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.

“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”

Sit the Iron Throne.

You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”

Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?

“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”

Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”

“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”

“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.

“Do not patronise me so!”

Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”

Our son.

But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.

The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.

“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”

You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.

What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”

And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.

“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”

You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.

“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.

“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”

“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”

Our boy.

You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.

“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”

And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.

One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”

You do.

Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.

“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”

Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”

Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”

“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”

It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.

“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.

“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”

Sixth Year

Hogwarts Castle — Scottish Highlands, Scotland

Sixth year was supposed to be simple.

Study hard. Pass your N.E.W.T.s. Try not to get murdered by Hermione Granger's increasingly aggressive study schedules.

Reasonable goals, honestly.

Unfortunately, Hogwarts rarely cared about reasonable goals.

Breakfast in the Great Hall smelled like burnt toast, strong coffee, and the collective suffering of students surviving on four hours of sleep. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows overhead while owls swooped between tables delivering letters, parcels, and occasionally mild chaos.

At the Ravenclaw table, you were busy attacking a piece of toast with far more hostility than it deserved.

Across from you, Ginny watched for a moment before setting down her pumpkin juice.

"Why do you look like someone's spat in your coffee?"

You looked up immediately.

"Because Binns assigned us three essays before nine in the morning."

Ginny snorted.

"You love essays."

"That's not the point."

"You color-code your notes for fun."

"That's also not the point."

A few seats away, Hermione finally looked up from the alphabetized monstrosity she called a planner. She scanned the two of you over the top of her parchment before letting out a long-suffering sigh.

"Honestly, both of you sound ridiculous."

Ginny pointed dramatically across the table. 

“See? She gets it.” 

“No, I don’t,” Hermione corrected. “You’re enabling her theatrics.” 

You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense.  

“Hermione Granger accusing me of theatrics is rich considering you once cried over an Arithmancy grade in fifth year.”

Hermione looked scandalized. 

“I got a ninety-eight.” 

“Exactly.” 

Ginny burst out laughing while Hermione narrowed her eyes at you over the rim of her teacup. 

“You’re never letting that go, are you?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Truthfully, breakfast with Hermione and Ginny had become one of your favorite parts of sixth year. Hermione brought structure. Ginny brought chaos. You mostly contributed sarcasm and snacks.

The arrangement worked surprisingly well.

“You’re both avoiding the real issue,” Ginny announced suddenly. 

You frowned. “What real issue?” 

“The fact the Lorenzo Berkshire has been staring at you for the last five minutes.” 

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

Hermione immediately glanced toward the Slytherin table with all the subtlety of a Bombarda spell. “Oh dear.”

“Oh dear?” you repeated weakly.

“He’s absolutely looking at you.” 

You grimaced. “Maybe he’s looking at someone behind me.”

“He’s not,” Ginny said.

“He could be.” 

“He winked,” Hermione informed you helpfully.

You closed your eyes briefly.

Across the room, the Slytherin table erupted into laughter. 

You still did not look over.

You refused to give him the satisfaction.

That was exactly what he wanted.

Lorenzo Berkshire had the sort of laugh that carried across a room. Loud enough to turn heads, charming enough that nobody seemed to mind. Unfortunately, half the female population of Hogwarts appeared to find that endearing.

The truly irritating part was that he was objectively attractive in the same way fire was objectively hot. Widely acknowledged. Scientifically verifiable. Potentially dangerous if handled incorrectly.

He was tall in a lazy sort of way, as though he'd never quite realized how much space he occupied. His uniform was perpetually untidy, sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows and tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd either come from Quidditch practice or a terrible decision.

Sometimes both. 

Girls liked Lorenzo because he flirted shamelessly and made them feel chosen. Boys liked him because he was reckless and somehow impossible to genuinely dislike. 

You disliked him anyway. 

Mostly on principle. 

Hermione gathered her books neatly into her bag before standing. “Come on. We’re going to be late for Charms.”

“We meaning you,” Ginny corrected. “Some of us weren’t cursed with responsibility.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “You’re impossible.” 

“So I’ve been told.” 

The three of you moved through the crowded corridors together while students rushed toward class around you. Hermione walked with purpose like she always did while continuing a conversation about N.E.W.T.-level coursework.

You listened with half your attention until Hermione suddenly stopped speaking mid-sentence.

“What?” 

Hermione's eyes flickered over your shoulder.

The look alone made your stomach sink.

"You've gained a shadow."

You already knew who it was before you turned.

Sure enough, Lorenzo appeared beside you a second later, grinning like he'd been personally invited to persistently annoy you.

You let out an immediate groan. “Go away.”

Instead of being offended, Lorenzo looked absolutely delighted.

“Good morning to you too, little raven.” 

“I’d rather drink Acromantula venom than be called pet names by you.” 

“That’s oddly specific.” 

“I’ve had time to think about it.” 

Ginny made a loud, delighted sound of laughter, while Hermione—traitor that she was—looked far too entertained for someone who was supposed to be the voice of reason.

Lorenzo glanced between the group before focusing back on you. “You always this friendly in the morning?" 

“Only with people I dislike.”

“Ouch.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “That one might’ve actually hurt.” 

You finally glanced at him properly. “You’re literally smiling.” 

“Maybe I enjoy it.” 

“Well, that’s concerning.” 

“The insults build character.” 

“You seem overdeveloped already.”

That earned a real laugh from him—warm and surprised like he hadn’t expected you to keep up with him so easily. 

Regrettably, Hermione noticed it too.

You saw the exact moment something clicked in her expression. 

Merlin help you. 

Hermione Granger with an idea was one of the most dangerous creatures alive. 

“You know,” she said mildly, “I actually think you two would get along if you stopped bickering for one second.” 

You and Lorenzo answered at the exact same time. 

“No, we wouldn’t.”

The synchronicity alone was enough to send Ginny into hysterics.

Lorenzo looked vaguely offended.

“You wound me, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled innocently. 

“Pity.” 

“The bullying in this castle has become outrageous.” 

“You started it,” you informed him.

“Did I?” 

“Yes.” 

“When?” 

“Approximately every time you speak.”

The thing was, Lorenzo shouldn't have been that attractive while carrying three textbooks under one arm and grinning like an idiot.

Yet somehow, tragically, he was. 

By the time you reached the Charms classroom, you were already aiming for your usual seat by the window. Safe. Predictable. Strategically far away from distractions. 

You had just settled in when Lorenzo dropped into the seat directly beside you.

You turned slowly to look at him.

“There are other chairs.” 

“But this one’s closest to you.” 

A strangled noise came from Ginny behind you. Hermione looked one second away from completely losing it. 

“You’re insufferable,” you informed him.

“Only for you, love.” 

Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together excitedly once everyone settled down. 

“Good morning, class! Before we begin, I’ve decided students could benefit from collaborative seating arrangements this term.” 

Your stomach sank.

Then he called your name.

“You will be seated beside Mr. Berkshire.”

For a moment, the world genuinely felt unfair.

Actually unfair.

Somewhere across the room, Theo Nott made a choking sound while Mattheo Riddle laughed into his sleeve.

Lorenzo turned to you with the expression of someone who had just won the lottery.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “This is going to be fun.” 

At first, it was just Charms.

Then it became study groups that you hadn’t exactly agreed to but somehow always ended up attending anyway.

Then, somewhere between shared parchment and late-night revisions, Lorenzo Berkshire stopped being an occasional nuisance and became a permanent fixture in your life.

It started, technically, with tutoring.

Or more accurately, it started with Lorenzo repeatedly refusing to leave you alone until you finally gave in out of sheer exhaustion.

“Just one hour,” you warned, already gathering your notes as you met him in the library later that week. You made a point of sounding firm, like there was any chance that would matter.

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair looking entirely too pleased with himself, as though he had just won something important.

“Knew you’d say yes.”

You didn’t even look up as you flipped open your book. “You know nothing about me.”

That finally made him pause. His gaze flickered toward you, and something about his expression softened in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“I think I’d like to,” he said.

It was simple. Casual, even.

It shouldn't have affected you the way it did.

Unfortunately, it absolutely did.

The first session was supposed to last an hour.

It turned into three.

Three turned into six over the course of the week.

And before you really had time to notice what was happening, Lorenzo had developed an alarming habit of appearing wherever you happened to be studying.

The library.

Empty classrooms.

Even once by the Black Lake between classes, as if he’d simply materialized there by coincidence and not intent.

At some point, you stopped asking how he kept finding you.

Then, somehow, it became normal for him to sit at the Ravenclaw table during breakfast, claiming he needed help with assignments he very obviously already understood.

“You realize you’re actually smart, right?” you asked one evening while going over Charms theory with him, watching him scribble notes with exaggerated seriousness.

Lorenzo looked up immediately, scandalized. “That’s a horrible thing to say to someone.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He placed a hand over his chest like you had wounded him deeply. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”

Despite yourself, you laughed.

The sound made something in the air shift.

Lorenzo went very still for half a second.

“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, already looking back down at his notes.

But after that, he looked at you differently.

Study sessions became routine.

Library corners tucked between shelves where no one bothered you. Empty classrooms after hours when the castle had gone quiet. Late nights in the common room when the fire burned low and time seemed to stretch.

You learned things about Lorenzo that didn’t fit the version of him people talked about in the corridors.

The strangest part was that he never seemed interested in proving them wrong.

Around everyone else, Lorenzo performed. He was charming because people expected him to be. Confident because it was easier than admitting when he wasn’t.

But around you, he was different.

Softer.

Almost like he had forgotten he was supposed to be pretending.

Beneath the charm and the arrogance, he was funny in a way that didn’t feel performative when it was just the two of you. Clever in a way people overlooked because he preferred deflecting with jokes instead of proving himself.

And he learned things about you too.

That your sarcasm wasn’t just attitude, it was armor. That you were sharper than you let people assume. That you could keep up with him—word for word, thought for thought—without ever really trying.

What surprised everyone else was how easily he started fitting into your life.

Lorenzo had always been someone people noticed. He entered rooms loudly, left them louder, and somehow managed to make every conversation revolve around him.

But with you, he stopped trying so hard.

He didn’t need an audience.

He didn’t need everyone laughing.

He just sat beside you in the library, stole your notes when he was bored, argued with your theories, and somehow became the person you expected to see whenever you walked into a room.

Somewhere in all of that, something shifted.

You weren’t sure when it happened.

Maybe it was during the nights when everyone else had gone to bed and the castle felt like it belonged only to the two of you. Maybe it was the way he started remembering small things without thinking—how you took your coffee, which quills you preferred, when you stopped talking because you were tired rather than because you were finished.

Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Maybe it was just the way he could make you laugh after a bad day without even trying.

The first time you noticed something was different was when someone else made him laugh.

It was ridiculous, really.

Lorenzo laughed with everyone.

That was what he did.

He was charming and easy and impossible not to like.

But when you saw another girl leaning against the doorway of the library, smiling at him the same way half the school did, something uncomfortable twisted in your chest.

You hated that you noticed.

You hated even more that he noticed you noticing.

Whatever it was, the result was the same.

You stopped dreading seeing him.

Then, worse than that, you started looking for him.

Which was a problem.

Because Lorenzo Berkshire was exactly the kind of person you had spent years convincing yourself you would never fall for.

Too charming.

Too confident.

Too impossible to ignore.

It was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

“You’re staring again,” you said one evening without looking up from your parchment, though you could feel his gaze from across the table in the library.

“I’m thinking,” Lorenzo replied easily.

“That’s concerning.”

“I think you’re pretty.”

Your quill nearly slipped from your fingers.

Across the table, Lorenzo was watching you like he already knew exactly what he’d done, and worse, like he was enjoying it.

“You can’t just say things like that,” you managed, forcing your attention back to your notes.

“Why not?”

The question came softly, almost genuinely curious.

“Because—”

You stopped.

Because what?

Because it made your chest feel tight in a way you didn’t have a name for? Because Lorenzo Berkshire flirted with half the school without consequence and you refused, absolutely refused, to become another girl who misread it? Because you had no interest in being someone he could smile at once and forget the next day?

You pressed your quill harder against the parchment than necessary.

Lorenzo leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table, still watching you.

“Cute,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He said it so easily, so confidently, like it was simply a fact he’d already decided for both of you.

And the worst part was how sure he sounded.

Like he might actually be right.

The weeks that followed only made things worse.

Study sessions stopped feeling like something you endured and started becoming something you actually looked forward to. Somewhere between arguing over essays, sharing notes, and pretending not to laugh at Lorenzo’s increasingly ridiculous commentary, spending time with him became easy in a way you hadn’t expected.

The days seemed to pass faster when you knew you’d see him afterward. Shared jokes slipped naturally into conversation, inside references appeared without either of you remembering where they started, and small habits formed so quietly that neither of you ever acknowledged them aloud. 

Yet somehow, despite all of that, the thing that unsettled you most was how normal it felt.

Lorenzo would save you a seat without asking. You would bring an extra scone to class because you already knew he’d forgotten breakfast. He’d lean over your shoulder to read something and remain there a second longer than necessary. You’d catch yourself looking for him whenever you entered a room.

And somewhere in between all of that, lingering glances started lasting a second too long to comfortably ignore. 

By the time Lorenzo invited you to a Slytherin party, saying no felt strangely impossible.

Which was how you ended up making what would later prove to be a catastrophic decision.

The Slytherin common room looked nothing like the library where most of your time together had been spent.

Everything glowed beneath low enchanted lighting that cast shifting shades of green across the stone walls, making the room feel both softer and more dangerous at the same time. Music pulsed through the space while clusters of students crowded the room, dancing, laughing, and making the sort of decisions they would almost certainly regret by breakfast the following morning. 

You stayed near the drinks table for as long as you could, fingers wrapped too tightly around a cup you weren’t even really drinking, wondering at what exact point your life had brought you here.

“You look terrified.”

The voice came from beside you.

You turned slightly to find Lorenzo leaning casually against the wall, looking completely at home in the chaos surrounding him. One shoulder rested against the stone while a familiar smile tugged at his mouth, as though he found your discomfort endlessly entertaining.

“I am terrified.”

His grin widened.

“Of me?” 

“Of Slytherins.”

Lorenzo dramatically pressed a hand against his chest.

“That’s offensive.”

“You people are deeply unsettling.”

The laugh that escaped him was warm and entirely unapologetic. 

Within minutes of arriving, the evening had already unfolded exactly as you’d expected. Pansy had offered you a shot with the enthusiasm of someone conducting a highly unethical scientific experiment. Theo had kissed you directly on the mouth for reasons he refused to explain and then disappeared into the crowd laughing. Blaise had taken one look at you before solemnly warning you to avoid the cupboard near the stairs without offering any additional information whatsoever. 

You still weren't entirely sure whether he'd been joking. 

Amidst the chaos, Lorenzo stayed close as though you might disappear if he let you out of his sight for even one second.

"You know," he said lightly, stepping closer as the crowd shifted around you, "you're here voluntarily." 

You let out a quiet laugh.

“Not my finest moment,” you admitted.

That earned another grin.

"No," he agreed. "But definitely one of my favorites."

Your eyes narrowed.

"That wasn't even remotely smooth."

"It worked though."

Before you could argue, his gaze drifted over you for a moment before returning to your face.

"You look nice tonight."

The words were casual. The effect was anything but. Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately hated yourself for it.

"Don't do that."

His brow lifted innocently.

"Do what?"

"Say things like that and then act innocent afterward."

Something flickered briefly across his expression before disappearing beneath a grin.

"I'm never innocent."

"That's exactly the problem."

His smile softened slightly.

"And yet," he murmured, voice quieter now, "you still came here with me."

You hated how much warmth that sent straight through your chest.

As the evening wore on, the noise gradually blurred together into something distant and indistinct. Time stopped feeling particularly linear. Music, laughter, conversations, and movement all folded together until the entire night felt hazy around the edges.

Through it all, Lorenzo remained beside you.

Sometimes it was a hand settling briefly against your lower back as he guided you through a crowded room. Sometimes it was his fingers brushing yours when he passed you another drink. Sometimes it was the way he leaned slightly closer whenever he spoke, forcing you to pay attention even when you were determined not to.

None of it should have mattered.

Unfortunately, all of it did.

Every touch felt intentional.

Every glance lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. 

By the time you realized how isolated you had become from the rest of the party, you and Lorenzo were already standing near one of the quieter staircases, far enough away from the crowd that the music sounded distant.

The sudden quiet felt strangely intimate.

Earlier that night, when you’d been overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd and far too many people asking questions, Lorenzo had noticed before you said anything.

He always did.

He had quietly handed you a drink, guided you somewhere less crowded, and never once made you feel like you were difficult for needing a moment.

That was the dangerous thing about him.

He made it very easy to forget what everyone else said about him.

“You trust me?” Lorenzo asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because the answer was difficult.

Because it wasn’t.

You did.

Somewhere between late-night study sessions and conversations that stretched long after they should have ended, Lorenzo had become the one person you never questioned.

“Yeah,” you admitted.

His expression changed slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected that answer.

Like your trust meant more than he knew what to do with.

Lorenzo kissed you carefully the first time.

Like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

Like he wasn't entirely convinced this was real either.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt before you even realized what you were doing. His hand settled gently against your waist, steady and warm, and neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first one to break apart.

The second kiss carried far less caution.

After that, everything became a blur of racing heartbeats, stolen breaths, and the quiet sound of his laughter against your mouth as though he still couldn't quite believe any of this was happening.

Later, when he led you through dimly lit corridors toward his dormitory, you knew you should've felt nervous.

Instead, you felt safe.

Which was somehow far more dangerous.

Because boys like Lorenzo were never supposed to feel safe.

They were supposed to be temporary. Exciting. The kind of mistake you laughed about years later while your friends reminded you they had warned you from the beginning.

Yet every time you looked at him, he seemed impossibly careful with you, as though he was handling something fragile, as though breaking your trust would be the worst thing he could possibly do.

When you finally stepped inside, he rested his forehead briefly against yours.

"Are you sure?"

The question was so quiet it almost hurt.

You hesitated, only for a second, but it was enough.

His expression softened immediately.

"You don't have to do anything," he said at once. "Seriously. We can just sleep. I don't mind."

That shouldn't have affected you as much as it did.

You laughed softly instead, mostly because your heart was beating too fast and you had no idea what to do with your hands.

"I'm fine."

Lorenzo studied your face carefully, like he was searching for something hidden there.

"You'd tell me if you weren't?"

"Yeah."

His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek.

"You nervous, little raven?"

"Just a little."

His smile softened.

"You don't have to be. Not with me. Never with me."

That should have been reassuring.

Instead, it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn't quite explain. Maybe because it sounded sincere. Maybe because, somehow, sincerity felt far more dangerous than charm ever had.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden nervousness twisting in your stomach, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.

"I just... haven't done this before."

The silence that followed settled between you almost immediately.

For perhaps the first time in your life, Lorenzo looked completely stripped of every defense he possessed. The usual smirk was gone. So was the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. All that remained was a brief, startled stillness.

"Oh."

You immediately regretted saying anything.

"Please don't make it weird."

His eyes widened.

"Weird?" he repeated. "Sweetheart, I'm trying very hard not to go into cardiac arrest right now."

Despite yourself, you laughed.

The sound seemed to pull him back to earth. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders as he exhaled slowly, and when he looked at you again, his expression had softened even further.

"Do you trust me?" he asked again.

The question felt different this time than it had before.

Earlier, it had been easy—something asked between laughter, lingering glances, and almost-kisses. Now it carried a weight that made your chest tighten.

Because this wasn't flirting anymore.

And the awful truth remained exactly the same.

You trusted him completely.

Probably more than you should have.

"I trust you, Enzo."

Something shifted in his expression at that.

Whatever traces of teasing or performance remained seemed to fall away entirely. He reached for your hand slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to pull away before his fingers finally curled gently around yours.

"We go slow," he murmured. "And if you want me to stop, I stop. Alright?"

You nodded.

"No pretending you're fine if you're not."

"I know."

"You sure?"

A faint smile tugged at your lips.

"You ask that a lot for someone with such an enormous ego."

His laugh was soft and genuine.

Then he kissed you again, and this time everything felt different.

The kiss was slower, more careful, carrying a tenderness that made your chest ache. There was something almost reverent about it, as though he was taking his time, memorizing every detail instead of rushing past the moment.

And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything else.

Because none of this felt casual anymore.

That was the problem.

Lorenzo Berkshire was supposed to be fun—a crush, a fleeting mistake, a cautionary tale you laughed about later.

Instead, he felt real.

Terrifyingly, undeniably real.

And afterward, tangled together beneath dark green sheets while moonlight spilled across the floor, Lorenzo brushed a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that didn't match a single rumor you'd ever heard about him.

"You alright, little raven?"

You nodded sleepily.

His smile softened.

It was the most unguarded you'd ever seen him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence didn't feel awkward. It felt suspended, as though the world had briefly paused and forgotten to keep moving.

His fingers traced absent patterns along your waist while you rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.

"You're thinking too much again."

You smiled.

"How can you tell?"

His fingers brushed lightly between your brows.

"You get this little line right here."

Your stomach flipped.

"You notice a lot about me."

A faint smile touched his mouth.

"I notice everything about you."

You turned slightly to look at him.

His hair was messy. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion. His shirt had vanished somewhere into the room without either of you remembering exactly when.

He looked unfairly beautiful.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, that realization scared you.

Not because you were afraid of him.

Because you were afraid of what this was becoming.

Somewhere between shared study sessions, stolen glances, and Lorenzo remembering exactly how you took your coffee without ever needing to ask, this had stopped being simple.

And judging by the way he was looking at you now, it had stopped being simple for him too.

That realization settled quietly between you.

And eventually, despite everything, you fell asleep anyway.

When you woke the next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, washing the room in a pale, uncertain glow. For a few disorienting seconds, you remained suspended somewhere between sleep and memory, your mind struggling to place the unfamiliar warmth surrounding you.

Then Lorenzo shifted beside you.

His arm tightened instinctively around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest, and your breath caught immediately. The movement was so natural, so unconscious, that it felt intimate in a way you hadn't prepared yourself for.

Merlin.

Everything from the night before came rushing back at once.

His hands tangled in your hair. The softness of his voice whenever he asked if you were alright. The way he had looked at you afterward, with an expression far too sincere for someone like Lorenzo.

That was the part that lingered—not the kisses or the nerves, but the quiet tenderness in his eyes afterward. Something soft and unguarded that felt almost impossible from him, and somehow made your chest ache whenever you thought about it.

Like you mattered.

Like he was seeing something worth keeping.

Panic followed almost immediately.

Because Lorenzo was beautiful and funny and effortlessly charming in the way certain people simply existed in the world without trying. He was the kind of boy girls wrote poetry about in secret journals and cried over behind closed dormitory doors.

And you—

Godric.

You were already halfway in love with him.

The realization settled heavily in your chest, stealing the remaining traces of sleep. Dangerous didn't feel like a strong enough word for it. Dangerous implied there was still time to stop. This felt much worse.

This felt inevitable.

Carefully, you slipped out from beneath his arm, moving as slowly as possible while gathering your clothes from the floor. Every sound seemed amplified in the quiet room. The rustle of fabric. The creak of a floorboard. The nervous rhythm of your own heartbeat.

Lorenzo stirred once behind you, shifting deeper into the pillows, but he didn't wake.

You paused despite yourself.

For a moment, you simply looked at him.

Morning light softened the sharp edges of him. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way you almost never saw when he was awake. Without the constant smirk and easy confidence, he looked younger somehow. Less like the boy everyone knew and more like the one you'd slowly gotten to know over the past few months.

The one who remembered how you took your coffee.

The one who saved you a seat in the library without mentioning it.

The one who always seemed to notice when you were having a bad day before anyone else did.

For one reckless second, you almost climbed back into bed.

You almost let yourself stay.

Then common sense arrived and ruined everything.

You told yourself you only needed air. Five minutes to think. Five minutes to get your emotions under control before you did something completely humiliating, like confess your feelings to Lorenzo Berkshire after one night.

You weren't leaving him. Not really.

You just needed a few minutes to breathe, to untangle the mess of thoughts and feelings that had somehow taken over overnight. A little distance, a little clarity, and then you'd come back.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You made it halfway down the corridor before realizing your necklace was still sitting on his bedside table.

With a quiet curse under your breath, you turned around.

The castle was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning as you retraced your steps, your shoes barely making a sound against the stone floor. By the time you reached the corridor leading to his dormitory, your embarrassment had faded enough that you were already mentally preparing yourself for the inevitable teasing.

You were only a few steps from the door when voices drifted through it.

You immediately recognized Mattheo's.

“Well, well,” he drawled, sounding far too amused for this hour of the morning. “Where’d your little raven disappear to?”

There was a pause.

A pause long enough that your heart almost betrayed you.

Because for one impossible second, you thought maybe he would say something.

Something that sounded like he missed you.

Something that sounded like last night mattered.

Inside the room, you heard movement. The rustle of sheets. Someone opening a drawer. The easy, familiar chaos of boys stumbling through another morning.

Then silence.

A brief pause settled over the room, as though everyone was waiting for an answer.

You should've kept walking. You should've turned around and given them the privacy of a conversation that was never meant for your ears.

Instead, you froze where you stood.

And then Lorenzo laughed.

The sound reached you before the words did, familiar enough that your chest tightened instinctively. Yet there was something different about it now. Not cruel, not deliberately unkind, but careless in a way that made your stomach sink. It was the easy, thoughtless laugh of someone who had no idea they were standing on top of a landmine, completely unaware of the damage they were about to cause.

"Don’t know,” Lorenzo said.

The answer came too quickly.

Too casually.

Like he was trying harder than usual to make it sound like he didn’t care.

“Don’t care.”

For a moment, your mind refused to make sense of the words. They seemed to hang suspended in the air between the door and the corridor, disconnected from meaning, disconnected from the boy who had spent the last several months tearing down your walls and becoming an essential part of your life.

There was a strange pause before he continued.

The kind of pause that made you wonder if maybe, for one impossible second, he was going to say something else.

Something honest.

"I got my dick wet and another name in the black book. That's all that really matters."

The world didn't shatter.

That would have been easier.

Instead, it felt as though something inside you simply went silent. Every thought vanished at once, chased away by a sudden rushing noise in your ears that drowned out everything else. Somewhere inside the dormitory, Mattheo laughed. Someone said something in response. A few more voices joined in.

You barely heard any of it.

The corridor suddenly felt impossibly long and strangely unreal, as though you were standing outside your own body watching the scene unfold from somewhere far away.

Because the worst part wasn't even what he'd said.

It was how effortlessly the words had left his mouth.

There was no hesitation. No discomfort. No indication whatsoever that the night you'd spent replaying in your head since waking up had meant anything to him beyond a passing amusement.

Of course.

Of course you'd gotten it wrong.

You had mistaken something real for something temporary.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

You had taken every smile, every lingering glance, every moment of softness and built an entire story around it without realizing you were the only person living inside that story.

Lorenzo had never promised you anything.

He had never asked you to fall for him.

You had simply filled in the blanks yourself.

Another name in the black book.

The phrase echoed relentlessly through your mind, growing sharper each time it repeated itself. Not a girl he cared about. Not someone worth remembering. Just another story. Another tally mark. Another name scribbled into a collection that meant far more to him than you ever had.

You stood there for another second, perfectly still, afraid that if you moved too quickly whatever fragile thing was holding you together might finally splinter apart.

Then, before anyone could open the door and find you standing there, you took a slow step backward. Another followed after that, and then another, each one carrying you farther away from the room, farther away from the boy you'd trusted far more than you should've.

And before anyone could hear it happen, you walked away and let your heart break somewhere else.

The next Charms class felt unbearable in a way you could never have prepared for.

You arrived early, choosing a seat near the middle of the room where it would be easy to stare straight ahead and pretend you weren't waiting for something you already dreaded. The classroom gradually filled around you with the usual morning noise, students chatting as they unpacked books and compared homework, but none of it managed to settle the knot that had been sitting in your stomach for two days.

Lorenzo arrived a few minutes later.

He looked exactly the same as he always did. Relaxed. Effortlessly composed. Infuriatingly handsome in a way that now felt almost cruel. There were no visible signs that anything had changed for him, no indication that the night replaying endlessly in your head had followed him into the daylight at all.

Then he saw you.

His expression shifted immediately, the easy smile disappearing almost as soon as it appeared.

"Hey," he said carefully as he slid into the seat beside you. "You disappeared pretty quickly the other night."

You didn't look at him.

Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the front of the classroom, your posture rigid and controlled. The distance between you felt deliberate now, every inch of it carefully maintained. You were suddenly grateful for the desk separating you because it gave your hands somewhere to hide while your pulse hammered beneath your skin.

Beside you, Lorenzo frowned.

"Y/N?"

Slowly, you turned your head.

And when you finally spoke, your voice came out calm enough to surprise even yourself.

"Well," you said evenly, "you got an easy fuck and another name for your book."

The effect was immediate.

Every trace of color drained from his face as though someone had physically struck him. His entire body went still, eyes locked on yours in complete disbelief.

"In the end," you continued quietly, refusing to let your voice shake, "that's all that really matters, right?"

For the first time since you'd met him, Lorenzo looked entirely stripped of the things that usually defined him. There was no charm, no confidence, no easy grin waiting to smooth everything over. There was only horror.

"You heard that?"

You looked away before he could see anything else in your expression.

"No."

The lie was pathetic. You both knew it.

He leaned toward you immediately, panic flashing across his face. "Wait—"

"No."

"It wasn't—"

"I genuinely do not care."

The words tasted bitter the second they left your mouth. You cared so much it felt impossible to breathe around it.

"That's not true," he said instantly.

His voice sounded different now. Tighter. Stripped raw of all the effortless confidence he usually wore like armor. For once there was no performance in it, no carefully crafted charm. Just uncertainty and something dangerously close to desperation.

"You think I meant that?" he asked.

You stared straight ahead at the blackboard.

"I think," you interrupted quietly, "that you should leave me alone."

And for once, Lorenzo had no clever response.

No joke.

No charm.

No perfectly timed smile to make everything disappear.

Because he had spent months convincing you that he was different.

And somehow, in one stupid sentence, he had proven he wasn’t.

"Little raven—"

"Don't call me that."

The words landed harder than you intended, sharp enough that he physically flinched.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Professor Flitwick swept into the classroom, and whatever chance there had been to fix it vanished.

Lorenzo tried anyway.

He cornered you after class, apologizing before you'd even made it through the doorway. He found you after dinner. Waited outside the library. Appeared after Quidditch practice with increasingly frantic attempts to explain himself.

You ignored every single one.

At first he seemed convinced he could fix it if he just found the right words. Then the days stretched into weeks, and the determination slowly faded into something quieter. Eventually, painfully, he stopped trying.

The year moved forward without him in it.

You stayed with Hermione and Ginny, building a life out of routines and coursework and friendships that didn't require you to think too hard about what you'd lost. Lorenzo stayed with Theo and Mattheo, surrounded by laughter that sounded too easy to mean anything and girls who still looked at him like he hung the stars.

Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you caught him looking at you across classrooms or crowded corridors.

The expression was never the one you remembered.

The smugness was gone. The flirtation too.

Instead, there was something heavier in its place. Something that lingered a little too long to be casual and looked far too much like regret.

It didn't matter.

At least that was what you told yourself.

Because regret couldn't change what you'd heard.

Regret couldn't make you unhear it.

And regret certainly couldn't put back the pieces of something you'd been foolish enough to believe was real.

Then he graduated.

Then you did.

Then life happened the way it always does, carrying you forward whether you were ready or not.

Years passed. Cities changed. People came and went.

And eventually Lorenzo Berkshire became something you learned to lock away carefully, buried beneath distance and time and the stubborn insistence that you were perfectly fine without him.

Until Hermione got engaged.

And suddenly, after nearly a decade of pretending he was just a memory, the boy who broke your heart at sixteen was standing across a ballroom looking at you like he had never once forgotten how to hold it.

🐚TAGLIST

The world was still a blur when Fred opened his eyes.

Well, one eye.

The other was bound tightly beneath gauze, the wrap tugging at his temple with every blink. The light above him was aggressively white, far too bright, as though it was trying to burn straight through his skull.

Everything was distant. Muffled. The sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint copper tang of blood. Voices, somewhere nearby, a mediwitch speaking sharply, someone sobbing. Footsteps creaked across tile. The room tilted.

His arms felt like stone. His chest ached like he’d taken a Bludger to the ribs. Everything hurt.

But none of that mattered when his gaze caught movement beside him. Someone hunched over the bed, shaking.

And then he smiled.

A loopy, lopsided grin.

“Angel...” he croaked, voice rasping like gravel in his throat.

Your head jerked up.

You’d been curled there for hours, unwilling to leave his side even when they told you he wouldn’t wake for a while. Tear tracks were still fresh on your face, your eyes wide and glassy and raw.

“Fred?”

He blinked again, vision swimming. His eye fixed on your face like it was the only thing in the world that made any sense.

“Blimey…” he murmured, grinning broader now. “You’re beautiful. Am I in heaven?”

You let out a soft, strangled laugh, half a sob, half disbelief.

“No,” you breathed. “You’re in St. Mungo’s, you idiot. There was an explosion in the-”

Fred squinted. His brow furrowed.

“Oh yeah…” he mumbled, wincing as he shifted slightly. “Was it the Prototype 6.9? I told George not to combine it with Boom Berry powder, bloody volatile, that stuff…”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out for a beat.

Because that wasn’t what had happened.

That wasn’t this explosion.

He was talking about another one, months ago. A mishap in the backroom of the shop. A ceiling scorched, walls cracked, shelves overturned. It had taken two weeks and three repair charms to set it all right.

He was remembering that instead of this.

Instead of the war.

Instead of the final battle.

Instead of the castle collapsing around him, bricks and fire and curses tearing through the air.

You exhaled through your nose, fingers brushing through his fringe as you tried to anchor him. “That was you, Fred. You did that. You and George, you tested the prototype without labeling the powder. George swore he’d never let you near the cauldron again.”

Fred blinked again, confusion flickering behind his eyes. “Oh,” he muttered. “Right. Did I pass out?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because how could you tell him that he hadn’t just fainted in the shop?

How could you tell him that the last time you saw him, he’d been smiling in the Great Hall and then the world had cracked open, and part of the ceiling had come down in a thunderous roar, and someone screamed his name, and you’d run toward the rubble thinking, hoping, that you’d only find him bruised?

Molly burst into the room in that moment like her heart had just restarted. Arthur was at her shoulder, his face pale, drawn tight with emotion he rarely showed.

“Fred…” Molly whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh, Fredrick Gideon Weasley, don’t you ever, ever, do that to me again!”

She collapsed into the chair beside him, gripping his arm like she still couldn’t believe it was real. Her whole body shook with the sobs she’d been holding in for hours.

Fred looked over at her, baffled, his features still slack with groggy confusion.

“Mum? Did someone die?” he rasped, blinking like he was still waking from a dream. “You all look like someone died.”

You flinched.

So did George, standing just outside the door now, his knuckles white against the frame.

Fred’s words hung in the air like a cruel joke the universe didn’t have the guts to finish.

“George!”

Fred’s voice cracked through the stillness like a firework misfired in a library. The startled gasp around the room was immediate, even the Healer in the corner who nearly dropped a clipboard.

George was already at his side in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the bed, his bruised face breaking into a wild, trembling smile. “Yeah, it’s me, you prat,” he breathed.

Fred blinked blearily, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. Then, through the haze of potion and pain, he squinted.

“…Where’s your ear?”

George huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with the kind of sheepishness only a twin could pull off. “Long story.”

Fred stared a second longer, eyes scanning what parts of the room he could see, faces leaning over him, some red-eyed, some smiling through tears. He caught each one, naming them in a tired, raspy roll call.

“Mum.”

“Yes, baby, I’m here,” Molly choked, stumbling forward to clasp his arm with both hands. Her voice broke on the word baby, like it had been waiting years to be said again.

“Dad.”

Arthur leaned down to gently smooth Fred’s damp hair, his voice as soft as smoke. “I’m right here, son. You gave us quite the scare.”

Fred’s lips twitched, like his brain had caught up just enough to register everyone’s hovering, their hesitant smiles and the thick blanket of emotion hanging in the air.

He blinked. Then whispered, “Why are we whispering?”

The entire room erupted.

Laughter burst through the tension like a dam cracking, relieved, breathless, too-exhausted-to-care laughter. Molly broke into tears again, this time in the form of a wet giggle against Fred’s arm. Bill actually doubled over. Ron coughed into his fist to cover a snort. And George, still crouched beside the bed, pressed a hand over his mouth and wheezed so hard it looked like he might fall over.

You exhaled a watery breath, your head ducked slightly as your shoulders shook. Relief tasted like salt and felt like trembling joy.

Your hand was still resting on Fred’s chest, palm barely moving with each slow rise and fall. The other brushed gently through his curls, smoothing them back from his forehead, damp with sweat, sticky with potion mist and a faint burn salve. His skin was pale, but warm. His pulse, slow but steady beneath your fingertips.

And he was here.

Still half-drugged, still confused, but alive. Talking. Cracking jokes.

And you were just barely holding yourself together.

You didn’t dare speak. The lump in your throat had taken up permanent residence. Every time you tried to find words, all that came out was a whisper too soft to be heard, just comfort laced into touch, into quiet presence, into the way you curled protectively over him even now, as though shielding what was left of his strength with your own.

Molly stood close by, her hands wringing the hem of her cardigan, eyes locked on her son like she feared blinking might make him disappear. Arthur’s hand never left her back. And George…

George sat on the windowsill now, bruised and bandaged, a thin scratch curving just beneath his jaw, half of his hair still sticky with dried blood.

Fred shifted under your touch, his body twitching slightly as his lashes fluttered open again, eyes hazy, unfocused, and clearly still high as a broomstick in a windstorm.

“Mum,” he croaked, voice hoarse and bleary but unmistakably Fred, “why is this woman petting me? Where’s my wife?”

A beat of stunned silence, then the room erupted again

Stifled snorts, choked giggles, and not-so-quiet laughter spilled through every corner of the hospital room. Even Arthur had to cough into his fist. Bill turned away, shaking with laughter. And George nearly lost his balance against the window from how hard he was wheezing.

You choked on your own breath, caught between crying and cracking up. Your hands, still gently spread over Fred’s chest, trembled with the absurdity of it all. Of the fact that this disaster of a man was alive and still this ridiculous.

Molly, bless her ever-patient soul, leaned in with a smirk tugging at her mouth and whispered like it was a family joke passed down through generations.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Fred’s brows scrunched, that classic confusion squirming across his face. His head lolled toward your voice, though his gaze still struggled to land.

“My wife…” he repeated dreamily, his voice slurred like it was melting. “She’ll be furious if she sees you touching me like this… on the chest…”

George howled. Actually wheezed and slid down the wall, clutching his side, gasping for air.

You didn’t answer right away. Just kept stroking slow, calming circles over Fred’s heart as you leaned in a little closer, your voice soft, affectionate, laced with love and barely-stifled amusement.

“I am your wife, Freddie.”

His eyelids fluttered again. His eyes, still murky with potions, snapped open with sudden, laser-cut clarity. They flicked down to your hand, the familiar glint of his wedding ring catching the sterile light, then up to your face.

That infamous Fred Weasley spark.

That impish, unkillable glint of mischief that not even war, rubble, or death itself could smother.

“Oh.”

A beat passed.

Then the confusion melted. That signature grin slid into place like it had never left, slow and crooked and smug as sin.

“What’s up,” he said, like he hadn’t just woken from near-death. “Damn, I really did marry a goddess.”

The room roared with laughter.

George groaned dramatically, slumping against the wall like he’d taken a fatal blow. “He’s back,” he announced to no one in particular. “Merlin help us all.”

Fred tried to sit up, only to wince as his side pulled tight.

“Oi, easy now,” you scolded gently, pressing a hand to his chest to ease him back down. But the warning didn’t quite land, not with the way your grin stretched all the way across your face.

Fred beamed like he hadn’t just survived an explosion. He was glowing with mischief, alight with that unshakable, incorrigible spark that had always made him half menace, half miracle.

Later that evening, after the room had cleared and he was tucked into a hospital gown, color slowly returning to his face, legs propped up beneath a transfigured cushion, Fred sipped his pumpkin juice like it was vintage champagne.

Within hours, every floor of St. Mungo’s knew.

He’d woken up from near-death, accused his own wife of adultery, and called himself a war hero, all before breakfast.

And Fred?

Oh, Fred thrived in it.

“Must’ve thought my wife was an angel,” he told every healer, every visitor, every passing intern who dared make eye contact. “She was glowing, I tell you. Petting me like a dying hero.” he placed a dramatic hand to his heart. 

(*) indicates smut

jealousy. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. lyonel

first meeting. ⊹ baelor/lady stark (baelor's pov)

a cooling hand. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

"you choose them. you always do." ⊹ aerion/lady stark

protection. ⊹ baelor/lady stark/maekar

just friends. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

blackwind. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. blackwind

family. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. maekarlings + papa maekar

the bronze fury. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. verminthor (dragons survived the dance!au)

a hug. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

in another life. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark/baelor

always for you. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

a hedge knight. ⊹ dunk/lady stark (platonic)

meaning in death. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

the baby test. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. verminthor (dragons survived the dance!au)

a sick day. ⊹ baelor/lady stark/maekar

"your man." ⊹ lady stark ft dunk, baelor, lyonel, aerion, maekar.

hair. ⊹ maekar/lady stark

'come to bed.' ⊹ baelor/lady stark/lyonel

'come to bed.' ⊹ aerion/lady stark

house colours. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

'may i have this dance?' ⊹ aerion/lady stark

kiss goodnight ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

today with you. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

forever undone. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

stop before i kiss you. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

where is my wife? ⊹ maekar/lady stark

modern!aerion ⊹ aerion/lady stark

the kidnapping. ⊹ daemon blackfyre/lady stark

wolf's wrath. ⊹ aerion/lady stark ft egg

beach day. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft valarr && matarys

'i do not want it.' ⊹ maekar/lady stark (*)

can you put that out on me? / explicit version (*) ⊹ aerion/lady stark (modern au)

cracks and pieces. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft aerion && maekar

devour me. ⊹ aerion/lady stark/daeron (LS born later au)

go back to pretending. ⊹ maekar/lady stark

what attracts them. ⊹ lady stark ft dunk, baelor, lyonel, aerion, maekar.

laughter. ⊹ aerion/lady stark ft egg

'you're playing with my patience.' ⊹ baelor/lady stark

currently accepting headcanon/drabble requests and discussions for this series, feel free to send something in!

━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━

Daella,

My dearest, beautiful sister, how have you been? 

Is it true our brothers have been lost? I have been praying every night toward their safe return under our father’s gaze. Daeron is a bigger fool than I thought, to have taken little Aegon with him as well! I have half a mind to slap him dry myself when he finally appears. Daella, do not listen to the cruel, mercurial whispers of the court, for you know how they slither. Our brothers are safe. I know it to be true. I would ride out myself, if needs be, to meet our father halfway and scour the lands together. I shall try my hardest to stay his hand from beating Daeron senseless, though I make no great promise.

I also write to tell you that my heart knows no beauty like the verdant lands of my husband, Lyonel. He loves me with a fire that verily rivals our own dragon blood, and I find myself returning that heat in kind. He has gifted me a coal-black mare from the Dornish borders; she has kind eyes and a stalwart gait that carries me from the deep shadows of the rainwood to the salt-sprayed cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay. When the household duties are settled, I lose myself in the Lysene scrolls and histories from the Free Cities. Daella, all my fears have been for naught. The people I now watch over are like their lands, strong and indomitable, yet they do not look upon my silver hair and black clothes in fear, they look to me in awe and respect. A few squire boys tripped over their own two feet as they pushed each other to give me your letter from last time! As the days passed I have found myself to regard this stormy land around me as my own.

Daella, after you meet your betrothed, please do tell me that you will visit my formidable home. As my husband is the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, many great houses have now pledged their allegiances to me as well, one of them being House Tarth of Evenfall Hall. I know of your love for the Sapphire Isles and you must come and meet them, for their stentorian stories rival that of Lyonel himself. My dear sister, Lord Tarth’s eyes never left me as he kissed my hand. He whispered that his great-grandmother once saw the titanic Vhagar pass overhead and whilst growing up in her stories, he had remained in monolithic respect towards our family. The noble houses of my husband’s lands are nothing like the vipers that haunt King’s Landing. They are a true, honest people.

Soon we will make haste to the tourney at Ashford. I am so incandescently happy to finally witness a tourney with my very own eyes! Lyonel says he, too, will fight, but I am so scared that something might befall him that I have been constantly pestering him to stand down. 

Alas, House Baratheon’s stubbornness rivals our own!

Please do send a raven as soon as you can for I miss you dearly and long to read your thoughts.

I remain your loving sister.

━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━

The ink barely dried on the paper as you heard the grand oak door to your chambers creak open.

“There you are!” Lyonel beamed at you. He had traded his heavy armor for a soft tunic of black linen, laced at the throat with yellow cords that stayed loose and casual. He looked every bit the stalwart lord, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He had a spring in his step as he came closer to your desk. “What is my dragon doing?”

You folded the letter neatly in your hands and smoothed out the dark silk of your sleeves embroidered with subtle silver dragons and smiled. You had a wolf pelt to your shoulders that brought out your eyes.  “Writing to my sister.” The thoughts of your brothers, lost on the road somewhere, have plagued you day and night since you heard of it.

You crossed the oak and kissed him as his hands found your waist. His beard rubbed your own chin and you almost giggled like the maid you no longer were. “You taste sweet, have you tried that apple cake in the hall?” 

“Nay, my Lord. I think that is just the natural taste of your wife’s lips.” Lyonel let out a boisterous bark of a laugh. He delighted in your witty quips, finding more joy in your sharp tongue than in all the flattery of his bannermen. 

“Oh, yes! I must beg your forgiveness, my Lady!” He bowed like a squire despite his frame and you laughed. The fire in the hearth cracked with the noise of wood. Your stag decorated bed had been covered with as many furs as possible, for the nights were cold and the storms could rise the sea to the windows. 

Though you were never afraid of it sweeping in.

━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━

The carriage that brought you to the tourney rocked to the side and back again in a near nauseating rhythm and you stared longingly through the curtains at the sight of Lyonel on his great warhorse, his cloak billowing like a storm cloud. You knew it would have been better, cleaner and way faster to ride your Dornish mare at his side, but you were a Princess of the Blood. To ride astride in the view of a thousand smallfolk would have invited whispers that would stain your reputation deeper than any joy the wind could bring. So, you endured the velvet-lined cage.

The countryside had transformed as you traveled west, the green rainwood given way to the golden field of the Reach. The air no longer smelt of salt and was now replaced by the smell of wheat and wildflowers. You passed through villages where children ran alongside your carriage with bare feet, some with toy dragons made out of carved wood, laughing and kicking up dust as they waved at you. Lyonel would toss away gold coins, laughter booming across the yellow fields.

“You better be back before the sun sets, or I’ll go mad.” Lyonel whispered in your ear the next morning as you told him you wanted to walk around the grounds alone, and see the splendor and the depravity with your own eyes.  You loved your husband fiercely, but the "Anvil" and the "Storm" both shared a common trait: they tended to crowd the air around you.

You shifted in the cocoon of his arms, turning to face him. His eyes were slowly opening, their hazel color peeking through at you. You smiled at him as he kissed your nose, then your forehead. He smelled of the ambergris he used in his bath and the distinct, heavy scent of your own perfume, from your affections towards him the night before. You toyed with his earring, turning the gold in your fingers.

“I swear I will do so.”

The grounds had a great cacophony of noise and people mingling about, a swirling vortex of boisterous knights and desperate merchants. Men yelled over the din of clashing practice steel, while others bartered for pungent spices and low-born comforts. You moved through with a secret delight, the tempestuous energy of the crowd a far cry from the quiet halls of Storm's End. Closely behind you walked two guards, stalwart and silent as stone pillars, their presence was a silent vow that any man brave, or foolish enough to insult you would find his life forfeit before he could blink.

You felt the weight of your gown as you walked, its deep obsidian hue a stark contrast to the muddy rags of the smallfolk. 

The Ashford hall came into view and your heart fluttered in your chest. You wanted to see if your family had arrived, so you bid your guards to stay watchful at the gate as you went to the main entrance. 

Mayhaps, you were too focused on the doors, maybe too excited to catch sight of your father or uncle that you bumped into a wall! 

Nay, not a wall. Into a man!

“Pardon me-” his voice was thick and low.

“Oh!” he looked into your eyes, then at your hair, and your clothes as he slammed down one knee in front of you. His voice shook. “My Lady, I humbly beg for your forgiveness…I did not see you-”

“Rise, ser, it is I who was unaware of your presence.” You laughed, for how could you not see him? He was a formidable tower of a man, yet he stood there trembling as if he were a page boy caught stealing tarts. Lyonel would roar with laughter at your retelling of this. 

He looked at you like you barked or neighed like a horse, before your words and jolly nature settled in his brain. He stood once more, eclipsing the sun from behind him. He looked at a complete loss of words and you wondered if any noble had ever treated him kindly.

“Were you going somewhere?” You tilted your head up towards him, much like when you spoke to your own man.

“Yes…uh, no-n-no, My Lady. I wanted to ask for an audience with the Lord of Ashford.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will see to you.” A lady called for a maid to be brought, the princes needed their hands washed. Your heart leaped into your throat. They were here! Your father and uncle were just beyond those doors.

“Good morrow, Ser,” you said, already gathering your skirts to depart.

“Go-good day to you, My Lady.” He bowed his head again, his hand white-knuckled as he gripped the hilt of his sword for strength, as if he expected you to transform into a dragon and take flight.

Well, that was endearing. Truly so.

Inside, the Great Hall was cooler, smelling of beeswax and expensive oils. Your uncle had his back to you, washing his hands. His brown hair so unlike that of your own that he scarcely resembled a Targaryen, albeit his clothes had every bit the royal grandeur the heir to the Iron Throne should bear. 

“Good day to you both.” 

The servants and lord bowed before you as your uncle and father looked to the door. 

“Good day. I was just thinking about you.” Baelor came to you and caught your face in his hands with a smile in a soft, paternal gesture as pressed a bearded kiss to your temples. He smelled of travel,responsibility and the weight of the crown. 

Maekar came to you after. His kiss upon your cheek was cool, almost formal, yet in the way his hand lingered on your shoulder, you felt the love he had for you. You stood in front of them as you started talking of the tourney, then the weather. And finally your brothers-

“You! Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?” Maekar, always looking for traitors in the dark, looked next to you, towards the door. Someone was there. Your father stood, passing you as if to protect you from any sort of ill-meaning intruders.

His red hair came first into your view and then his clothes, worn down and ripped apart. The man from outside.

Surely the Lord’s Audience can wait your conversation with your family.

His face was pale and he looked as if he was dropped in a cage with hungry beasts.

“I do apologize for my interruption,” he said, taking a few tentative steps forward. He was trembling, yet there was a stalwart honesty in his eyes. “I’ve… I’ve asked for Ser Alfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so that I might enter the lists, but he has refused…”

He looked into your eyes like he was seeking an ally as you tilted your head, so this is why he wanted an audience. 

Maekar looked at you, then at Baelor.

“Who? What the fuck is going on?”

“We are the intruders here, brother,” Baelor interrupted, his voice like liquid silk, instantly cooling the heat in the room. He beckoned the knight forward with a sovereign grace. “Come closer, Ser.”

“-and others too. You see, they say that they know not of Ser Arlan of Pennytree, but he served them.” The hour was already growing late and your belly was restless as you had yet to break bread. You gave your father a kiss on the top of his head and nodded to your uncle as you passed the man on your way out. 

The time for talking would arrive, mayhaps tomorrow you and your father could look for Daeron and little Aegon.

━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━

The tent was positively bursting with laughter and song! 

Your husband’s counselors and bannermen were deep in their cups, their voices rising like a storm as they traded jests and war stories.

You sat beside Lyonel, your ears burning with a delicious heat as he showered you with his neverending attentions. Between bites of rich venison, he pressed bearded, wine-stained kisses to your neck, murmuring words that promised a very different kind of celebration later. His stag crown was passed from his head to yours at some point, though you already forgot when it happened. It was heavier than it looked. Your silver hair was unbraided. Lyonel liked it best that way as he kept running his large, calloused hands through the strands whenever he leaned back in his chair, as if to remind the room that the dragon was his.

You were both dressed in black, twining shadows draped in heavy mantles of Baratheon gold. 

A sea of knights and minor lords swirled before the high table, all vying for a nod of acknowledgment from the "Laughing Storm." 

You don’t know when, but after the main course, you spotted it. No, him.

The great “wall” moved through the crowd. And you, who usually kept these sort of exclamations to yourself, were emboldened by the wine and the atmosphere that you completely disregarded your sweet husband’s hushed words in your ear: 

“When we get back to our tent, I’m going to take you like-”

“Ser!” you waved at him, wishing he could see you. You giggled at the sound of your own voice, loud, but drowned in the sea of people. That “Arbor gold” was truly something else! 

Lyonel’s steward, a man with a big grey beard and a somber expression, noticed your intentions and caught the man’s gaze as he was eating some cake. He and you both motioned to the man to come closer.

The giant froze, pointing a thick finger to his own chest in disbelief, his eyes wide as if there were other men the size of a carriage in the tent.

“Yes! You!” you cried, laughing at his bewildered expression.

When he finally reached the high table, “Have you received what you sought? I realize now I never caught your name.” you said.

The giant looked at your husband, and his body went rigid, as if some unseen hand had pulled him taut. You heard the ominous creak of wood as Lyonel leaned back in his great chair, the legs protesting beneath his weight. The warmth that had filled his eyes moments before vanished entirely, snuffed out like a candle caught in a sudden draft. You hiccuped.

“Yes, ma’a- Your Grace. I have,” the giant stammered. He offered you a small, shaky smile.

“This is my Lord husband, Lyonel of House Baratheon,” you said, remembering your manners even through the wine haze. “And I-”

“You’re a Targaryen,” he interrupted earnestly.

There was no insolence in it. Only unguarded awe.

You beamed despite yourself: “That I am.”

“What is your name, man? Or are you as deft as you are tall?” Lyonel’s voice had changed. The lust was gone, replaced by the timber of the Storm Kings of old.

“Dunk- Ser Dunk, my Lord.”

Lyonel scoffed, a sharp, derisive sound. You turned your silver head toward your husband, confused by his sudden bite. He didn't look at you. His eyes were locked on Dunk.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lyonel dismissed. “Is that the noise your head makes when it bumps into the ceiling?”

The table erupted in cruel laughter from the counselors, a cacophony of sycophants eager to please their lord. You whispered a soft ‘Lyonel” trying to soothe the tempest rising in his chest, but he was beyond hearing.

“Why do you cower like a maiden on her wedding night?” Lyonel, mocked a punch toward his own jaw. “So you don’t get punched?”

“No, my Lord,” Dunk said, his voice low, trying to find his words. “From where I come from, one learns to make himself small. That’s all.”

You reached up to fix the antlered crown as it slipped forward, the heavy gold sliding over your brow.

“The Seven Above gave you tallness…” He let a moment pass, “so be tall. Or I will name you a heretic and burn you, or drown you, or- whatever is it we do to heretics?” Dunk looked into your eyes, his gaze pleading and raw. Was this why you had beckoned him? To be a sacrificial lamb for your husband’s pride? Anger began to simmer in your gut.

“Burn them, my lord.” 

“What have you brought us?” He sighed as he tossed the dagger he received earlier that evening from a minor lord.

“Um” he thought about what he might say “Begging your pardon ser, I di-din’t realise.” All men must pay their due, yet this was a celebration, and you were sure Dunk didn’t have much to bring anyway. You sank back into your chair, the wood hard against your spine. You bit back the urge to intervene, knowing that to challenge Lyonel in front of his bannermen would invite scrutiny. You held your tongue, though it felt like a lead weight in your mouth.

“You wish to curry my favor some, yet you come with an empty hand?” 

You wondered if it was better to have just enjoyed the celebration quietly, not bring the man to your husbands’ attention so crudely. Leave it to you to destroy someone’s night on the one time you actually raised your voice.

“Lord Caffron, the smug cunt in red,” he pointed with the dagger from the table, “he is scarce to pay his rent. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this bauble from his family’s cellar for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help…or your head.”

He paused a beat. “You’ve come for my head then.” 

You looked to the wooden floor, not believing the words coming out of his mouth. Lyonel was trying to scare this man senseless.

“No-n-no..Gods no.” Dunk stammered.

“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?” 

You couldn’t take this any longer.

“I’ve called for Ser Dunk.” All eyes snapped to you. Your husband turned a bit to the side, to see you better. You looked at him and said “We’ve bumped- well, I’ve bumped into him, on my way to see my father. My Lord, you shouldn't be so crass with him, as he is my guest.”

Lyonel regarded your face, looking all over for anything that might prove your words a lie.

Someone fell down somewhere in the tent. A definite crash accompanied by the sound of laughter.

You looked at Dunk again, a silent wish for him to agree: “Yes, yes my Lord. Your be-beautiful wife had asked me to join you.”

You closed your eyes, already envisioning what Lyonel will say. Good Gods why must honest men be so dull.

“You think my wife beautiful?” Lyonel’s smile bore no happiness, his teeth bared under the hair of his beard akin to those of a wolf. 

“Your words are kind, Ser.” You replied. Good Gods. Leave, now. Bid your ‘goodnights’ and leave the tent. Say you have a stomach ache, say you are drunk, say you are slow in the head. Say anything so you may see the morrow with both your eyes!

“You think my wife needs remembering of her beauty by a lowly knight in rags?” Lyonel continued. 

Dunk took a deep breath, and it seemed he too, realized the extent of his remark. In what world does he live in, where he can compliment a Lord’s wife in his own tent? 

“Ser Dunk-” You rose, trying to catch your footing,  your obsidian dress swaying around you, the heavy antlered crown shifting once more. “Let me lead you outside. I think we have had our fill of the evening's excitement.”

Lyonel’s gaze went to you. You knew this cruelty was born of pride. He was usually the biggest man in every room. 

As you stepped out, the cool night air hit you like a blessing. The people could still be heard, albeit way quieter now. 

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I didn’t mean-” He bowed his head once more. He was still holding the piece of cake. 

“I know what you meant, Ser. It is my husband who was unbecoming towards you and it is I who must apologize, for I didn’t think anything of the sort might happen as I called you to me.” Dunk must’ve seen as many winters as you. You tried to put on a graceful face, already thinking about what Lyonel might say and what you might tell him. His humors were like the storm sometimes.

You bid him goodnight, and yet you didn’t return to the high table. You went to your own shared tent. 

You mustn’t have waited long for you to hear the strong footsteps of your Lyonel. You were taking your cloak off. Stag crown heavy on your head. You quite liked it, it made you look less like a princess and more like a conqueror.

You could feel his presence behind you, “You mock me.” 

“You mock yourself.” You turned around after you took your gold earrings off and nearly dropping one “Why have you been so cruel?” 

Your husband’s voice was sharp, though you knew he bore no ill intent. “What’s it to you?” 

Your candles illuminated his face, casting warm shadows over that black and grey hair of his. He was a very handsome man. With a comely smile and a deep voice, that vibrated through his chest when he spoke, especially when he would whisper as it would travel through your ears, to your belly and finally- What were you talking about?

“You were cruel to that man, for no apparent reason, my love. Why? For he had done nothing to you.” Your words came out softer than intended, dulled by the wine and your husband standing tall next to you.

“I’ll be as cruel as I wish in my tent.” His eyes tracked the slight sway in your stance.

“Untie my dress.” You turned as he moved to the back of you, fingers moving fast over your cotton laces. “That’s not the man I married. The man I married was kind. Strong, yes. Fierce, yes. But not cruel without cause.” You remembered his gentle attentions towards you the night you married.

“Who is that man to you?” 

“He is someone I encountered on the road to Ashford Hall, I was curious of his predicament. That is all.”

“Well, be curious no more.” Your dress pulled at your ankles and you placed it down on your wooden chest, your maids will take care of it tomorrow. 

The weather inside the tent was becoming hotter, be it because of the wine or the dragon blood in your veins you could not say. It boiled beneath your skin and prickled. You dressed into your nightshift as Lyonel sat down with a huff, unbuckling his boots. 

His eyes rose to continue the conversation but they caught sight of you, body barely concealed beneath your nightgown as you struggled to find the hairbrush. The light from the candles illuminating it and giving your husband plenty to look at from behind. 

“You know, Lady Swann had such an interesting story about her daughter. She told me-“ 

“I can’t hear you from over there.”

He was probably five hands away from you. 

“Come closer, so I may hear my wife's voice.” His eyes, hazel and bright like the great trees dominating his lands were filled with a mischievous glint. You knew he heard you well enough. He smiled, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. “Come on.”

He looked at you as he beckoned you closer. And you made sure, easy steps towards him. His hand reached for your own and he brought it close to his broad chest. You let yourself be led to his strong leg, sitting down upon it as you have done so before. 

Lyonel adjusted the stag crown, murmuring a ‘it suits you’ as you continued your story. 

By the time you reached about the midway, he started kissing you with small noises of pleasure leaving him. First it was your cheek, then the side of your mouth as you told him how the Lady’s daughter had tried to run away with a knight. Remembering the story proved to be quite hard behind all the wine you drank.

Lyonel made small sounds of acknowledgement as he often mumbled ‘mhm’ and soft murmurs of ‘tell me more’ as you would stop to close your eyes. His arms held your waist and you knew even if you tried to get up, it was for nought, even if that was madness to you right about now. He brushed your silver hair back as his beard made contact with the soft skin of your neck, his lips were soft as he kissed you and you almost giggled a few times when he tickled you with it. 

You finally stopped telling the story after you moaned, “Please don’t stop, for I dearly need to know what happened to Lady Swann’s daughter Meredith-”

“-Margery-“

“Aye, Margery.” You kissed him as he groaned in your mouth. Lyonel pressed you tightly into him, like you might disappear any second. You could feel something pool in your belly and by the looks, and feel of it, your husband felt the same. You touched him beneath the leather as you opened your mouth to his. 

You must’ve stayed in his arms for what felt like an eternity, as you kissed each other and fondled one another like two teenagers. You could not, for the life of you, remember what you were talking about beforehand. He would push up into your hand and grab hold of your breast, telling you how beautiful you were and how much he loved you between feverish kisses. 

While his leg was sturdy enough, you desperately needed the attention towards another spot that your husband carried. He fell backwards on the bed, and you took the opportunity to finally rest your whole body on top his own. Lyonel seemed more great tower than man below you. 

He grabbed your waist and smiled, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with your attentions and the promise of what is to come.  

 “You’re far too dressed.” You pressed your heat down on the spot between his legs, and he opened his mouth in a soundless gasp, eyebrows furrowed. 

“You are far too dressed.” He quipped back, arms holding you there. “Come up.” His smile was like that of a servant boy who just caught himself a pie for the night. 

You laughed, “I am up.” 

“Up I say. To my face.” A stone fell through your stomach and you felt its pleasure sweep right between your legs. “Come.”

You crawled to his face as he rose your nightshift up in desperation. You didn’t wish to hurt him, but he didn’t seem to care for your worries as he raised himself up and caught the taste of you. 

Your face snapped to the headboard and your eyes were glued shut. He had wanted you like this before, but never in this position. You slowly lowered down, so his head might be placed comfortably on the bed and moaned. 

You wished you could stay upright, but he bent you in two from his love below, your fingers in that thick nest he called hair as you moaned. You didn’t want to hurt him, but slowly moving your own hips against his face felt so good, you had to do so. His beard an almost scratch on your butt.

Your feet curled against his shoulders. You thought this pleasure must be what they wrote songs about, thought it could be much at times. When his tongue would brush against your flower too quickly and too eagerly, you would shoot up, wishing to put distance between you and keep away from the need to shake like an autumn leaf against your husband’s face. Lyonel had both his arms holding you there, both holding you tightly against him, so you may not run. You couldn’t help grabbing his hair like a rein. 

You thought it might be enough as you felt a simmering heat in your belly and even in your flower. This was too much. Your arms felt as if they were made of silk and your voice rose, tethering on the edge of someone standing on a cliff.

He would moan against you and you would close your eyes so tightly you saw little black spots when you opened them up again. You felt a layer of sweat pool on your body and it was becoming too much, the heat, the slight noise from outside and your husband. You felt tears prick at your eyes.

You shuddered and cried, a little tear escaping you as you tried to do so as well. He finally relented as you went straight to the pillows, slamming forward like a corpse and laughing. 

“Good Gods Lyonel.” You tried to catch your breath as you heard him undress, the sound of leather unstrapping the only thing in your ears, that and the ringing. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, your heat pulsating down between your legs as your belly almost caught pain in it from the pleasure you received.

Lyonel was deathly serious as he lowered down on you. He took the stag crown and threw it somewhere in the room as you felt him raise your nightshift again. He pressed himself to you and you moaned into the pillows. 

“Kiss me.” he said, voice spent. You lifted and turned your head as he made you open your mouth. His beard was all wet from you and you tasted yourself on his tongue. Your heart felt warm with the thought of him being all yours when he dragged himself out and back in, only you would have him like this, only you. 

You tried to stay quiet, truly so, but he was everywhere and everything in the room and you drank enough wine to not care anymore. He pressed both elbows to your head as you lowered down a bit on the bed, his hairs tickling your face, his big hands sought your own soft ones. He intertwined your fingers as he pressed his other hand to your waist, then to your hair. You moaned into each other’s mouths, as you felt his body press up time and time again. 

He would reach so far you would feel him right in your belly and it made you squeeze his hand all the harder. Lyonel pressed his cheek to your own as he groaned, a grey hair fell across his brow like a stroke of lighting. You felt him lose the rhythm he built up so far as he rose to his knees and lifted the sweaty nightgown even higher on your body. He would grab and fondle you as you both moaned. The soft splatter of rain could be heard as it hit the tent. You felt a pleasant dizziness in you, from the wine and from the release you had. You must’ve been the happiest woman in all the Seven Kingdoms right now.

You heard him groan and whimper when his legs shook above your own, the same heat pulsing inside of you that did so every night. He pressed down once more into you as he made a sound of pleasure and whispered his ‘I love you’. You smiled with your head to the side. 

Lyonel’s heart was still beating fast as you both laid in the bed. The candles were still burning, but you surely wouldn’t have any problem sleeping with them. You turned to look at him. He had his eyes closed, hair sweaty and chest rising fast as he fought to find his breath. You chuckled as you looked at him.

“You have another grey hair… right here,” you pointed to the left side of your own temple “did you know?” 

“You better name it. For it is yours.” He breathed out through his nose and swallowed “You gave it to me.”

“By the time I’ll bear your first son, you’ll be as grey as a stormy cloud. They’ll call you Lord Lyonel “The Cloud” Baratheon”. Another loud hiccup left your chest and you pressed your hand to your mouth.

“You think you are mighty amusing, nay?” His eyes opened once more as he looked at you. Smiling, as he often did when he gazed at you.

“Oh so I do.”

As your dear husband’s breath grew slow and rhythmic beside you, his fingers still loosely encompassing your own beneath the cotton blanket, your mind wandered as it so often did in the quiet moments before sleep claimed you. Tomorrow, you would ride out with your father to search for dreamy Daeron and little Egg. If the Gods were good, you would find one drunk out of his mind and the other tucked somewhere safe, beneath another’s careful guidance and protection. You smiled faintly at the thought. You prayed then, once in the common tongue, and once more in the language of your ancestors, long dead and scattered to ash by the Ruin. You resolved to write to Aemon as soon as the dawn allowed it, for you wished with an almost painful longing to hear of his life at the Citadel. You thanked the Gods you had not yet crossed paths with Aerion as you would sooner eat grass and bleat like a sheep than endure your brother’s company. You prayed for the morrow’s tourney, for your stag would ride in it, and for the safekeeping of your family. You had ruled these lands for hundreds of years, surely your guidance still held weight, even if the dragons had deserted your kind. Even if you did not know whether you would ever be worthy again of their return.

Sleep found you gently.

And in it, you dreamt the strangest thing!

You dreamt of beasts and banners, of the great animals of the mighty houses of the realm locked in battle, claw and horn and tooth. When you woke with the pale morning light, a smile curved your lips and a quiet flutter stirred in your chest as Lyonel gently snored in your ear.

In your dream, the stag had won.

━━━━⊱༒︎ 𐂂 ༒︎⊰━━━━

Author's note: Part 2 is here yall and I hope it is to your liking. I have managed to get it to you in time and i am so so happy. I cant wait to see what my husband Lyonel does next. I got the nastiest exam tomorrow and i reallyyyy gotta go study. You can write to me whatever whenever u wish and I will try to get back as soon as possible to u, thank u for reading my story and if you remained patient enough to let me finish part two, you have my deepest gratitude. HAVE A GREAT DAY BABES ily <3

my great taglist (come get yall juice, if i forgot anyone im so sorry and im gonna die):

@colonelfish

@inbredcqin

@multyfangirl

@rebeccawinters

@thelastemzy

@silverwingxox

@jellyforbrains

@moonlitstoriess

⭒ Cregan Stark x Reader Insert Fics | @pinkykats-place

⭒ The Heir of Ice and Ash | @novaursa

A little less than a year into your marriage with Cregan, you give birth to your first child.

⭒ Valyrian Bride (Continuation) | @/novaursa

When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

⭒ Valyrian Bride (nameday) | @/novaursa

Cregan notices his wife and children doing strange (well, stranger then usual) things for him throughout the day.

⭒ Dagger | @entitled-fangirl

Cregan teaches the reader how to use a dagger.

⭒ When it matters most. | @/entitled-fangirl

Aemond goes to Winterfell to recruit his sister and her dragon for the Greens. Cregan will not allow that. Targaryen!wife!reader

⭒ Indeed, my girl. | @/entitled-fangirl

The reader is dealing with the grief of losing Luke. Cregan helps in the ways he can. Velaryon!reader

⭒ Lord and Lady. | @/entitled-fangirl

the reader is feeling sick, and Cregan gets worried

⭒ Yes, my lady. | @/entitled-fangirl

the reader is nervous about consummating the marriage. Luckily, Cregan can be a gentle and patient man.

⭒ Our platinum-haired daughter  | @streamofcolors

Cregan helps you overcome your fear of childbirth, resulting in the birth of a beautiful daughter. targaryen!femreader

⭒ meeting her dragon for the first time | @jacaerysgf

⭒ Northern Attitude (I)  | @spxllcxstxr

In the process of assuring Winterfell’s loyalty to your mother, you get close to Lord Stark

⭒ Southern Charm (II) | @/spxllcxstxr

The tension between you and Lord Stark grows thicker and finally snaps

⭒ the heir and the wolf | @pizzapottah

Being Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir is a difficult thing, but what happens when you also become one of the Realm's most prized posessions?

⭒ the dear daughter | @/pizzapottah

At one-and-twenty and eight-and-ten, barely a year after their marriage, Ser Laenor Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen welcomed their first child, a daughter, into the world. The girl immediately became dear to the whole court, coddled and spoiled by all, but mostly by her grandsire, King Viserys I. The man saw in his granddaughter her mother, and as the girl grew to look like his late wife, Aemma Arryn, it became even clearer that he doted on her more than he did to his own children or his other grandchildren.

⭒ about children and trouble | @/pizzapottah

It is reported that in the year 121 AC, when the Realm’s Jewel was only six summers old, her hatchling Merrax was eaten by the Cannibal in a strange turn of events that found him moving from Dragonstone to the Dragonpit in King’s Landing. Princess Rhaenyra demanded to have the dragon’s head cut, but as nobody ever tried nor dared to get close to the Cannibal, it was impossible to do it. Thus, her daughter took the matters into her own hands.

⭒ Marriage for duty | @loveslibrarywp

After delievering the message and proposal from your mother to the Lord of Winterfell, you’re now stuck with getting married to a Lord you barely know. Yet, he comforts you during your time at Winterfell and completely changes your mind. Velaryon/Strong!reader

⭒ Cregan Stark x reader | @gtgbabie0

The birth of your son Brandon Stark was nothing but stressful, and it makes Cregan face some horrible realisations

⭒ Cregan Stark x Velaryon!Reader | @/gtgbabie0

Cregan takes care of you after a long day

⭒ Scraped knees and warm baths | @/gtgbabie0

⭒ A cold heart | @/gtgbabie0

⭒ Cregan Stark x Dreamer!Reader | @/gtgbabie0

The war has brought many casualties, those that you’ve already seen begin to unfold before you

⭒ cute moment with Cregan Stark  | @/gtgbabie0

⭒ {Just a cute moment between you, Cregan and your son} | @/gtgbabie0

⭒ grumpy x sunshine trope | @fairysluna

⭒  soft morning with cregan | @/fairysluna

⭒ AMONG WOLVES AND DRAGONS | Masterlist. | @/fairysluna

Stories about the marriage life between a Targaryen princess and the Warden of the North.

⭒ AMONG DRAGONS AND WOLVES | @/fairysluna

Once the time has arrived for your child’s dragon egg to hatch, things don’t go as planned, and Cregan simply cannot stand the sight of his son’s saddened eyes.

⭒ Lord Husband Masterlist | @jamespotterismydaddy

⭒ The Wolf and The Rabbit | @multific

The meeting between the wolf and the rabbit never ended well. The wolf would devour the poor rabbit in seconds. And yet, this wolf would never harm the poor bunny.

⭒ Cregan Stark ❅ Masterlist | @sylasthegrim

⭒ The Silver Princess MASTERLIST | @/sylasthegrim

In the hope of maintaining a united realm, King Viserys arranged the marriage of Cregan Stark with the Princess Rowena, daughter of Prince Daemon and Lady Rhea Royce. Cregan Stark x  Rowena Targaryen  (daughter of Daemon and Rhea Royce!OC)

⭒ Sons of the Wolf | @/sylasthegrim

On your way to Dragonstone to visit your sister Rhaenyra, you find yourself in labor during your stop in King’s Landing. Cregan protects you from Alicent’s intrusiveness.  Targaryen reader

⭒ The Embrace of Victory | @/sylasthegrim

The war comes to an end and your husband calls you to King's Landing to join him. After months of longing, your reunion unfortunately gets interrupted by his duties, but you are not one to contain your desires. Lannister reader

⭒ The Dragon and the Wolf Masterlist |  @myladysapphire

You had been betrothed to Cregan stark at the start of the war. He was the noble and honourable stark that he was he supported your mother claim without restraint. So much so your mother saw it fit to betroth the two of you. So when disaster strikes and you and your younger brother are the only two survivors, you a shipped of north in your grief, leaving only Cregan to heal your wounds. Veleryon!reader

⭒ he gifts her a direwolf on their wedding night | @rhaenyra-storms

⭒ Fluff | @/rhaenyra-storms

⭒ he teaches reader how to use a sword | @/rhaenyra-storms

⭒ Meeting jacaerys | @/rhaenyra-storms

⭒ Being the daughter of Rhaenys and married to Cregan Stark | @sourcherryandsprinkles

⭒ Cregan smut | @/sourcherryandsprinkles

⭒ Duty Is Sacrifice | @lola-writes

Queen Rhaenyra sends you to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. In him you find not only an ally, but something deeper as well…

⭒ Snowflakes, Stolen Looks, and Beating Hearts | @fabled-fiction

When you are sent with your brother Jacaerys to meet up with the Lord in the North, Cregan Stark, some feeling being to make the both of you light headed and forget just exactly what duty calls from the both of you. Strong!Reader

⭒ Temptations of the Wolf | @/fabled-fiction

Being a Targaryen meant sacrifice. Being a Stark meant sacrifice. Both these houses know the service of duty well. But when war is amiss, and two leaders of these respective houses meet to discuss allegiance, feelings for one another bubble to the surface and get in the way. Oh how the winds of war turn would be lover on would be lover.

⭒ The Jewel of the North | @koobratzy

⭒ princess of the north | @sl-ut

cregan has grown older and happier throughout his years as warden of the north with his beautiful new wife at his side. however, when he married into the royal family, he had not considered how frequently he would need to interact with his in-laws. Targtower!pregnant!reader

⭒ Snow Fairy | @wackapedia

Rickon finds a snow fairy in the woods and asks his dad to kiss her so she can grant him a wish.

⭒ The Wolf Prince | @/wackapedia

Targaryen!reader

⭒ Like Stormy Seas, Like Rough Clouds | @dope-trope-105

cregan stark x rhaenyra’s daughter. she flies to winterfell to gather support for rhaneyra but she falls head over heels for cregan as well Velaryon! (Strong) reader

⭒ he gets her a wolf  | @andreawritesit

You had been living in the North for quite a while now but nothing felt quite as welcoming as receiving a warm bundle of joy as a present. Cregan Stark x Targaryen Reader

⭒ she takes cregan for his first ever dragon ride | @/andreawritesit

Dragon riding is as easy as breathing for you but this time you have a special passenger with you. Cregan Stark x Targaryen Reader

“Of course I do!” Remus suddenly exploded, standing from the chair and holding his palms to his temples. “Don’t even—don’t you dare for a minute insinuate that I don’t miss her with every fibre of my fucking being! You have no idea what it was like when you were in Azkaban—when I thought I’d lost both of you! How much I wished you both were here!”

Sirius scowled. “Imagine how I felt from my cell!”

Remus’ hands trembled as he shook his head, turning from Sirius. “Save the story, Sirius. I’ve heard it a hundred times before.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“You want me to break the law, Sirius! You’d like for us to go against the Order’s wishes to see—to go and see her, and fuck, Sirius, Merlin knows how much I’d kill to see her again, but we can’t! Horrible, terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time! We were given strict orders—to retrieve James’ cloak. We can’t let anyone see us, Sirius!”

Sirius felt like he could rip his hair from his head. Instead, he bit his knuckles. “But horrible things happened to us anyway, Remus! How the fuck could it get any worse than it’s ended up? There’s another war raging on. I went to Azkaban, you spent thirteen years alone, and Y/N is fucking dead! She’s gone, and you can’t even say her fucking name!” He watched Remus’ face go completely white. “Go on, say it, Remus! Because I haven’t heard you say her name since she was—since she was here with us!”

Remus’ fists curled. “Fuck off, will you?”

“I said your names every single day when I was in Azkaban! I refused to forget any of it. Any of what we had! Just say it, Remus!” Sirius’ voice rose to yelling, and he stood from the bed. “Go on. It’s Y/N—in case you fucking forgot. Say Y/N’s na—”

Remus caught Sirius’ wrists when Sirius went to shove him, his large hands gripping him hard. “You’ll be back in Azkaban if we were caught! And I’d be in the cell next to yours! Is that what you want?” “I don’t care—”

“Of course you don’t, but one of us needs to think rationally. You said you’d be fine doing this when Moody asked! You said—”

Sirius jerked away from Remus, his face stony and his glare cold. “Fuck off, Remus.”

Remus rolled his eyes and quickly shuffled for the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He watched Sirius stalk back over to the bed and chuck himself in it, yanking the duvet up to his shoulders. He felt the strain in his chest and his throat, his eyes growing incredibly hot as he propped open the inn’s window. He lit his cigarette and hung his head out into the cold air, and only then did he let the tears drip down his face.

He glared at the snowy pavement, seething with rage—furious that Sirius had put him in such an awful position, angry at you for no longer being here, and absolutely sickened at the fact that he had the time turner around his neck. He couldn’t use it for the one thing in the world that he wanted. 

He glanced over at the vibrant pink and green sweet shop. Honeydukes was always the first place you went to, every Hogsmeade trip, and you always used to get the same thing—toffees and a chocolate frog. Across from Honeydukes was the bench where the three of you had drunkenly admitted your feelings for one another back in your sixth year. He stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill hard and then lit a second one. 

 When he finished and shut the window, he turned, and the room was cold and smelled of nicotine. He pulled off his clothes and got into the bed next to Sirius, careful not to touch him—apprehensive that the feeling of their skin touching would only fuel their furies. 

Sirius’ voice was thick with clogged tears when he spoke a few minutes later, filling the heavy silence. “We don’t work without her, Remus. You know that.”

He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything for a long while. He thought Sirius might have fallen asleep, and perhaps that was how he gained the courage to speak. 

“I miss Y/N all of the time,” he whispered, barely audible. “I miss her first thing in the morning, and the last thing at night. I think about what the three of us had back then. It was the last time I was actually happy. And we all took it for granted.”

“We were idiots,” Sirius whispered back croakily. “Young, and we all thought that made us fucking invincible or something.”

“It should have woken us up when Marlene died.”

“They—” Sirius’ voice cracked. “Peter was always going to have to kill Y/N if he wanted to frame me and make you go away. There was nothing we could have done.”

Remus’ fists clenched. He scrunched his eyes shut. “She loved Peter.”

Sirius choked. “What he did to her—” He felt physical pain shudder through his system. “The state he left her in—He was fucking brutal, Remus.”

“I know,” Remus whispered, his eyes growing fuzzy, his brain numb. 

“She didn’t deserve that. She was still—she was alive when I—”

“I know,” Remus said, harder. “I already know.”

Sirius lifted his shaky hands as if he could still see the blood on them, even in the dark. Remus reached over to encase one of them, and he tugged his hand against his chest. Sirius shook as he cried, wriggling closer to Remus, sobbing into his chest. Remus felt himself begin to crumble, too. 

“She was only twenty-one.”

And that was enough for Remus to really sob. They were in their late thirties now. Remus was aware they were never supposed to get this old without you. You had always spoken of your future together, every word as optimistic as the last. You were supposed to be here. He would let you take his place any day. He’d let you and Sirius have this at the drop of a hat—you deserved to see the world beyond the first war. 

“Just one more time,” Remus whispered, and he grasped Sirius’ hand tighter in both of his, moving them upward from his chest to the time turner sitting around his neck, engulfing the cool metal. 

Sirius’ eyes were wide and wet with shock. “Remus?”

Remus spun the time turner back and back and back—all the way to 1978, before they had become soldiers for the Order.

── .✦

Remus inhaled the familiar smell of the Hogwarts corridors. He’d been here only a few years ago at his temporary position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, but somehow, this felt different. Perhaps it was because Sirius was by his side, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had gone back to the 1970s. He swallowed as he glanced around at the empty halls, his expression nearly matching Sirius’. 

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered. “This is fucking insane.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “This was a bad idea.”

Sirius swatted him hard. “Are you fucking kidding me, Remus? She’s here! She’s in this building right now!” “And we’re nearly forty years—”

“-I’m thirty-six, actually—”

“We will not blend in with everybody else here! We’re going to be noticed immediately,” Remus worried. “And Dumbledore will quickly realise we’re from the future, and we’ll be hurled off to—”

Sirius grabbed Remus’ wrist and yanked him closer to an alcove despite the lack of anybody around them. “Okay, so we’ll sneak into Slughorn’s classroom. He’s bound to have some sort of de-ageing potion.”

Remus scratched the back of his neck anxiously. “This is so wrong, Sirius.”

“I’m not leaving here without seeing her, Remus,” he told him firmly, and Sirius took off in the direction of the dungeons, as if it hadn’t been twenty years since they were last students here. 

It was rather easy for Remus and Sirius to find the correct potion in Slughorn’s storage cupboard. Sirius and James used to have their fair share of fun experimenting and swapping things over to cause chaos for early-morning potion lessons. Remus watched Sirius throw his head back and down the potion as if it were a shot at the bar, his face scrunching at the taste.

Sirius wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ridding the purple residue, and he blinked at Remus strangely. “Well? Do I look any different?”

Remus shook his head. “No, you—”

Sirius suddenly jerked forward with a violent cough, one of his hands grabbing onto Remus. Remus’ hands gripped him, trying to keep him upright, his dark eyes wide. 

“Pads!” Remus panicked. “Shit, are you—”

He watched the silvers that had been starting to appear on the back of Sirius’ head turn black again. His shoulders seemed to broaden ever so slightly, his body rejuvenating after the thirteen years spent malnourished in prison. Remus gawked, helping Sirius back up when he’d stopped trembling.

“Sirius?” He whispered. “Are you alright?”

Sirius groaned and touched his forehead. “Yeah, I think so.” His voice. Remus felt his heart skip a beat. He grasped Sirius’ head, forcing him to look at him, and Remus felt everything inside him freeze over and then promptly ignite. Gone were the first signs of wrinkles around his eyes and the bits of silver that had started to make an appearance on his head. Sirius’ stubble was gone, replaced with smooth, clear skin—his eyes youthful, his face a little fuller.

“Did it work?”

Remus couldn’t help but laugh. “It fucking worked, Pads. It actually worked.”

“It’s your turn, Remus. It’s your turn. Hurry!”

Sirius spent the next ten minutes looking at himself in the reflection in one of Slughorn’s cauldrons, while the effects of Remus’ took place. The coat he was wearing suddenly felt looser, his back and hip far less stiff. Remus moved Sirius out of the way to look, touching his scarred face in awe at the youthful man looking back at him. 

“How long does this last?” He whispered in awe.

Sirius reached over to touch Remus’ face. “A few hours. Merlin, Rem. You look so young, it’s terrifying. We were so young when all of this was happening.”

Remus swallowed and touched Sirius’ hands. They were smooth. “I’m scared,” he suddenly admitted out loud—he didn’t even realise he was going to blurt it, and hadn’t a clue that he was really feeling so anxious. “Part of me isn’t sure I can handle seeing her, Sirius.”

Sirius exhaled and splayed his fingers broader on Remus’ face, as if to cup as much of him as he could in his palm. “You can do it, Remus.”

“What if she asks questions, Sirius?” Remus whispered painfully. “I can’t spend these moments lying to her. I can’t—I don’t know if I can do this knowing it’s the last time I’ll see her. I accepted years ago that I never got to say goodbye. I can’t say goodbye to her tonight, Sirius. I ca—” He was cut off by a pair of lips pressing against his own. Remus hesitated for a moment before he kissed back, and he was startled by the familiarity of kissing a much younger Sirius. It almost felt wrong, and yet it felt like no time had passed, as if he was back home. He pressed his hands to Sirius’ arms as if to physically force himself off of him. 

“Shall we find her?” Sirius pleaded breathlessly.

Remus nodded, his chest tightening. 

── .✦

“It’s only eleven at night, so chances are, everybody’s in the common room,” Sirius said as they headed up one of the staircases. 

Remus pulled a face. “Yes, including us, Sirius. How are we going to get past that one, hm?”

Sirius chewed on his bottom lip. “Errr—” “Mr Lupin!” Madame Pomfrey exclaimed, and both men jumped as they turned to face the older woman. “Did I or did I not tell you to stay put exactly where you were? You shouldn’t be moving with your leg the way it is!”

Remus exchanged a panicked glance with Sirius. “Er, I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey. It’s only, I’ve been feeling better, you see, and Sirius was just walking me back up the dorms. I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

“Mr Black, you should also be in bed!” Madame Pomfrey scowled. “You’re in no position to be helping Mr Lupin yourself! Where on earth is your splint?”

It dawned on Remus very quickly which full moon had just occurred. He remembered it all too well, with a sick feeling in his stomach still to this day. He had badly hurt Sirius in his Animagus form, and Sirius had ended up with a snapped arm and a broken nose. It was the Christmas break, and you had stayed to not only keep Remus company over the full moon but also because you would rather be with them than back home.

 If Remus was remembering correctly, you were one of the only students to stay that year. The war was raging on, and people didn’t feel as safe at Hogwarts anymore. James’ father was starting to get sick, and he wanted to take Lily back to them for their first Christmas as a couple. 

“Miss Y/L/N will come and see you boys first thing in the morning, she told you herself,” Madame Pomfrey scolded. Remus flinched, and Sirius nearly swayed in his spot. “So get back down to the infirmary right now. I’m heading back in ten minutes—I expect to see you back in your beds, and you with that splint on, Mr Black!” She turned away from them, marching down the corridor. “For Merlin’s sake, these children…”

“Fuck,” Sirius said, holding his hand against his pounding heart as soon as they were out of sight of the school nurse. “That was so fucking close. How lucky was that?”

“Lucky,” Remus said, though he was hardly as amused as Sirius. “Come on, before I make us turn around.”

They hurried up the stairs even quicker than they had been going before. Remus took three steps at a time easily, though his legs felt like lead, as if they wanted to plant to the ground and stay there. When they reached the portrait of the fat lady, Sirius groaned.

“It’s you,” he said distastefully. 

“Not the password!” She sang to him. 

“We don’t have time for this. If you’d be so kind as to let us in,” Sirius said with a forced smile, his teeth practically gritted. “You know who we are.”

“You could be anybody!” The Fat Lady argued. 

“Do I look like anybody to you?” Sirius huffed. “I am Sirius Black, you know exactly who—”

The portrait swung open, causing the Fat Lady to scream unexpectedly. Her shrieks dimmed in both their ears, and their mouths dropped open. Remus swallowed thickly, his heart nearly coming out of his throat. Sirius was as silent as Remus had ever seen him. 

You stood there, wearing one of Remus’ old knitted jumpers—one he still had at his home to this day, and the plaid bed shorts you swore matched it. You looked just as beautiful as they both remembered you, though your face was yanked down with the heavy weight of concern. Remus felt like he had been sliced open. 

“I thought I heard you two bickering out here,” you said uncertainly, your furrowed brows scanning them both over. “Oh, Merlin, I am so glad you’re both okay.”

You hopped from the small stair and landed with your arms thrown around both their shoulders. Your touch was all to familiar, like hearing a song you had completely forgotten about, and fuck, you smelled of the oils you ran through the ends of your hair each evening, and the moisturiser you always used to “bribe” him or Sirius to slather on your skin (they were more than happy to do it for you, they just liked when you asked). 

Remus thought he might be sick as he wrapped his arms around you, too. Sirius was as stiff as a board, his eyes startled as if somebody had just murdered his entire family in front of him. 

“Sirius,” you murmured as you pulled away, and your hand touched his face. He flinched back to life. “Are you okay, darling?”

Sirius choked a laugh and then began to laugh harder. 

Remus anxiously grasped the back of Sirius’ neck, squeezing it gently. “I-I think maybe he’s still in shock. From last night.”

You nodded and traced your hand down so that it met with his. You squeezed his fingers. “Come on then. I didn’t know Madame Pomfrey was going to let you both out tonight; otherwise, I might have asked the House Elves to prepare us all a nice dinner. I already ate something, but I could maybe—”

“We’re fine, thank you, Y/N,” Remus murmured and followed you into the common room. It was easier to talk to you when he was covering for Sirius. If he’d had to speak purely for himself, he was sure he might be in the same boat. 

Remus had visited your grave for more years than he had known you alive, and yet there you stood, walking around, smiling and doting over them as if nothing was wrong. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was sure he’d wake up, and it would be a dream. 

“Y/N,” Sirius suddenly rasped from where he sat on the sofa. You quickly turned to him. “Y/N.”

He touched your face and then stroked your hair behind your ear. His eyes were darting all over you, as if he was looking for any sign of injury. He looked down at his hands after he had touched you, and he found no blood this time. Last time, his skin had been stained with it. He’d woken up in his cell covered in the crimson that used to keep you alive, and they did not let him scrub it off of himself for weeks. 

“Sirius,” you repeated, and cocked your hide to the side with a small smile. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” You reached up and touched his forehead. “You are quite warm,” you told him. 

“He’s fine,” Remus said pointedly. “How are you?”

You thought for a moment and then sighed, your face contorting into a pinched smile. “I’m okay. Better now that you two are here. It was awful without you last night—it’s really scary in the tower alone.”

Remus felt the guilt start to eat him. You’d been alone when it had happened. You had most likely been the most terrified you had ever been in your entire life. 

“I missed you both,” you said, and ran a hand through Sirius’ hair. 

He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. 

“I missed you, too,” Sirius whispered, and his hand reached up to cup yours over his face.

You furrowed your brows at him. “Why are you being so solemn, hm? You’re concerning me a little bit, love. And you’re being awfully standoffish over there, too, Rem.”

Sirius shook his head quickly. “No, no. I think—I think the full moon just reminded us that it’s scary when we’re all apart. And that—and that anything could happen. We’re just glad nothing happened to you.”

“Because I wasn’t stupid enough to chase after Rem when he clearly wanted to be alone,” you chuckled at Sirius and leaned forward to kiss him. “Always have to insert yourself into places you don’t belong, don’t you?”

Sirius frowned. Remus nearly chuckled at the irony. She was right, and Sirius never grew out of it. 

“It’s not a bad thing, sweetheart,” you told him affectionately. “Just don’t like seeing you get hurt because of it. It’s bad enough when Remus has torn himself apart every month. Don’t need both of you in there.”

Both of them were in awe at your kindness. They had forgotten that people like you existed. Someone who was so understanding of them—someone who saw all of their flaws and loved them for them. You were so young, and yet so emotionally intelligent. Neither had met anybody like you before. 

“It won’t happen again,” Sirius whispered. 

“I’ll believe that when I see it!” You called with a laugh as you headed over to the staircase. “Come on then, we should head to bed. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow! It’d be nice to take a walk through Hogsmeade if you’re both feeling up to it. We’ll need to check your hip first, Rem.”

Remus felt his heart lurch. He grasped Sirius when he stood to follow you eagerly. 

“We might stay down here for a little bit, baby,” Remus said as softly as he could, his brown eyes nearly melting in the warm lights of the Gryffindor common room. “We’re not tired yet, but we’ll follow you up.”

Sirius pulled away as you frowned. “But—but I don’t want to sleep without you again,” you said. “Please, Rem. I don’t mind you’re awake. You can read or—or do whatever you’d like, but I just want to sleep with you next to me.”

“Of course we’ll come up with you, sweetheart,” Sirius said, and turned back to give Remus a wicked grin. “Come on, Remus. Don’t be so ridiculous.”

Remus could have smacked Sirius. The look on your face was enough to make his heart burst in his chest. His logic was battling with his feelings, and he knew the right thing to do for all of you was to leave now, but he couldn’t force himself. He found his long legs carrying him up the familiar staircase that led to their old dormitory. You pushed open the door like it was yours, and quickly rushed to jump into Sirius’ bed, which had been transfigured into a king-size at some point. 

You wriggled under the covers. Remus glanced at Sirius and saw him staring at the bed at the end of the room. James’ bed. His Quidditch kit was chucked over his chair, a pair of red Converse by the end of the bed as if he had been there only the other day—because he had been. He bit down on his bottom lip and gently pulled Sirius over to you, who hadn’t noticed the strange behaviour from the boys. 

Sirius felt his face melt, and he was quick to head over, kneeling onto the bed and climbing into your side. 

“You need to put your pyjamas on!” You told him. “Both of you, hurry.”

He laughed as your hands half-heartedly pushed him away. He opened the drawer at his bedside and then the one beneath. He couldn’t quite remember where he put them until—

“Idiot,” you muttered and threw a pair of plaid trousers at his head. “Under your pillow, remember?”

“Right,” Sirius said, and ripped his shirt from his body, then his trousers. 

He pulled on the pyjamas and glanced over at Remus, who was doing the same. They were both moving like teenagers again, slightly more effortlessly than men in their late thirties. His gaze flickered to his own chest and his arms. He had the start of a couple of tattoos, but nowhere near as many as he got as soon as he had left Hogwarts. He felt naked.

“James sent an owl asking how you both were, by the way,” you said, and it was so casual to you, and yet so horrific for them to hear as they got dressed. “He said he feels bad for leaving while you were asleep, but I reminded him it’s not his fault. Oh, and Lily asked about you both, too.”

“We’ll owl them,” Remus said, his chest hollow, his smile fragile as he turned back to you and climbed into the bed. 

You were in the middle tonight, it seemed, and neither of them was complaining. It was where you often ended up, if Sirius wasn’t in a mood and desperately after the most attention. 

“Pete asked too,” you said, and all the blood left both their faces immediately. “He’s such a sweetheart, honestly, you two—he sent in a box of chocolates for you both. It’s got some of your favourites in it, Rem, but from the looks of it, he chose which ones went in himself. It’s got a note and everything, bless him.”

“Bless him?” Sirius retorted, his fists clenching the bedsheets.

He suddenly felt as sick as he did that day. He could see you lying on the kitchen floor of the house, which the three of you shared. Remus and Sirius weren’t talking to each other—they were arguing for the hundredth time that week, and you were being a fucking saint putting up with them. It had ended particularly awful that morning, with both of them accusing the other of being the traitor that the Order was searching for. Remus was off doing werewolf-related tasks for the Order, and Sirius went out for a ride on his motorbike. It was better than having to listen to you and your excuses for Remus.

He walked slowly up the path, dreading your kindness, but the sight of your front door knocked open enough to make him feel nauseous. He was lightheaded all the way through to the kitchen, where your record player had stopped singing and instead rested on a static pause. The sink was full of cold, soapy water, dishes half done, and you had baked something—he remembered the air was so sickly sweet that night. Cinnamon. He couldn’t stand that smell anymore. 

It had mixed with the scent of iron. He had nearly slipped on all of the blood. It was thick. It pooled over the tiles you used to dance on, it caked the hair he used to run his fingers through. Your dress was ripped, a slice down your arm that was obvious to him in seconds. Your chest was home to a massacre, and the kitchen knife you always used, because it was the sharpest, lay discarded feet away, painted crimson with your blood. Your wand had rolled beneath the table, your fingers still open like you were reaching for it.

You musn’t have gone down without a fight. The kitchen was a mess. 

He lay there for an hour next to you. He kept thinking about how this would be the last time he’d ever get to do it. Eventually, his howls dimmed, and he lay staring at the kitchen ceiling as lifelessly as you. Sirius dragged himself up from the floor. He needed to find James—see if James knew where Remus was. He needed Remus. Remus needed to know about you. Remus had no idea. 

Sirius had continued to sob when he leaned over and gently grasped your wrists. He settled for leaving them on top of your stomach, and his fingers shakily reached to close your eyelids. He hovered over you for a few more minutes, and gripping the skirt of your dress, bunching the material as silent sobs racked through his body. 

It took him another hour to get up. His legs felt like lead as he left you there. He wasn’t sure he was fully alive as he Apparated to the back of the Potter’s cottage, where they often snuck in and out to avoid being noticed. Sirius startled when he found the air had shifted, a dark green cloud smoking over James’ home, a snake coming from a skull. 

He knew it was Peter immediately. The Secret-Keeper. Of course it was. He had been the traitor the entire time. Whilst Remus and Sirius had been pointing fingers at each other, Peter had been sitting there, often next to you, and he had probably been plotting all of your deaths. Sirius thought of James. Lily. Harry. You. He thought of you, and he knew what he had to do. 

The rest of the night was such a blur to Sirius now. He remembered hunting down Peter in his Animagus form, using his sense of smell to realise he wasn’t too far. He found him down a Muggle street in London, trembling and shaking down an alleyway. He remembered having Peter pinned, he remembered seeing blood down Peter’s arms, and a splatter across his face. 

Peter himself was missing a couple of his fingers. You must have gotten him. Sirius remembered how furious he had been: that Peter had gotten away, and you were gone. 

He was so furious that he wasn’t thinking straight. He could only imagine your confusion, your hurt, and the agony you must have been in. He hurt Peter the Muggle way. He wanted him to hurt as much as he hurt you. Only, Peter seemed to be thinking more rationally— he drew his wand, and he created an explosion. 

It was so large that Sirius had dropped him, and by the time he’d looked back, Peter was in his rat form—gone. 

The Aurors arrested him near enough on the spot. He screamed and protested. He yanked at his chains and gritted his teeth as they told him he was going to be imprisoned for all of his crimes. He begged for Remus over and over again. His screams turned to laughter when he realised how easily he had been tricked by Peter Pettigrew. Everybody had underestimated him. Sirius himself had seen Peter as meek and underpowered. Sirius had lost absolutely everything in a matter of hours, and he had woken up that morning thinking the day would be no different from every other. 

He went manic. He screamed and screamed all night. He rattled the bars of his cage until somebody Crucio’d him. He wondered if he was in as much pain as you had been when Peter had stabbed you over and over and over again. He told himself he deserved it for not being there for you. He deserved to rot behind bars just for that. 

“Did Pete do something?” You asked, and Sirius nearly leaned over the side of the bed to be sick. 

His eyes flickered over to Remus, who was watching you with such a haunted look that Sirius couldn’t take it. Sirius thought to himself that if he were to ignore hindsight and the future, then he would be sending you off to your death. You’d die again. It really would be his fault. He could have saved you. He should have saved you. He should have—

“I just don’t really like him very much anymore,” Sirius murmured. “I’ve… I’ve seen something in these tea leaves, okay? I saw something, and I didn’t like it.”

You snorted and tapped Sirius’ chest. “You’re rubbish at Divination! Last month, you thought you were going to end up riding a Hippogriff back to London!”

Sirius and Remus cast a look at each other, Sirius’ mouth slightly agape. “Actually, I think I have a knack for it. Maybe my timing’s just a bit off.”

“Sirius,” Remus warned. 

“He won’t freak me out, don’t worry,” you reassured Remus, and patted his leg over the duvet. “Why, Siri? What did you see that Peter did?”

Sirius swallowed and shut his eyes. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he panicked once he reopened them, and he was quick to dart away. 

You worriedly watched him go and looked back at Remus. “What’s wrong with him, Rem? Seriously. I’m worried about him. He’s not acting like normal.”

Remus sighed heavily. “Let me go and check on him.”

He climbed carefully from the bed, walking over to the bathroom. Just as he touched the handle of the door, he glanced back at you. You were watching him, your head tilted curiously. 

“What?” You asked. 

He shook his head. “Just stay right there, okay? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I don’t plan on going anywhere any time soon, don’t you worry,” you told him innocently enough. 

Remus shook his head and pulled open the door. He shut it behind him immediately when light poured through, and he found Sirius bent over the toilet, trembling.

“I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” he kept muttering. 

Remus felt the rage ignite inside his chest, hot and raw. “Sirius, this was your idea.”

“I thought I could handle a peaceful evening with her,” Sirius heaved. “But I can’t, Remus. How can we leave her here, knowing what’s going to happen to her? We’re essentially sentencing her to her death!”

Remus’ face curled, but his eyes were hot with tears. “It’s difficult. It’s how…” his voice broke. “It’s how it’s supposed to go.”

“You don’t even believe that!” Sirius shot back. “I can tell in your voice! You want to save her, too! Didn’t we always promise her that we’d keep her safe, Remus? Didn’t we? Look at her! She’s eighteen years old, and she only has three years left! That’s not fucking fair, Remus! Why did we get to live for so long, and she didn’t?”

They’d had this conversation a hundred times since Azkaban. Sirius held a particular amount of survivor’s guilt and PTSD. Remus was slightly better at burying his grief and self-loathing, just about content enough to survive until he saw Voldemort and Peter dead. He always thought he’d see how he felt after that. 

“Sirius, I know,” Remus hushed him, smoothing his face with his hands. “I know. I know.”

“We could save James and Lily, too,” Sirius said desperately. “And Marlene. Harry’d never have to go to the Dursleys. The second war would never have broken out. We just have to kill that fucking rat! Right now, Remus! I can gut him as he did to her!”

Remus closed his eyes, grounding himself by gripping Sirius’ shoulders. “Calm down, okay?”

“Calm down—?”

“If Harry and Lily didn’t defeat Voldemort, who would have, Sirius? We were losing the war back then. If it had never happened, the Dark Lord most likely would have become even more powerful. Eventually, he would have taken over. You’d have been used as an example of blood treason. James, too. Lily and the other Muggleborns would have probably been rounded up to be slaughtered. I’d be carted off to the werewolf packs. Y/N…” His face went green. “Fuck, Sirius, Y/N would have probably been married off for her blood status—used to repopulate the Purebloods.”

“You don’t know that!” Sirius seethed, but his face was crestfallen, his breathing rapid. 

“You don’t know that wouldn’t happen either, though, Sirius! Everything has a knock-on effect.”

“Then…” He hesitated, a strangled expression over his face. “Then perhaps we can just try to save Y/N.”

He mentally apologised to James over and over and over again. He’d make it up to him through Harry. 

Remus covered his face with his hand. “You’re not listening.”

“I don’t care!” Sirius cried. “Is that what you’d like me to say, Remus? In all honesty, I will take whatever risk it is to give Y/N the chance of living! So we don’t kill Peter then. Fine. But maybe we can make sure that Y/N is not in the house that night. That nothing bad happens to her that night. I won’t—I won’t go to Azkaban, she won’t die, you won’t have to spend years alone, and Harry can have a family! The three of us can raise him, Remus. We’ll stop the second war from breaking out. We’ll let Peter go to Azkaban for what he’s done! That’s worse than death!”

Remus blinked, and for a few moments, it looked as though he was truly considering what Sirius was saying. Sirius could feel the hope blossoming and blooming in his chest. He grasped onto Remus and shook him impatiently, as if that would make him hurry up with his decision. 

“Well? You look like you like my idea.” “Of course I do,” Remus melted. “Of course I want all of that to happen.” He tugged his lip between his teeth. “I have always said I would do anything to have her back.”

Sirius could have burst into tears. “Remus, don’t say all of this to take it back. Please.”

“Sirius, if we get caught, we’ll be arrested at the very minimum.”

“I’d go back to Azkaban for a hundred years for her, Remus,” Sirius said so determinedly that the air knocked from Remus’ lungs, and it was as if Sirius’ words had burst Remus’ morality bubble for the first time that evening.

His body sagged, his eyes sinking. “Yeah, me too, Pads.” “Then let’s risk it. Or give me the time turner, Rem. I’ll do it myself. We can send you back, and I’ll come and get her. I’ll make it right. You’ll never know the difference,” Sirius pleaded.

Remus’ trembling hand took Sirius’, and he shook his head. “You won’t have to do this alone, Sirius. We’ll do it together.”

There was a knock at the bathroom door, gentle and quiet. They both glanced at each other with softened eyes, and for the first time, their chests deflated. There was a feeling of ease knowing they were going to rewrite their story, that they would get to spend the rest of their lives together after all. 

Remus moved forward and opened the door, letting it swing open. Your eyes squinted blearily at the bright light of the bathroom. 

“Sirius, are you okay?” You asked softly. “I’m sorry if I made you feel silly about your… vision of Peter. It’s just… it’s Pete. He’s our best friend.”

“Y/N, I think we should all sit down and have a talk,” Remus suggested as calmly as he could muster, placing a hand on her arm, gently guiding her back into the room—back to Sirius’ bed. “It’s probably best we come clean to you.”

You peer at them even more anxiously. “Did something happen? Oh Merlin, Sirius, is your arm actually okay?”

“My arm is perfectly fine, baby,” Sirius couldn’t help but laugh, and he wanted to lean in and peck your hairline, but he was scared you’d want him nowhere near you in the next few minutes, so he refrained. “It’s something else entirely.”

“And you’re clever,” Remus said. “So we’re going to try not to sugar coat things. It’s going to be… hard to listen to. But we’re here for you the whole time, alright, sweetheart? Okay?”

You hesitated, staring them both over for a few more moments. Then you nodded, and Remus took a deep breath. 

“Good girl. Do you know what this is?” He reached under his shirt and pulled out a golden chain with a circular pendant.

You shook your head. “I don’t think so, Rem.”

“This is a time turner,” Remus explained. “Do you want to see how it works?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, and Remus was positive you didn’t fully understand the meaning behind his words from how nonchalantly you were reacting to the information he was giving you. 

“Give me your hands, sweet,” he instructed, and when you did so, he cupped your hand beneath his and gave the time turner one small spin. 

Suddenly, the two of you were standing up in the exact place you had been moments ago, right before you sat on the bed. The past versions of you disappeared, and Sirius’ gaze flickered between you both, his lips quirking up. 

Your eyes were nearly bulging out of your sockets. “What just happened?”

“We went back in time,” Remus explained. “Only by a few seconds. It’s not always good to go back too far.”

“When did you two get that?” You gaped and pinched your brows together at Sirius. “Did you steal it? Potter heirloom?”

“No,” Sirius laughed. “No stealing, not an heirloom. The Order gave it to us.”

You cocked a brow. “The Order of the Phoenix?”

“Yes.”

You nearly howled with laughter. “Well, that’s absurd! Why would the Order of the Phoenix trust you two with a time turner? You’re only eighteen years old, for goodness sake! We’re still at school!”

The silence that followed quickly made your amused smile evaporate. It started to settle in that this was not a joking matter, and that they were being very serious. Your gaze flickered between them, and your eyes widened as you seemed to put two and two together. 

“You're not from this time, are you?” You whispered to them both. 

“No,” Sirius admitted quietly. 

“But how is that possible?” You demanded, standing from your seat and pacing, running a hand through your hair. “Are you from the future? By what? A couple of years? You both look exactly the same as you did when I saw you a few hours ago.”

“Y/N,” Remus swallowed. “Sit down.”

You did as you were told, but you felt incredibly lightheaded, the dizziness starting to make you sway a little. Sirius supported you with a large hand. 

“We’re from the future, yes,” Sirius said. “We’re from, well, 1996.”

You paused. Your stomach flipped and your hands grew clammy. You stared at them both, unsurely. 

“This is a prank?” You asked, but you had a feeling even these two weren’t such good actors. There was no way they would do this to you so close after a full moon. Even if Sirius had come up with the sick idea, you don’t believe he’d ever be able to do it to you, and Remus would never agree to it anyway.

“Not a prank,” Remus assured her. 

You were silent for a few moments. “Well, that would make you each thirty-six years old. That’s not possible, is it? You look so young. Do your appearances change with the time you go to?”

“We took a de-ageing potion,” Remus admitted shamefully. “To blend in.”

You stare for longer. “Rem, I don’t like this. It’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke, I swear on your life, sweetheart,” Remus said. “Look, I can prove it.”

He moved over to the coat he’d thrown over the chair and went into the pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes and a few crumpled bits of paper. “Er, receipts with the year on them.” He dug in the other one and found his wallet, taking his seat next to her again. “That’s you. In the future.”

Sure enough, Remus opened his wallet and in the plastic covering was a small Polaroid of you. Your breath hitched and you took it from him. You looked hardly any different to the way you looked now, except your hair was cut differently, in a way you had never had it before, and this was your first time seeing the image. 

“That’s me?”

“That’s you,” Sirius said thickly. “In 1980.”

You shook your head. “Wow. Well, this is only a couple of years away, then.” You handed it back to Remus. “Why… Why are you showing me this? Why are you two here? Are my Remus and Sirius okay?”

“They’re fine, darling,” Remus said. “They’re still in the hospital wing healing, and if I remember correctly, they’re anxious to come and see you—but they’re fine.”

You smile waveringly. “Is this to do with Peter, then? Like you said before? You don’t like him?”

There was a long silence.

“What did the Order send you here to do?”

“The Order didn’t exactly send us here,” Sirius said. “This was more of my idea, really. I just…”

Your breath hitched at the look on his face. Suddenly, their strange behaviour made so much more sense. Sirius getting emotional, Remus becoming shut off. 

“That’s the last photo you have of me, isn’t it?” Your voice came out deadpan, dread icing your insides as you watch their faces for confirmation. “That’s why you don’t have a newer one, hm?” Their expressions crumbled. Remus looked positively ashamed, avoiding your eyes. Disgust crept over Sirius’ features.

You tried hard not to let the panic swallow you. “Can you…what happens to me?”

Remus hesitated. “You die during the war.”

You don’t say anything for a moment, but hot tears flood your eyes. “When I’m twenty-one? In 1980?”

Sirius nodded, and you dumped your face into your hands. “Oh, Merlin. Oh no.” Your mutterings broke their hearts, and then they heard you begin to cry, your frame shaking with each sob. “I don’t get any older?”

Sirius felt sick. Remus couldn’t open his mouth as he watched you cry, but Sirius had been itching to comfort you since the second he saw you on the kitchen floor eighteen years ago. All he’d wanted was for you to wake up and cry, so he could reassure you, wrap his arms around you, and reassure you that you were going to be fine. 

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” Sirius cried. “We weren’t… We weren’t there the day it happened. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“What happened?” You whimpered. “What happened to me?” It dawns on you. “Pete?” 

When neither said anything, you became more frantic. “No! Did I die saving him? It must have been—it must have been some freak accident, surely!”

Sirius shook his head, fists clenched. “It was not an accident, Y/N,”

You rubbed your eyes. “But—but—Peter is—”

“Not at all what any of us thought,” Remus finished for her sternly. 

“Oh Gods. Is it painless at least?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Remus cut in before Sirius could. “Because it’s not going to happen again.”

“Wha—what do you mean?”

Remus lifted the time turner. “We’re not going back to a world you’re not in, Y/N. Not ever.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“I know this is overwhelming,” Sirius said. “I’m sorry. We just—we want to be sure that you want to be saved, Y/N. That you want to live. We don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

You thought for a few seconds. “Of course I want to live,” you croaked. “I want to grow old with you both. But I don’t want to change the future for the worse. What if bad things happen?”

“Bad things happen anyway,” Sirius mumbled.

“Sirius is blamed for your death,” Remus said, and purposefully left out the news of James and Lily. “He goes to Azkaban for thirteen years, until he breaks out.”

You look over at him, agony nearly shredding you apart. “Sirius,” you breathed, and your sniffling nose and flushed eyes were enough to make him coo and bring you into his warm chest. “Merlin, Sirius, I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured into your hair. “Never your fault, honey.”

You stayed like that for minutes. Your eyes began to feel tired from the emotion and weight of the day. Sirius couldn’t take his eyes off of you, curled up in his arms, finally safe.

“Let us save you,” Remus pleaded with her quietly, brushing her hair from her face. “Please.”

“But what if it makes everything worse in the long run? I don’t want you two to get into more trouble.”

“We’d Obliviate you after this, sweetheart,” Remus said, and Sirius was nearly surprised that he’d come up with a plan so soon, but also not really because it was Remus. “You won’t remember this, and you’ll go on like normal. Sirius and I will jump to the day you pass. We’ll make sure Pete doesn’t get to hurt you.”

“Why can’t we stop Peter now?” 

“We can’t change too much of the timeline, baby,” Sirius swallowed thickly. “No matter how much we want to. Some things have to stay the same.”

There was a long silence. Minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly.

“What do you think?” Remus asked quietly. 

“Let me sleep on it, Rem,” you said, furrowing your brows, but not opening your eyes as you rested against Sirius’ chest. “I can’t—I can’t think straight right now. Too much.”

“Okay,” Remus whispered, though his fingers twitched and his lips pursed. “Yeah, darling. Go to sleep. We’ll still be here in the morning.”

It took you a very long time to finally lose consciousness. You lay there, dwelling and agonising for hours, until the steady beat of Sirius’ heart lulled you to sleep. 

── .✦

The next morning, you were the first to wake. You studied the men on either side of you, unsure if you were freaked out by their aged faces or calmed by them. A part of you was relieved that they got to see this age, and they survived a war you hadn’t managed to. The other part of you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that there was no other version of you that got to wake up to this. 

They both mostly looked the same. Both had a few silvers running through their hair, and the slightest of wrinkles around their eyes. It was obvious they were older in a handsome way, tattoos adorning every inch of Sirius’ skin in a way that had you almost breathless. 

You traced them until he stirred slightly, and then you froze, a nervousness washing over you that you usually didn’t get with the boys. You supposed that was because these weren’t boys, but men. You didn’t know this version of Sirius and Remus; these were around eighteen years older than you and had lived lives you’d never know about. 

You hesitated for a few moments, your thoughts drifting to the version of Sirius and Remus who were downstairs in the medical wing. You suddenly yearned for them more than ever, even if their elder selves were with you. Very carefully, you chose the one who used to always sleep like a log and prayed that was still true. Climbing over Sirius’ sleeping figure was a sport you had become extremely skilled at, especially because he liked to lie flat on his stomach. 

Pulling on Remus’ jumper, you hesitated, watching them both sleep peacefully in the bed. Remus’ nose twitched, just like it always did. His hand splayed out across the mattress, as if looking for you or Sirius. You decided to leave before they woke up. 

You stalked down all of the staircases, not a soul in sight, until you made it to the infirmary. You pushed the door open and headed straight for the two occupied beds at the end of the hall. Remus was already awake, a book in his hands and his eyes bleary from, knowing him, lack of sleep. 

“Hi,” you breathed, and dropped into the chair next to him. 

He looked pleased to see you, his face melting into a smile. “Y/N. It’s so early. Why are you here?”

“I just needed to come and see you both,” you whispered, but your voice cracked at his gentle face, and your eyes welled with hot tears, much to your horror. 

Remus quickly placed the book down, concerned, and he pulled his blankets off his legs. 

“No, no, no,” you attempted to usher him back in. “Rest, Rem. Stop. Don’t worry about me, I just… I had a nightmare last night. I’m being silly.”

He looked dramatically less concerned, his face easing into a look of sympathy as he made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Oh, sweetheart. You had a nightmare, did you? What was it about?”

You hesitated and gulped down the lump in your throat. It felt like all of the air was stuck there, and something was squeezing your chest unrelentingly. 

“I died,” you blurted. “A couple of years into the war. I got murdered. You and Sirius—you both were really sad afterwards.”

Remus’ brows tugged together, and he opened his arms out to you. You climbed into them, careful of all of his wounds, resting your head on his chest. You felt better nearly instantly, but dread sank in your stomach like an anchor—a constant, aching reminder that you would only have this for the next couple of years. You looked over at a sleeping Sirius. In a couple of years, he would be in Azkaban. Remus would be alone, a shell of the person he was before. 

“That won’t happen,” Remus whispered, stroking your hair. You almost believed him from the softness and sincerity in his tone. “You’re safe with us, baby. I’ve got you.”

The tears streamed even more easily down your face.

“Y/N?” Sirius’ groggy voice came from the bed over. “Is she okay, Rem?”

“Poor thing’s had a nightmare,” Remus said, and it wasn’t long before you heard the duvet shuffle and the padding of feet over to you. 

“Darling,” Sirius whined dotingly, and stole you from Remus’ arms, dotting kisses throughout your hair. “You’re alright. Was it that bad?”

“I just—it felt really, really real,” you sniffled. “And I’m—I’m— I was thinking what would happen to the two of you if something really did happen to me.”

Remus’ face contorted. “Don’t ask questions like that, love.”

“Yeah, it won’t ever happen,” Sirius said forcefully. “Never, Y/N.”

You grasped his jumper tighter. 

“Gods, your hands are shaking, sweetheart,” Sirius muttered. 

“Sorry,” you murmured, and dragged yourself away from him. 

They both watched you with such soft, kind eyes. Your heart ached, pulsating and dying all at once. You itched to grab them again. 

You wanted this forever. You wanted to know the two boys in the tower above you, too—you wanted to watch this Sirius and Remus grow into the men upstairs. Hopefully, happier, less traumatised versions. 

You’d felt a weird sense of nausea when you’d woken up earlier, looking at the familiar faces of your boyfriends and realising you didn’t know them, and would never know them. 

You needed to know them.  

“I’m going to get ready for the day,” you breathed out. “I’ll shower and put some clean clothes on, and then I’m going to come down here with some games or something for us to play. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

Remus frowned. “Let us come with you.”

“No, no. I’m going to get the house elves to make us something really nice, okay?” You said, and your encouraging smile lifted their spirits slightly. “You’re right. Both of you. It was just a dream.”

You had your answer for the Sirius and Remus upstairs.

You cried all the way to your fathers chambers, still unable to process what he told you. Someone had killed Leo Tyrell, which almost sounded like a jape more than anything.

Why would someone want to kill him? What did he do wrong?

Then, your mind wandered to the dark and possible closest truth— that it was Lyonel. If it were Lyonel, that would be an act of war or even worse, his head.

Things had gone from bad to worse in a matter of hours. You knew that things had been getting out of control due to the shortage of meat, but you didn’t think it’d end in a riot— not like this. You were also back to square one, no wedding within in the foreseeable future and the man that you love was missing.

Your stomach was in knots as you paced your fathers dimly lit solar. He had you brought to his chambers as it was safest for you in there and there were three knights posted outside of the doors. It also had dawned on you that you had no idea where your brothers or cousins were amidst all of the chaos, you prayed to the gods that they were okay.

There was some shuffling and chatter outside of the door, but nothing of note— nothing that eased your mind. You hadn’t even broken your fast yet nor had your bandages been changed, it was a great start to your day.

About two hours later, you were able to eat and take a bath. Though the food did ease your nausea some, you still could not escape the urge to vomit— not truly.

Maybe it was your nerves or your lack of sleep, at least that was what you were telling yourself.

After your bath, under the knight's supervision— the maester came and changed your bandages. It was an unnerving feeling— the way that everything was, the way that no one could be trusted. It was the kind of feeling where you always felt that there were eyes on you, like you weren’t truly alone. Everyone was a suspect in the murder of Lord Tyrell and the others, even you.

The hours in your fathers chambers dragged on and on with no end in sight. You did quite a bit of sleeping, anything to take your mind off of the pain in your feet and nausea that wouldn’t go away.

You sat in the window seat and stared out, letting the cool breeze brush against your skin. Your mind flooded with memories of Lyonel, you truly worried for him— your hands getting sweaty at even the thought of him being hurt.

If Lyonel did kill Lord Tyrell, you’d be shocked as it's dishonorable— but it wouldn’t change the love you felt for him. It was a guilty thought, but the truth. Loving Lyonel the way that you do was scary at first to you, he was loud and sometimes annoying— but you loved those very things about him. You found love in a man that most people never thought would take a wife, a man that made you feel like more than an object or pawn. With your betrothed now dead, you had no idea what to expect— you just knew that a life without Lyonel was not possible.

Once nightfall came, you laid in the bed and your tears began to stain the pillow. You didn’t tell Lyonel that you loved him, not that you would have ever expected this to happen— but you should’ve said it anyway.

The night felt like it lasted an eternity with the sun seeming as if it weren’t going to rise. You stayed up to watch the sun rise and slept in longer than you should have, hoping to wake up to good news— anything that could lift your spirits.

There was no news, nothing that anyone could tell you about anything— not the servants or the guards. You hoped that you would at least be able to speak with your father, but the urgent matters kept him away.

The tray of breakfast sat on the desk untouched, as you couldn’t muster up an appetite with this going on. You took your bath and even then, you barely washed— your feet stinging from the warm water.

Another day passed, then another, then another and you hadn’t heard anything. Being stuck in that room, seeing the same faces over and over again was about to drive you mad.

You were at your wits end.

You had finished your bath and broke your fast. You decided to spend time sitting in the window seat as you brushed your hair. The lock to the door clicked and you didn’t even bother to look as you figured it was the Maester coming to change your bandages.

The door shut with a thud.

“Daughter.” Baelor spoke.

Your eyes glanced over to him, a sense of relief filling your body as you saw him standing there whole and safe. Even with the pain, you left your seat and went to hug him.

“I was so worried.. so worried that you could’ve been hurt.” You mumbled.

He rubbed your head and placed a kiss against it.

“I’m fine, sweet girl. Things have just been quite hectic.”

After your hug and you finally feeling like you can breathe again, he brings you to the chair near him.

“Are Valarr and Matarys okay?” You asked, your voice teetering on the brink of panic.

He rubbed your hand with a nod.

“They are, they are fine. I just went to see them and they asked the same question about you.”

You let out a breath of air, rubbing your sweaty palms against your gown.

Baelor walked to his desk, grabbing a piece of paper from it and stuffing it into his pocket.

“This riot has thrown the realm and the city into chaos. Everyone is afraid, pointing the finger at one another, and people are hungry. It could not possibly be worse.” He mentioned.

“Did you.. did you find out what happened to Lord Tyrell?” You stammered.

He walked closer to the window, staring out of it.

“I did not like him much, neither did your uncle. A shameful thing to say when the man just recently died, but he disturbed me in a manner that I cannot quite understand.”

You listened to him and you were at least grateful that other people also felt the same way. His remark also hung in your mind because he did not mention his affliction, which meant that Lyonel had not told him yet.

“No one saw how it happened, considering how quickly things got out of hand— but his throat was slit.” Baelor added.

You gasped, covering your mouth.

“That is… an awful way to go.”

“I’ve been in countless meetings, hardly able to think straight these last few days. House Tyrell is very displeased that you are not in mourning and dressed as such.” He admitted.

Your brows furrowed.

“But, father, we weren't wed yet?”

He turned to you, walking back towards you in slow strides.

“As I told them. I will not subject you to it no matter how much they ask. I am sorry for their loss.. but you’ve been through enough as well.”

Your expression softened, his words almost made you want to cry. Despite everything, you were never truly mad with your father— frustrated but not mad. He’s always done everything he can to protect you and your brothers, the family as a whole. Sometimes his hands have been tied and even when you didn’t want to, you understood. You accepted his position of being on both sides of duty and family, because you saw the toll it took on him.

“Thank you, father.”

“Lord Baratheon has also been found safe and sound.” He mentioned with a slight pause.

Your heart fluttered in your chest at the news.

“Thank the Gods.. thank you for sparing him.” You whispered under your breath.

Baelor watched as the relief washed over you. The same feeling that he used to always have when it came to your mother, always worried about your safety.

He twisted his ring on his finger.

“After a much needed conversation with your grandfather, he has allowed you to wed Lord Baratheon again.”

Your eyes widened from shock, “what?”

“If you still want to, this decision is yours.. you deserve to have that.” He disclosed.

Your eyes watered as you nodded.

“Of course, father—“

“I’d love to marry him.”

You got up and hugged him again, completely overrun with emotions. He hugged you back, his hand rubbing your back.

“Given the climate of everything, it will be smaller in scale.”

You wiped your tears.

“The size or cost of it is of no significance to me. I just want to marry the man that I love.”

His lips curved in a half smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I want that for you as well.”

You sat back down, your feet starting to ache.

“Well, I have a few more things to attend to and I’ll be back.” He mentioned.

You nodded, trying to collect yourself as he left the room. The news was exactly what you needed to hear in order to get some relief, now you just wanted to see Lyonel. You needed to lay your eyes on him and kiss his sweet face.

You expected to spend the rest of the day just sitting around in the room, until there was a knock at the door a few hours later.

It was a servant, the one that you were most familiar with— Walda.

“Princess, Lord Baratheon has requested that you go riding with him.”

You glanced at her, your brow partially raised.

“Riding? With everything going on?”

She nodded as that was all the information that she had been told.

“Yes, princess.”

“Hmm.. okay then. I shall get ready.” You mumbled.

It was odd that Lyonel had requested the two of you go for a ride, when he hadn’t even come to see you yet.

You were ready within a few minutes, leaving your chambers with two knights.

The halls of the keep were empty, everyone hiding— scared to come out and be questioned. It was an odd sight, to see everything seem so intense and scary.

You walked in front of the knights, moving slower than most— but still with a purpose. Once you got outside to the courtyard, you saw Lyonel standing there.

He ran to you, picking you off the ground into a hug.

“I wasn’t able to see you right away once I got back, I wanted to— but duty called.”

You hugged him back tightly, taking in his scent and cherishing the hug as if you wouldn’t get another.

“I was so worried for you.. so worried.” You choked out, your eyes staring to water.

He put you back down gently, pushing the hair out of your face and rubbing your cheek.

“Hey..hey.”

“I’m alright, my doe. I am okay and you are okay, that’s all that matters.” He reminded you.

You nodded, sniffling and wiping your eyes. Lyonel left your side and spoke to the knights, exchanging a few words— before they left. You weren’t sure what he said, but also didn’t care enough to ask.

He walked back to you, grabbing your hand— walking you farther away towards the horses. He had two horses prepared and waiting.

You stared at him, your mind full of questions.

“Where are we going?”

He grinned, helping you onto your horse. “For a ride.”

The two of you rode past the gates, farther than you had expected. The sky had started to darken like another storm was on the way. During the ride, Lyonel talked a little here and there. He didn’t say much or at least not much about what you wanted to know. Ignoring the big question seemed to be a hidden talent of his, something he did effortlessly.

He had the two of you stop in a field— the field went for as long as the eye could see. Different shades of green, hints of white, and orange from the flowers.

“What are we doing here?” You asked.

Lyonel helped you off of your horse and grabbed your hand, silent and leading you somewhere. He brought you to a tree with a silk sheet on the ground near it.

“Lyonel—“

“Sit with me?” He asked softly.

He sat down on the sheet, his back against the tree— you sat beside him with your head leaned against his shoulder.

“Are you going to tell me why you brought me here? or are you going to pretend as if you didn’t hear me?” You pried.

He rubbed your hand.

“I wanted to bring you here for time alone.. for you to take in the view of your home—“

“As of right now, we’ll be leaving King’s Landing right after we are wed. I don’t want you to forget this, the beauty of where we met. It will be a long time before we come back.” He claimed.

His words felt sharper to you than he had intended, because amongst everything that had happened— you hadn’t thought much about leaving, not lately.

“Oh—“

“I could never truly forget my home, no matter how long I’m away from it. Even then, this is only my home temporarily— Dragonstone is far from here.”

He nodded. “Ah.”

The birds in the tree chirped above you as the two of you sat under the tree.

“I missed you dearly during our short time apart..”

“I was afraid that I’d never see you again, truly.” He confessed.

You rubbed his arm, glancing at his face.

“Lyonel, you were never going to lose me. Not if I had a choice in it.”

“You are perfect, the perfect person for a stag.” He gushed.

A small silence lingered between the two of you, and you decided to take the moment to ask him the question that had been gnawing at you for days now.

You crawled into his lap, straddling him— pushing a curl out of his face.

“Can I ask you something?”

His tongue swiped his bottom lip and his hands rested on your hips.

“What’s that my sweet doe?”

“Did you kill Leo Tyrell?”

He stared at you blankly, his movements and smile faltering.

“No.”

That’s all that he said was No. He wasn’t offended that you asked, confused, nor did he say that he would’ve never done it. He just looked you in the eyes and gave you a simple no.

Despite the eye contact and your trust in him, you weren’t truly sure if he was being honest— which bothered you more than anything. You just wanted honesty.

“Don’t lie.” You spoke, still holding eye contact with him.

“I’m not, I have no reason to. I didn’t kill Leo Tyrell, but anyone who treats an innocent the way that he did you.. well he has it coming.”

You didn’t say anything, which confused him.

“Do you cry tears for Leo?” He asked, his tone laced with mockery.

You laughed, unable to even take his question seriously as it was absurd.

“What do you think?” You questioned.

He laughed, his hand cupping your face. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You mumbled, kissing him.

“You’re going to be my wife, which is a funny thing to say.”

You leaned back slightly, pulling your lips away from his.

“Why’s that?”

“I have not taken a wife in all of these years and now I’m marrying the princess, the blood of the dragon.” He acknowledged.

His words twisted in your stomach, almost in a way that made you question him. Was this really a love match or did he just want to marry into the royal family? A question you asked yourself, but you loved him and he loved you— so, would it really matter?

Perhaps, you were just letting negative thoughts consume you.

He kissed you again, the kiss lingering longer than it should’ve. Your lips against his felt right, felt perfect.

“My sweet doe, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He mumbled in between kissing you.

The heat between the two of you was building, your hips bucking against his growing bulge.

“I want you.. inside of me.” You whined.

His hands grabbed your ass, a groan leaving his mouth.

“Do you now?”

You nodded, kissing his face and nipping at his neck. “Please.”

Lyonel had to keep his composure, the composure that was slipping quickly with every moment as your lips were on him.

“I’d love to take you right here— let you moan my name for all to hear, but we should try to avoid any more scandals.” He pointed out.

You whined, pressing your head against his shoulder.

“I will fuck you as much as I possibly can on our wedding night, this will be the last time I deny you—“

“That I promise, my love.” He whispered into your ear.

You let out a giggle, a smile spreading across your face.

The two of you sat near the tree for a little while longer as you never wanted the moment to end, but Lyonel had to get you back to Baelor’s chambers— for your safety.

Given the current circumstances of how things had been in King’s Landing, your wedding could not be the grand event that had been planned— unless you wanted to wait a few more moons. You had no interest in waiting and you certainly were not mad about your wedding being smaller, in fact you had dreamt of that.

A close wedding with Lyonel that included all of the people that mattered most present. You didn’t need a bunch of random nobles to attend your wedding nor did you want them to.

The preparations for your wedding began and you didn’t know what to think, it was a bittersweet feeling. A feeling that had started to weigh heavier on you as the day approached.

Within a few more days you were allowed to return to your own chambers, but you still had Ser Roland placed at your door during the night.

This night in particular, you could not sleep— nothing was helping. Your mind just would not rest. You got up from your bed, putting on your slippers and robe— preparing to leave the room.

As you opened the door, Ser Roland glanced at you.

“May I help you, princess?”

You shut your door behind you and shook your head.

“No, Ser Roland—“

“I just want to go on a walk.”

“Princess, it is ill advised that you leave your chambers given the hour and the circumstances.” He added.

“I will be fine. I assume that you’re coming along and will keep me safe.” You questioned.

The two of you walked the hall, passing a few of the posted knights. Ser Roland found it easiest to not ask where this walk of yours would lead to as you probably would not tell him.

Your walk ended at Lyonel’s chambers and Ser Roland could not mask his confusion.

“This is Lord Baratheon’s guest chambers.” Ser Roland noted.

“Yes, it is.” You spoke, staring at him.

“Princess, I would not advise—“

“I only mean to come talk to him, nothing inappropriate Ser Roland— I promise. I would not want to put you in such a position.”

He nodded.

“I will be out in a bit.” You mentioned.

He took his stand outside of Lyonel’s door and prayed that your father would not come down this hall for any reason.

You knocked softly on Lyonel’s door.

“Come in, whoever you are.” He spoke.

You opened the heavy oak door, stepped into the room, and shut it behind you with a loud thud.

“What brings you here at the hour of the wolf, darling?” He smirked.

You picked at your fingers, your palms sweaty as if this was the first time that you had met him.

“I could not sleep and I just wanted to talk—“

Talking is something that could ease my mind.”

He patted the bed.

“Well, come join me darling.”

You slipped out of your slippers and your robe, climbing into bed with Lyonel and resting your head on his chest.

“What’s plaguing that sweet mind of yours? Hmm?”

You listened to his heartbeat, your fingers tracing shapes amongst his skin.

“Do you regret any of this?”

He laughed, not because your question was funny— but it was absurd.

“How could I regret meeting you? The woman that gave me hope, that made me laugh, the woman that I’d be willing to leave it all behind for. Why would you ever think that I’d regret this?”

You felt small, maybe even insecure and part of you could not understand why.

“I don’t know, mayhaps it’s just a thought that’s crawled into my mind since the wedding is soon.”

He rubbed your arm.

“Second thoughts?”

You shook your head. “No, just being a wife is something I’m not knowledgeable on. I don’t have anyone to ask, since my mother has—“

Tears fall from your eyes onto his chest.

“There’s no need to cry, my love. I have never been a husband before either, but we will get through it together. It might not be perfect at first, but we will conquer any troubles.”

You wiped your tears, the moonlight shining onto your face.

His words of reassurance and his extreme kindness meant more to you than you could ever put into words. You were truly thankful for him and the happiness that he brought you.

“You are right, I don’t know what has gotten into me.” You muttered.

“That is alright, darling.” He spoke, giving you a kiss on the forehead.

The two of you laid in silence for a while as you tried to work up the courage to ask him another important question.

You raised up, moving away from him and faced him— pushing your hair out of your face.

“Lyonel, I need to ask you something.”

He rubbed his eyes like he was close to falling asleep.

“What’s your question, darling?”

“The woman that read my palm—“

He huffed, interrupting you. “Please, tell me that you did not buy into that nonsense.”

You stared at him, biting your lip and hesitating to answer.

“My love.” He spoke softly, his words laced with slight disappointment.

“Have—“

“Have you sired any other children?” You spat out.

Lyonel’s brows furrowed, he seemed truly offended by your question. He sat up in the bed, his eyes staring into yours.

“What?—“

“I had never spilled in a woman before you. I find it in poor taste to have bastards running around.”

You felt a sigh of relief that he didn’t have bastards running around in the realm, but the woman’s words replayed on a loop in your mind. She said that he’d have seven instead of six, which made you nauseous— but you trusted Lyonel.

“It’s just been in my mind since then.. I’m sorry.”

He grabbed you, pulling you into a tight hug and causing the two of you to fall back onto the bed.

“You have no reason to be sorry, but I can say right here and now that’ll I’ll never betray you. I will not do that to you, no matter how hard things get.”

“I love you.” You reminded him, placing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

He gently grabbed your chin and kissed you back, the kiss deepening instantly.

“Fuck me, Lyonel—“

“Please.” You whined.

He chuckled, completely amused at you being so needy.

“You’ll have to be mindful of how loud you get.”

You nodded, sitting up on the bed and pulling off your nightgown— tossing it into the ground.

Lyonel quickly pulled off his trousers, his hard cock springing free. Just the sight of it made your mouth water, almost making you drool.

You laid back onto the bed as Lyonel came between your legs, propping himself up with his arms on both sides of you.

He kissed you, a groan in his throat as he pushed into you— inch by inch.

“So fucking tight.” He hissed.

His cock felt so good inside you, filling you like always— but this time you felt extremely sensitive, more than you normally did.

His cock snapped into you, deep with each thrust.

“Fuck, Lyonel.” Whined.

“That’s it, my doe.” He groaned, his lips pressed into the crook of your neck.

Your nails scratched his back, your head thrown back in bliss. You loved to hear his grunts and groans in your ear.

The sounds of your moans filled the chambers, you weren’t being as quiet as you had promised.

“Gods, I think I’m about—“

“You are clenching me harder than you ever have, you’re close already.” He grunted.

Your nails dug into his back, a chuckle leaving his throat as you reached your peak.

“Oh my.. oh.” You gasped.

He glanced at you and your surprised expression, halting his thrusts.

“That was quicker than you normally are—“

“What’s gotten into you tonight, my love?” He laughed.

You felt your skin get warm at his cocky smile. “I don’t know.. I’m just sensitive, I guess.”

His brow raised, his smirk returning.

“Sensitive, hmm?”

You nodded, kissing him— still wanting more of him.

He started thrusting you again, the sensitivity of it making you almost cry tears of joy.

You pressed your tongue into his mouth, “take me from behind.”

“Yeah?” He grinned.

“Please.”

He gently pulled out of you, while you adjusted and got on all fours— your back arched, ass in the air, and face pressed into the silk sheets.

Your heart raced, your cunt aching for him to fill you again.

He pressed his tip against your folds, gliding it between them and teasing you.

“Please, Lyonel.”

His hand smacked across your ass, a whine leaving your mouth.

“You are so sexy when you beg, especially when you beg from this angle.” He mumbled.

He pushed his cock inside, fully sinking into you— your fingers gripping the sheets.

“Gods.. you grip me so perfectly.”

Lyonel loved to see your face when he fucked you and have your lips against his, but there was something so special about having you on all fours.

The way your ass bounced back onto his cock, the perfect arch in your back, the whimpers that left your mouth— it was beyond amazing.

“You’re doing so well, my precious darling.”

You were so perfect in every way and every position.

Lyonel’s fingers dug into your hips, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusted deep into you.

“Gods—“

“Fuck, love.”

The sounds of your wetness filled the room, sweat glistening on your body. You were a sight to behold to Lyonel, a sight of unseen beauty— you were everything.

Lyonel pounded you, drool wetting the sheets as you cried out from pleasure.

You buried your face deeper into the sheets as you moaned Lyonel’s name repeatedly, another orgasm washing over you.

“Two so quickly?” Lyonel laughed loudly, smacking your ass.

His own release coming quickly as he fucked you, your cunt gripping him so tightly and taking him so well.

“Fucking hell.” He rasped.

He thrusted into you hard, twice— a deep and guttural moan leaving his lips as he spilled inside you. His chest rising and falling fast as he tried catching his breath.

“That was—“

“Amazing.” You interrupted.

Lyonel leaned down peppering kisses against your back, mumbling sweet words against your skin before he pulled out.

Both of you laid in the bed beside each other, Lyonel pulling you closer to him.

“One day we’ll look back on this.” Lyonel mentioned.

A smile tugged at your lips. “Hopefully, fondly?—“

“Well, maybe not certain things.”

“A great story for the children or a cautionary tale, however you prefer to tell it.” He smiled, his fingers tracing your arms.

You listened to Lyonel bring up children occasionally and it never bothered you, not really— but there would come a day when you’d have them. You’d have them and yet, they wouldn’t be as close with your family. Not as close as you are with your cousins.

You’d be in Storms End with Lyonel, only visiting when necessary and there’s time for it.

The feelings that you had, they were something that had made its way deep inside you— creeping up to the surface during every happy moment. Whether it was fear or not, you felt like a small girl needing encouragement from her mother.

A luxury that you did not have, one that you hadn’t had in years.

You laid with Lyonel for a little longer before gathering yourself and exiting his chambers. The candlelight flickered across your face as you gently shut the door behind you.

“I am ready to go back to my room.” You spoke, turning to Ser Roland.

He nodded and walked alongside you to your chambers.

When you walked into your room, you sat at your desk— not quite ready for bed yet.

You opened the drawers, rummaging through them until you came to the neatly preserved letter. Your fingers rubbed against the unbroken dragon seal, the letter preserved through time.

With slow and steady movements, you opened the letter— your hands shaking as you did so.

Dear daughter, my sweet girl.

I am writing this letter because the Maesters have informed me that I am not getting better, not the way that we had hoped. I do not have the heart to inform you of such truths, tell you that I will die sooner rather than later.

When the gods gave me you, my love transcended what I already felt as a mother. There’s something that is truly special about raising a daughter and teaching her what you taught yourself. You and your brothers are my heart, my anchor, my peace. The three of you will have to mourn me together and I pray that it does not break any of you, that you will not let your grief overwhelm you.

I do not want to leave you, but it is something that is certain.

I will not be there for your big milestones, not physically— but your father will. I ask that you grant Baelor some leniency, because my loss will shatter him even when I pray that it won’t.

He’s never been a father without me. He’s never been alone, truly alone as I’ve always been there. He is a good father, but he will need patience in this.

There’s so many things that I will not be able to teach you or tell you, things which Baelor has no knowledge of. One day you will become a woman, a woman who has questions. There will be expectations for you as a woman in this world— expectations to be obedient, marry a Lord, give him children, and raise those children.

That is not all that you must do. I want you to learn where you can, love who loves you, create hobbies for yourself, and make your life into what it can be.

Do not put yourself into a box for anyone, because you are more than a small box and you’re more than just a pawn in a man’s game. You are my brilliant and bright daughter, stay that way.

I hope that life is everything that you deserve and more. I hope that you can get to the end of your life and be happy, and have fond memories of things from many moons ago.

Do not let my death ruin you or any happiness that comes your way, sweet girl. I forbid it.

I love you beyond measures and beyond words. I know that my loss will hurt you, but even when I’m far— I will still be close.

Yours truly, mother.

Tears fell down your cheeks, staining the letter as you tried to read it. You had put it off for years, lying to your father and saying that you had read it— when you couldn’t stomach doing it.

You closed the letter and put it back in the drawer that you had pulled it from, a sob hung in your throat. Her words were what you needed to read, but they’d forever haunt you.

Your wedding was a few days away and the pit in your stomach hadn’t gone away, instead it grew. A fear of the new roles that you’d have, a fear that you’d be forgotten in your old life.

The sunlight shone into your chambers, the servants bustling in and out— preparing for your gown fitting and to break your fast.

You tossed and turned in the bed, pulling the sheets over your head as you wanted more time alone and to sleep longer. You were tired as if you hadn’t slept and recently you couldn’t get enough sleep.

The nausea that plagued your stomach crept up your throat, making you jump out of your bed and run towards the window. You threw up, your fingers gripped the stone as you leaned over.

“My lady, are you alright?” The maid asked.

You wiped your mouth, nodding your head as you faced the window.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I can have—“

“I’m fine!” You yelled.

It was a lie, you didn’t feel fine— in fact you felt the opposite. You felt horrible.

The flower arrangements for your wedding were being prepared, placement in the dining room being decided.

The seamstress walked around you, as you stood in front of her— holding your gown. She pinned pieces of your gown, mumbling things to herself.

“Your measurements are a bit different from the last gown I made for you.” She spoke, eyeing you as if something had changed.

“It should be the same.” You replied, staring into the mirror at your gown.

“Just do not indulge too much these next few days or it will not fit.” She added, tugging and tightening the fabric.

You couldn’t even focus on the thought of your wedding or the gown, you could only focus on the pressure of the fabric against your stomach and your breasts.

“Are we almost done?” You groaned.

The seamstress continued to pin the pieces of fabric nodding her head.

“Almost, just a bit more.” She mumbled.

There was a knock at your door, the door opening with your father entering the room.

“Oh, I did not realize that you were still with the seamstress. I can come back later.”

“You turned in your gown, facing him and asked the seamstress for a quick moment alone.

“Is there something wrong, father?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it again promptly, his words failing him.

He walked closer to you, his hands behind his back.

“No, there is no problem—“

“You just remind me so much of your mother.” He pointed out.

You smiled, a small smile that didn’t completely reach your eyes or reflect happiness— just a smile. A smile to hide how much the thought of your mother made you want to cry.

“Is that so?”

He nodded, a smile on his face.

You didn’t reply, only turning back towards the mirror as you did not want to risk him seeing the tears that welled in your eyes.

“I know that your betrothal to Lord Baratheon has been a very grueling matter.. but I’d like to take this moment as your father to apologize—“

“I apologize for how your punishment was handled and for how I allowed everything as of late to be handled. It should have gone differently and been something that you could’ve been happy about.. you were robbed of that and for that I am truly sorry.”

You turned back towards him, your eyes glassy and vision blurred. You weren’t expecting an apology from him.

There was a loud silence that lingered in the air, one where you didn’t truly know what to say.

“I.. I forgive you.” You stammered.

Baelor walked over to you, grabbing your hand as he couldn’t hug you due to the pins.

“I hope that your life with Lord Baratheon is far beyond your dreams and that he’s the man that you deserve.”

You wiped your tears, your heart feeling as if it’s being squeezed. He let go of your hand to wipe the tears in his own eyes.

“With all of that being said, I’ve talked to Lyonel and you will not be leaving for Storms End immediately.” Baelor admitted.

Your brows furrowed, your heart instantly beginning to race as you expected bad news.

“What?”

“We’ve been invited to Ashford Meadow for Lord Ashford’s daughter's name day celebration and we will be in attendance. What better way to celebrate a name day and new union than a tourney?” He shrugged with a chuckle.

“I guess that won’t be too bad, more time with my family.” You acknowledged.

He grabbed your hand again, his eyes glancing over you.

“I have other matters to attend to, so I must leave— but I will see you for supper.”

You nodded.

Baelor left the room and the seamstress came back into the room to finish the fitting.

The day of your wedding you got up as you always did, but that morning you were sick — sicker than you had been the past few days. The maid had breakfast brought to you and made sure your bath was hot, hopefully hot enough to make you feel better.

You sank into the hot water, leaning your head against the tub.

Today was the day, the day that you shed your last name and become a Baratheon. A day that you didn’t think that you’d ever see, a day that you wished your mother was present for.

While you took your bath, Lyonel paced his chambers— his nerves getting the best of him as well. After all of these years, he’s finally taking a wife— a significantly younger wife. Despite everything else and people’s whispers, he’d be lost without you.

After your bath, you ate what little that you could stomach and prepared to put on your dress.

“Are you nervous, my lady?” The servant asked.

You hesitated.

“Yes.. yes, I’m nervous.”

You put on your gown and mentally prepared for the day. It felt like a dream, something that would be snatched from you when you woke up.

Your gown was beautiful, like nothing you’d ever seen before. Your fingers rubbed the fabric as you stood in the mirror, staring at yourself— a version of yourself that you didn’t recognize.

You were about to become someone’s wife.

Once you were in the sept in front of your family with Lyonel, your palms began to sweat immensely.

Lyonel removed your cloak and placed a cloak with his house colors on you, a smile on his face the entire time.

You held his hand, staring into his eyes— repeating the words of the high septon.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.” You repeated.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.” Lyonel followed.

Your father stood beside your uncle, dabbing the tears in his eyes as he watched you exchange vows.

“I declare you man and wife—“

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” The septon announced.

Clapping erupted in the crowd as Lyonel gently grabbed your face and pulled you into a passionate kiss.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment since I met you.” He whispered.

You couldn’t help but smile when he kissed you, all of your worry and fears fading away. You married the man that you had fallen in love with, the man who’d do anything for you— you were lucky.

During the feast afterwards, you sat beside Lyonel and couldn’t understand why you were ever worried to begin with. He made you laugh most of the night as the two of you drank.

Maekar rolled his eyes as you sat down in Lyonel’s lap, giggling with the antler helm on.

“You look so sexy with the antlers on.” Lyonel mumbled in your ear as you watched people dance.

“Is that so?” You smirked.

His fingers traced over your lap, his tongue swiping his bottom lip.

“I’ll let you fuck me from behind tonight with them on, if you’re nice.” You whispered back.

His eyes widened, glancing around the room as if he’d get in trouble.

“You have no idea what you do to me.” He growled.

The feast was small, but lively. You and Lyonel drank until you couldn’t anymore, before the bedding ceremony could be mentioned— Lyonel was carrying you to your chambers.

“I don’t remember you getting drunk this easily before.” He mumbled.

When you were in your chambers, you stumbled around the room— trying to get out of the gown. Lyonel helped you take it off, groping your breast as the gown slipped off.

You winced.

“You’re being too rough.” You slurred.

Lyonel looked at you with confusion, barely touching your breast again and watching as your face scrunched up.

“That hurt?”

You nodded.

He didn’t think much of it, because maybe your gown was too tight and you had been in it for hours.

He helped you into the bed, laying beside you and watching you sleep peacefully.

The next morning, you were completely exhausted. Your head hurt, your breasts were sore, your feet ached, and your memories were a blur.

Lyonel was already up and preparing for your journey to Ashford. You took your time getting out of bed, everything feeling like a chore.

Breakfast was brought into your chambers and the smell of it made you want to cry. You raced for the window, vomiting out of it.

Something was not right, you just felt off and you needed to get to the root of it.

It wasn’t until you looked at your trunk with your things that you realized your blood had not come, you were late and that wasn’t normal.

Lyonel came into your room as you stared at the trunk.

“Goodmorning, wife.” He smiled.

You hurried and shut the trunk, a fake smile on your face.

“Goodmorning, husband.”

He walked over, placing a kiss on your lips.

“I cannot believe I finally get to call you that, you are officially my wife.”

You kissed him back, an actual smile on your face.

“That I am.”

He pulled away from your lips, his eyes scanning your face and pushing a stray hair from your face.

“Are you alright this morning? You drank quite a bit last night and you said you were sore.”

You started blanky, a pit in your stomach. You couldn’t tell Lyonel the news, not right now at least. You’ll just wait until you’re at Ashford Meadow.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” You mentioned, brushing his concerns off.

He nodded, grabbing your trunk from the bed.

“Good—“

“We’ll be departing for Ashford here shortly. I’ll have some tea sent to you just in case before we go.”

You picked at your fingers, giving a quick nod.

“Thank you, husband.”

Lyonel walked out of the room, completely happy and unaware of the news that you’d be telling him soon. You only hoped that it would go over well for him and your father.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated.

Lyonel Baratheon — The laughing Storm

@punk-in-docs — Anything from the Lyonel x Lady Dondarrion pairing. A personal favourite : both the couple and the writer. If you’re into Lyonel treating his lover like Gomez Adams does Morticia then you are in the right place. Also if you enjoy a strong headed FL you’ll enjoy reading how she’s driving this man crazy tough she is just as whipped ! —Personal favourite : Union writ in Storm

@shenanigans-and-imagines — Again, anything from the Lyonel x Alys pairing. Now THIS really give off the Morticia x Gomez Adams vibes. Alys is much more stern FL but stag man is into that. Really liked the OC backstory ( — Baelor fans, do take a look, your man is a yearner in here). —Personal favourite : Never again

@silens-oro — Serie : Despair of a Doe. If you’re looking for a slow burn with a really gentle and softer FL then this should be your pick. Lyonel is also portrayed as very patient and understanding in this, which I think suits him given the circumstances.

@prismatica-the-strange — Sharp Scales of the Stag— Another pairing ! Again, Lyonel is whipped for his wife. Said wife is just the right combination of gentle and opinionated. —Personal Favourite : No Songs to Say They Adore Me

@ichorai — Storm and Stars — Another pairing/ fic with a Dayne!OC that I like a lot. That woman has attitude and Lyonel is here to test her limits. I love their dynamic.

@bekkarific — Spinster Series — Honestly if you’re into AKOTSK Dilfs you probably already stumbled upon this one. Still , if you didn’t then you’re in for a good few hours of reading. Each one of them have their own little storylines and also a few shorter works and I think they’re all amazing !

@escapic-mezzanine — She got so many amazing stories for Lyonel and with so many different FL that there is no chance for you to not find something you fancy. Great if you’re looking for one-shots.— Personal favourite has two parts : Knight’s Mercy and Culprits

@lovebugism — If you’re looking for a story with Lyonel competing ( or not ..) against Baelor/Maekar then here is the place. —Personal favourite: Lessons in anatomy is only about him and his introverted and bookworm new wife reading books about well … anatomy. Oh , the antler crown is in too !

@marsrambles — The stupid, the Proud — The Lord of Storms End acted like a drunken fool and hurt his lady wife feelings. She asks him to beg and beg he did. What can I say ? I like my men pathetic and yearning.

@just-some-random-blogger — If you want to be fed an unhinged couple involving Lyonel you got it her with this fic Lord,Pauper,Princess. —Personal favourite: Screw loose . It’s a one shot and a modern!au and I believe it’s the only time you’ll find modern Lyonel in this list. It’s usually not my thing but this one just hit right. Also I sincerely thank you for sharing the clip on Daniel Ings in this music video , my eyes were blessed.

@maekarsmistress — LOVE AND BEAUTY — Here is 8K of Lyonel pinning for a lady he took notice of during a tourney. If he has to fight for her hand then he will. Both on the tourney field and outside of it. He is not afraid to play dirty !

@orson-pope — Heaven. Absolutely love it, the story is beautifully written and it shows Lyonel willing to do anything for his betrothed and I mean anything.

@captainlunaxmen — Serie : Tell me a Story — For once he’s not the one telling stories ! it only has two chapter when I am writing this but I really like the dynamic between these two and would love to see how they end up together.

@sconniebelle — uhmm … everything on their masterlist just too good ? Just click and enjoy your dose of Lyonel Baratheon. — Personal favourite: The She Bear Knows Best

@pearlessance — Delicate indulgences and The Helm stays on — is it absolutely filthy? Yes, yes it is but it’s filth that is incredibly well written and I find myself really liking the dialogues in both.

@obsessivefanfictionauthor — Storms Bow For No Man — It’s just something else , the dialogues , the possessiveness , the obsession – and the lengths he’s willing to go to have her by his side are on another levels. The idea is amazing and so is the writing to bring this idea to life. ( Targ men main , take a look too , there’s a loooot for you there)

@bitethestag — The Great Spring Illness — Can’t a husband be worried for his wife health ?

@the-kr8tor— The Little Lady of Storm’s End — Just Lyonel being a girl dad ever since his child was a babe. He started a rebellion for his daughter , never forget.

@kn1ght1nsh1n1ngarm0r — A VISION IN GOLD — This is so cute and fluffy. His wife just won’t wear Baratheon colours and this gets him worried. I really think he would be the type to agonise over such things !

@asa-do-your-thing— A good guest — In short ? Edging on both side and they each ruined each other for anyone else

@silverjaysz-tries-to-write — Trial and Error Well — for now Lyonel just keeps making errors which greatly pisses of his future wife. I guess this is a first chapter and if so , I’m really excited for the rest.

General

Here are a few blogs that write for more than one character that I really enjoy. All of those below have some works with Lyonel

@noxiiousstrawberriies — Personal Favourite : Safeguarding Peace — One of my favourite writer on this plateform , I probably reread their work at least 10 times. Another favourite and it’s about Raymun because I really like this one : No Bounds

@sedonasummer — Personal favourite : How to show Love

@ghostlybfgf — Personal favourite : Yearning

@goodqueenalicunt — Personal favourite : Bathing together

@ukegjtwrite — Personal favourite: The Bed as Dialogue

@subrist — For some reasons their works really stand out to me , I often reread them as well. Personal favourite: Forgive you sinner

By the time you return to your rooms, the castle is only just beginning to stir as the Red Keep wakes around you, but your pulse has still not quite settled. The familiar ache in your muscles settles in, your breath still a fraction too quick as you push through your door, closing it behind you with more force than necessary.

“Ellyn?” You call, already moving toward the wash basin. “Mara?”

There is a startled rustle from the adjoining room before Ellyn appears, blonde hair hastily tied back, eyes widening at the sight of you. “My lady – Seven above – Where have you been?”

You glance down at yourself. Dust clings to your training clothes, your hair a mess, smears of dirt visible along your exposed skin from where dust had kicked up in your fight. Usually, you have time to return to your chambers and wash up before they come in to dress you, but this morning you’d been… distracted.

“...Out.” You defend after a moment’s pause.

Mara appears behind Ellyn, less startled but no less observant, her dark gaze flicking from your flushed face to the set of your shoulders. “At dawn?” She asks mildly.

You reach for the cloth, dipping it into the basin and dragging it perhaps more harshly than necessary across your hands. “I could not sleep.”

Ellyn hovers closer, wringing her hands. “You’re all flushed,” she frets. “And your hair– gods, sit, my lady, you’ll be late for breakfast.”

“I am aware.” You mutter, eyes darting to where the sun rises higher in the sky by the minute.

They descend on you quickly after that – Ellyn fussing over your hair, Mara selecting your gown with quiet efficiency, the two of them working in practiced tandem to smooth away any trace of your morning activities.

You let them take over – lost in your own thoughts.

The crack of wood, sharp in the quiet air. The effortless way he had moved. The moment he had stopped holding back. Your grip tightens slightly where your hands rest in your lap as Ellyn works a comb through your hair.

You had enjoyed it. The thought slips in, unwelcome, and you startle.

Not the way you usually enjoy training – not the movement, or the familiarity of it – but his involvement, specifically. The way he had met you, matched you, forced you to adjust in turn. The brief flicker of surprise in his expression at your skill. The sharp, focused attention of his eyes on your form as he assessed you. 

You had enjoyed sparring with the insufferable prince, you realize with a start. Seven above, grant you strength.

“My lady?” Mara’s voice cuts through your thoughts, softer than Ellyn’s, but more grounded. “Are you alright? You’re frowning.”

You force your expression to smooth. “Am I?”

“A little.” She replies, exchanging a glance with the other girl.

Ellyn leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “If you dislike the gown Mara chose, we can change it–”

“The gown is fine.” You stand before they can press further, smoothing the fabric down unnecessarily, already moving toward the door. Your maids exchange a brief look behind you, but blissfully, neither of them make any comments as you rush out into the halls.

The breakfast chamber is already full when you arrive, for a change. Sunlight spills across the long table, catching on polished silver and glass, the murmur of conversation rising and falling in soft waves.

The rhythm of discussion falters when you enter, and you feel it immediately – the subtle shift of attention, the voices quieting just slightly, a few heads turning a fraction too late to pretend they had not been watching for you.

Your steps slow almost imperceptibly. Something cold settles low in your stomach as you take your seat.

Lady Dayne looks up from her plate, offering you a polite smile that does not quite disguise the bright twinkle in her eyes. “You’re late today.”

“I slept late.” You reply simply, reaching for a piece of bread with a small shrug. The lie sits easily enough, and for a moment, no one speaks, until–

“Lady Peake?”

You glance up.

A woman seated higher up the table – the young Lady Tyrell, if you recall correctly – leans forward slightly, her expression composed but calculated.

“I hope you will forgive my curiosity,” she says, which means she does not think you will. “But is it true that you were in the training yard this morning?”

Your fingers still, just briefly, against the crust of the bread. There it is. You tear a piece cleanly, setting it on your plate, keeping your eyes down as you try to quell the prickle of irritation building in your chest. “The yard is not forbidden, as far as I am aware.”

A soft ripple of amusement moves through the table. “No, of course not,” the woman says quickly, her tone amused. “But I heard you were with the young prince–”

Your gaze lifts sharply. “What?”

She smiles, a touch too sweet. “It is not every day one hears that Prince Valarr has taken such a… personal interest in a lady’s instruction.”

The words settle unpleasantly. Around you, the other women are all listening now – some openly, others with the careful stillness of those pretending not to.

“I was not aware His Grace had taken on the role of a tutor,” you reply lightly, your words sharp. “Good for him.”

A few of the ladies laugh. Lady Tyrell tilts her head, the blank innocence on her face too saccharine to be authentic. “Then the reports were exaggerated?”

What reports? You wish to ask, but some part of you simply aches for this conversation to be over, for the ladies to stop staring at you. “They usually are.”

Another voice cuts in, softer, curious, and you turn to see Lady Penrose peeking her head forward. “But you did spar with him?”

You take a slow, steadying breath. There is no point denying it now. “We crossed paths in the yard,” you say. “Ser Matthos saw fit to make use of it, was all.”

“That is not how it was described.” Someone else murmurs.

You glance toward her. “And how was it described?”

A pause as you watch the girl’s face flush, and then, with poorly concealed delight. “That he sought you out.”

A flicker of irritation sparks in your chest. “Did he now?” You say dryly.

“I heard he was… quite attentive.” Another adds, giggling.

You feel the beginnings of a headache press behind your eyes. Attentive. You think of the way his blade had come down – precise, unrelenting – the way he had watched you, sharp and assessing. But that is not what they mean.

“He is not known for such attentions,” Lady Dayne says thoughtfully from beside you, watching you more closely as she plays the peacekeeper. “The prince is… reserved.”

“Perhaps his reservations became tiresome.” You snark, a touch sharper than intended.

Lady Tyrell leans forward again, elegant curls falling around her face. “And was he a good teacher? I wonder if he would give me lessons.”

Something in you snaps. “I would not know,” you say, setting your knife down with careful precision. “As I was not being taught.”

A hush falls over the room. You feel it then, fully – the weight of their attention, the way every word is being measured, turned over, reshaped into something else before it inevitably leaves the room to be shared and reshaped all over again.

Your appetite disappears entirely. “I find myself in need of air,” you say, rising before anyone can respond. Lady Dayne says your name softly from beside you, but you shake your head at her. “I will not be long.”

The room presses in around you as you cross it – the murmurs already beginning again behind your back, quieter now, sharper.

By the time you reach the corridor, your chest feels too tight, the walls of the Keep suddenly feels smaller than before. The corridor air is much cooler than the breakfast chamber, but it does little to ease the tightness in your chest.

You feel it even now, the echo of it behind you. The way the room had shifted when you entered, the way your words had been turned, reshaped, passed between them like a game.

Instruction. Like you’re some silly girl pining for a prince, waving a sword around to garner attention. You almost laugh, the sound swelling in your chest yet bursting bitterly in your throat, your hand curling briefly at your side as you turn down a narrower passage, the castle thinning around you – fewer servants, fewer doors, fewer eyes.

You had enjoyed it. The thought rises again, unbidden. The strike, the counter, the way he had met you – not dismissing, not indulging, but answering in kind. The brief flicker of something sharp and alive in his expression when you pressed too close, too fast.

You exhale sharply, as though to rid yourself of the train of thought.

It had been a mistake. Not the sparring – that, you would not regret –  but allowing yourself to take any pleasure in it. In him. You do not allow yourself to finish that thought.

The archway to the godswood appears ahead like a reprieve, and you take it without hesitation, descending the steps without slowing, the cool shade of the trees rising up to meet you. You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding, and only now does the pressure begin, slowly, to ease

The godswood is smaller than the ones you have heard described in northern halls, but the trees grow thick enough to soften the edges of the Red Keep rising around it, isolating you in the best possible way.

Leaves whisper overhead as you walk, finding a patch of grass where the branches open just enough for the sun to pour through in a broad pool of light. The ground is warm beneath you when you lie down, arms splayed beside you, relaxing for the first time all day.

Your muscles protest the movement at first, and you stretch slightly, rolling one shoulder against the grass until the tightness eases again, the soreness settling back into that comfortable, dull warmth as you take deep breaths in, trying to calm yourself.

The air here feels so much different than it did back home. You’ve only been away for a little over a month, but it already feels so far away. At Starpike the wind had moved constantly through the hills, dry and sharp from the mountains, and even spring mornings began cool enough to sting your lungs when you breathe deeply.

The warmth lingers heavier here, thickened by the presence of the river and the bay, the sunlight feeling softer as it filters faintly through the haze that hangs over the city.

It is not unpleasant, just unfamiliar enough to make you feel unsettled.

You close your eyes and let the warmth settle into your bones, relishing in the silence that surrounds you, and for a while, there is only the quiet rustle of leaves overhead.

Until a small voice shatters the stillness. “You’re in my spot.”

Your eyes fly open.

A boy stands a few paces away at the edge of the clearing, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. His copper hair falls untidily across his brow, freckles scattered lightly over his nose. He could not be more than twelve, though he tries very hard to stand with the confidence of someone older.

You push yourself up onto your elbows. “...Your spot?” You repeat mildly, mouth curling in amusement.

He gestures at the grass beneath you, though the movement is slightly less certain now that you are looking directly at him. “Yes.”

You glance down at it, then back up at him, cocking your head. “I’ll be sure to inform the grass that it belongs to you. Shall I inform the trees as well?”

The boy watches you for a moment, clearly trying to decide if you are mocking him, before his nose wrinkles faintly. “All of it does.” He says after a moment, though the conviction sounds a little rehearsed.

The resemblance becomes clearer as he steps closer – the elegant slope of his nose, the pale colouring and freckles, and as he moves into the sunlight, the unmistakable violet blue of his eyes. Your heart stutters faintly in your chest.

“Prince Matarys.” You say dumbly, suddenly unsure if you ought to be scrambling to your feet to curtsy to this child.

His face falls at once. “You know me?”

You hesitate. “Only by resemblance.”

He huffs softly and drops down onto the grass nearby with the loose sprawl of someone who has not yet learned the stiffness expected of princes. The disappointment still lingers faintly in his expression. “To whom? Valarr?” He guesses, fiddling with a blade of grass.

You shrug slightly, hiding your smile at the faint wrinkle of his nose when he mentions his brother. “Well– I suppose. The likeness is difficult to ignore.”

Matarys sighs dramatically. “How unfortunate.”

The moment stretches comfortably after that, and you settle back onto the grass again, squinting faintly at the sunlight filtering through the leaves as you wonder what exactly one says to a child prince.

For a few moments he simply studies you, quiet in a way that feels less calculating than the watchful looks you have grown accustomed to in court. “You’re the Peake.” He says at last, the words coming carefully, as though he has been told they might matter.

You hum softly. “I am.”

“I’ve been told about you.” He continues, tugging at the grass beneath him.

You turn your head toward him, one brow lifting. “That rarely bodes well.”

He considers this with great seriousness. “No,” he admits after a moment. “It usually doesn’t.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Matarys plucks a daisy from the grass and rolls the stem between his fingers, still watching you with bright curiosity. “You wield a sword.” He says suddenly.

You glance at him. “That was not phrased as a question.”

“I’ve heard people talking,” he says quickly, ducking his head shyly. “About the lady in the yard.”

You suspect the guard trailing you through the corridors has something to do with that. Or the squires in the yard. Or the ladies’ gossip. Or– “News travels quickly in this place.” You huff, annoyed at the reminder of your constant surveillance.

Matarys shrugs. “It does when my brother repeats it.”

Your brow lifts. “Your brother…?”

“Valarr,” he says, looking at you as though you have somehow missed the obvious, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “He told me about you.”

You go still. Of course it would come back to him. Irritation rises quick and familiar, curling sharp in your chest. Of all the ways for the story to spread, of all the mouths it could have passed through – it had to be his. You can almost see it now – that measured look, that careful voice, reshaping the moment into something palatable for court consumption.

“About how he’s been teaching me to fight?” You say, the bitterness slipping through before you can catch it.

“No,” Matarys frowns, absently pulling another daisy from the grass. “About how you nearly bested him.”

You had expected mockery, or dismissal – something cutting, something easy to hate. Certainly not this. You glance at him sharply, searching for exaggeration or childish misunderstanding. “He told you that?”

Matarys nods, unbothered. “And that Ser Matthos seems to favour you now.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again as something unsettled sits low in your chest. Annoyance is easier – cleaner. You reach for it instinctively, grasping at the familiar shape of your irritation like the well worn handle of your blade.

“He overstates things,” you say lightly, too quickly. “The prince is a fine swordsman. He had the upper hand.”

Matarys watches you, unconvinced. “That’s not what he said.”

No, apparently not. Your gaze drifts, unfocused, to the canopy above.

You can still feel it – the press of him, the moment suspended between you when the world narrowed to breath and balance and the feeling of his blade against your throat. The way he had looked at you, not with anger, not even with pride, but something quieter, searching.

You drag your attention back sharply, irritation flaring again in response to the thought itself. “And what did he say?” 

Matarys squints thoughtfully at the sky, clearly enjoying the moment. “That you fight like someone who learned properly,” he says at last. “Not like a court lady pretending to know which end of the sword is sharp.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself, eyebrows rising. “That is… dangerously close to a compliment.”

“I think it was meant as one.” The young prince says earnestly, smiling.

Your fingers move absently through the grass beside you, gathering the small white flowers scattered across the clearing. The stems bend easily between your fingers as you thread one through the other. Then another. And another.

The motion steadies your hands, if nothing else. Across from you, Matarys is still watching, bright-eyed and patient, waiting for you to finish whatever thought has pulled you away from him – but you cannot seem to catch hold of it long enough to name it.

It slips, shifting, snagging, somewhere just out of reach, a warm feeling in your chest that if you think of too long, becomes dangerously close to affection.

You exhale slowly through your nose, eyes narrowing faintly at the flowers in your hands as though they are to blame for it. “Seven Hells,” you mutter under your breath, more to the stems than to the boy beside you.

Matarys tilts his head. “What?”

“Nothing.” You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anything at all, really – just the small, precise work of your hands, the quiet give of green stems beneath your fingers. The chain grows, link by careful link. It is easier to focus on that.

You look up to find Matarys watching your hands with open fascination. “What are you doing?”

You blink. “Oh, just… Making a daisy chain.” 

He leans closer, studying the movement of your fingers. “Can I see?”

You lift it slightly when the small circle is finished and place it gently on his head, the flowers sitting crookedly in his auburn hair. “There.”

Matarys blinks, startled. Then he grins – wide and unguarded in a way that makes him look suddenly much younger.  

“A crown fit for a prince.” You say quietly, thoughtfully, suddenly trying to picture the flowers replaced by wrought metal and jewels. It must be a heavy burden, growing up knowing the duty that is expected of you, of your future. Your thoughts drift to the darker haired prince for a moment before you pull them back sharply. 

“You didn’t bow.” Matarys says after a moment, sounding more curious than offended, and you realize you’ve been staring at the flower crown for a while.

“No, I didn’t,” you admit. “Do you wish I had?”

He thinks about that, then shakes his head with a shy smile. “No.”

That earns a faint smile from you. “Good.”

Matarys watches your hands again as you begin threading another chain. “Will you teach me?” He asks suddenly.

You glance at him. “To make one?”

He nods eagerly, scooting a little closer in the grass. You hand him a daisy and guide his fingers through the stems, an affectionate smile spreading on your face.  “You split the stem here,” you explain, using your nail to split the stem, showing him how to thread the next flower through. “Like this.”

He frowns with intense concentration as he tries to copy the motion, managing one on his own. Then another, but the third breaks entirely. “Oh.” He says miserably.

“That happens.” You reassure him, handing him another flower.

Before he can try again, footsteps approach through the trees, and Matarys groans immediately. “Enough hiding, Mata.” The voice is warm, though threaded with unmistakable authority.

You look up, frozen in shock as Queen Myriah Martell steps into the clearing, the sunlight filtering through the leaves behind her and glinting softly against the jewels at her throat. Her dark hair is threaded with silver strands, and the lines at the corners of her eyes deepen slightly as she looks between the two of you.

Matarys slumps backward onto the grass with theatrical despair. “Grandmother.” He groans.

“So this is where you disappeared to.” She says mildly.

The servant trailing behind her looks profoundly relieved. “My prince– your tutor has been searching half the castle for you–”

Matarys drags a hand down his face, suddenly sullen. “I was hoping it would take you longer.”

The Queen’s gaze shifts to you then, curious. “And you must be the accomplice. Lady Peake, isn’t it?”

You rise quickly, brushing grass from your dress before dropping into a curtsey so abrupt you almost fall over your own skirts. “Your Grace.”

Her eyes flick down briefly to the flowers still tangled in Matarys’s hair. “And what, exactly, has Lady Peake been teaching you?”

Matarys brightens immediately, holding up his half-destroyed chain. “This.”

The Queen laughs softly. “I see.” She crouches slightly to inspect it, her expression warm with quiet amusement. “You have made an admirable start.”

“It broke.” Matarys says glumly.

“That is the nature of first attempts,” she replies kindly, before straighting and glancing toward the waiting servant. “Go along now. Your tutor has likely shredded his poor nerves after you pulled that disappearing act.”

Matarys sighs dramatically but pushes himself upright, hesitating for a moment before thrusting his half-finished daisy chain back toward you. “You may keep the spot,” he declares generously. “For today.”

You bow your head towards him, taking it gently. “How gracious of you, my prince.”

He grins, already backing toward the path. “You’ll show me later,” he says, pointing at the flowers. “How to finish it.”

You smile softly. “If you survive your lessons.”

He makes a dramatic groaning sound, and the Queen smiles faintly as the servant guides him back toward the path. The clearing grows quieter once they disappear between the trees, and for a moment, the Queen simply watches the space where her grandson vanished, a deep fondness in her eyes. 

Then she turns back to you. “You look as though you escaped something dreadful.”

You blink slightly at the familiar tone, at the ease in which she addresses you, utterly at a loss for what protocol to follow when suddenly alone with the Queen of the Realm. “I– I needed some air, is all. I admit I am not cut out for the gossip of ladies.”

Her lips curve. “It seems you escaped indeed.”

She begins walking slowly along the edge of the clearing, and after a moment of glancing over your shoulder and wondering if you’re supposed to leave, you fall into step beside her. “Life at court can feel… stifling,” she says gently. “Especially if one is not accustomed to it.”

You huff slightly. “I am learning that.”

“I do not doubt that.” Her gaze flicks over you briefly, dark eyes assessing, though not cold. “You are from the Dornish Marches.”

You nod. “Yes, your Grace. Starpike lies along the border between the Red Mountains and the Marches.”

A knowing smile touches her lips. “I thought so.”

You tilt your head slightly. “You did?”

“The way you carry yourself,” she says lightly. “And what I’ve heard of your stubbornness.” She studies you another moment, thoughtful, and you try not to read into what she’s heard. “You remind me a little of my grandson.”

The statement catches you entirely off guard. “…Your Grace?”

“Yes,” she continues mildly. “You have his attitude. And stubbornness. I can tell.”

Your mind betrays you immediately, conjuring the image of Prince Valarr that morning, sleeves rolled, breath uneven, eyes bright with something dangerously close to feeling. Your mouth twists before you can stop it.

The Queen notices instantly, and for a heartbeat she simply looks at you, then she laughs, the sound bright and warm like summer sun. “Ah,” she says with gentle delight. “So the rumours are true.”

Your spine straightens. “Rumours?”

“I have heard,” she starts, lips curled in a smirk. “That there is a bit of tension between you and Prince Valarr.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “I assure you, my Queen, there is no–”

“Oh, do not trouble yourself,” she interrupts kindly. “This castle runs on rumour the way ships run on wind. One hears things.”

Your lips press together. “I swear, I hold nothing but respect for the prince.”

The words come too easily. Respect is safe. And yet respect does not account for the way your pulse quickens when you are alone with him, or the way your thoughts have refused to leave him since this morning.

The Queen’s eyes linger on you, amused. “Of course you do.”

You lift your chin slightly. “I do.”

“Mm,” she hums, as though filing that away among a hundred other quiet observations. “And yet…” She lets the thought trail off. You do not rise to it. You will not.

“I believe you,” she says warmly, though her eyes are still laughing. “But respect does not prevent irritation.” And unfortunately, that is difficult to deny. She studies you for another moment, thoughtful. “Valarr is serious,” she says after a moment. “He carries a great deal on his shoulders.”

“I see the same heaviness in you. It seems to me that the two of you are like faces of a coin,” she smiles faintly as she continues, a glimmer in her dark eyes. “Opposite sides, but forged from the same steel, nonetheless.”

The words settle heavier than they should and your mind wanders, unbidden, to the yard. To the way he moved – precise, controlled, honed to purpose. To the way you had broken that rhythm, forced him to meet you on different ground.

Your jaw tightens slightly. “I am not sure he would agree.” You say, quieter now.

The Queen glances at you out of the corner of her eye, noting the tension in your shoulders, the crease between your brows. “No,” she says. “He might not.”

She reaches out then, brushing a stray leaf from your sleeve with an absent maternal gesture as she comes to a stop. “If the court becomes too suffocating,” she says gently. “You may always come walk here. I do so often myself.”

You hesitate. “Your Grace…”

“And if anyone should question your presence,” she adds lightly. “You may say the Queen requested your company.”

Your breath catches slightly, recognising the gesture for what it is. That is not merely kindness, it is protection. You bow your head. “I’m honored, my Queen.”

The Queen casts her eyes over you once more. “I look forward to our next conversation, Lady Peake.”

As the Queen leaves you alone, the leaves stir quietly in the warm air, and for the first time since arriving at the Red Keep, its walls feel a little less like a cage.

On the other side of those walls, Valarr turns into the corridor outside the council chamber. He is not late – he is never late – but the murmur of gathered lords and councillors threads through the stone like a distant current.

He should be thinking of that. Of the reports his father will expect him to follow, of the names that will be spoken, the alliances weighed, the careful language that shapes decisions long before steel is ever drawn. Instead, he is trying his hardest not to think of you.

In the early morning light, your breath uneven, your hair loosened at the edges, your eyes bright with something fierce and unrestrained as you drove him back across the yard.

The memory comes unbidden, sharp as the crack of wood against wood. The moment your blade found his guard, the shift in your stance, the way the bout had stopped being performance and become something else entirely.

His jaw tightens faintly. It had been… unexpected. Irritatingly so. He exhales slowly, steadying himself as he approaches the chamber doors. It unsettles him more than he cares to admit.

“Valarr!” The voice cuts cleanly through his thoughts, and he is already smiling slightly as he turns to face it.

The small figure barrels toward him from the far end of the corridor, half-running, half-skidding across the polished stone before catching himself at the last moment.

His younger brother looks faintly disheveled, as though he has already escaped someone once this morning and expects to do so again. His tunic is slightly askew, his hair in mild disarray – and there is something perched crookedly atop it.

“What,” Valarr’s brows draw together as he takes in the small circlet of white flowers tangled unevenly through Matarys’s copper hair. “Have you got on your head?”

Matarys lifts a hand to it instinctively, as though he had forgotten it was there, and then his face brightens immediately, the entire expression shifting with an ease Valarr cannot quite remember possessing at that age – or ever.

“Oh – this?” He straightens slightly, pleased, puffing his chest out. “I got it in the godswood.”

Valarr’s eyebrow raises, smile spreading as he looks affectionately down at his brother. “You got it?”

Matarys blinks at him, as though the answer is obvious. “From Lady Peake.”

There is a brief, strange pause. Valarr had expected many things, but that is not one of them. “Lady Peake?” 

“Yes,” Matarys nods eagerly. “She showed me how to make it.” He reaches up again, adjusting the flowers with surprising care. “Well. Mine broke, but she made me this one.”

Valarr stares at it for a moment longer than is strictly necessary. The image does not fit easily in his mind. You, in the yard, all sharp edges and unyielding control. You, in the corridors, bristling and defiant, all edges and careful words. 

Now, you, sitting in the grass, threading flowers between your fingers for a child.It does not align. He finds it unnerving. 

“You had her make one for you?” He asks, more mildly than he feels, prodding until he finds the catch that he expects.

Matarys frowns, offended. “No. She gave it to me.” He hesitates a moment, then adds, with the earnestness of someone repeating something important, “You were right about her.”

Valarr’s attention snaps back to him. “About what?”

“That she’s good,” Matarys says simply. “You said she could beat you.”

There is no accusation in it, no weight beyond the words themselves, and yet Valarr feels something shift, subtle and unwelcome. “I don’t think I–”

Matarys tilts his head, confused. “Yes you did.”

Valarr does not answer, and his little brother studies him for a moment, clearly puzzled, but before he can press further, hurried footsteps echo down the corridor behind him.

“My prince!” A servant rounds the corner, breathless with relief. “There you are– if you could please stop running off–”

Matarys sighs dramatically, already stepping back toward the servant, but he glances once more at Valarr, frowning. 

“You both make such odd faces when speaking of one another.” He observes, leaving Valarr stunned into silence as he darts off down the corridor, the servant close behind him, the small crown of daisies bobbing faintly with each step.

The hallway quiets again, and Valarr realizes the lords have all gone in. He remains where he is for a moment longer than he should, attempting to gather his scattered thoughts, and then, with a sharp exhale, he turns and goes in.

The council chamber feels stifling today. Sunlight falls in thin ribbons through the tall windows, catching against polished wood and dark silks, gilding the edges of everything it touches. The banners hang heavy and still above the assembled lords, thick red and black fabrics swallowing the light whole.

King Daeron sits at the head of the table, composed and unreadable as ever, and at his right, Baelor listens intently, one hand resting lightly against the carved wood, his posture relaxed but attentive. Valarr takes his place beside his father without comment, though he does not miss the brief flicker of acknowledgment in Baelor’s gaze. 

The discussion continues as though he has not entered at all. Rumours of unrest, names passed quietly across the table, the careful weighing of truth against exaggeration, threat against opportunity.

Valarr hears it, following the shape of it well enough, but he is not listening to a word of it.

She showed me how to make it. His fingers flex slightly against the table. He sees you again, unbidden, but not in the yard this time – in the godswood. You, seated in the grass, hands occupied with a small and delicate ring of flowers, something that has no place in the shape of you he has constructed in his mind.

It is absurd. He exhales slowly, forcing his attention back to the table. A lord is speaking – something about support in the Reach, about loyalties that may yet shift if pressed correctly, and his father nods, asking a measured question in response.

Valarr focuses intently on that. On the cadence of Baelor’s voice, on the logic of it, the structure. This is what matters. And yet– 

His mind’s eye continues to return, infuriatingly, to you. The way you had moved, precise and unrestrained, driving him back step by step. The fire in your eyes as you had forced him back, the sudden shift in your movement when you found an opening in his defense. The moment his footing had given, and the brief, impossible clarity of his realization that you could beat him.

His chest tightens with the memory, pulse quickening despite the dull quiet of the council. It is maddening. 

He sits stiffly at his father’s side, eyes trained on an indecipherable point in the distance, his hand flexing at his side before clenching into a tight fist, knuckles whitened by the force. 

Baelor, nodding along to the conversation, catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. For the rest of the meeting, he casts sidelong glances in the direction of his son, noting the rigidity of his posture, the perfectly blank expression that seems to be costing him effort to maintain, his eyes lost in thought. 

The meeting does not feel long, though it should – by all measures, it should drag on endlessly, with the long discussions and careful politics, the slow grind of governance that tests even the most patient of men. 

Instead, it ends before Valarr feels he has fully entered it at all. Chairs scrape softly against stone as the councillors rise, voices lowering into quieter, more private conversations, and Valarr blinks, pulled back into awareness of the room. 

He stands with them, bowing dutifully to the King as he turns to leave– 

“Valarr.” His father’s voice stops him in his tracks. Baelor does not raise his voice, does not draw attention, but there is no mistaking the summons in it.

The chamber has begun to empty around them, the King already in quiet discussion with another lord, and Baelor gestures lightly toward a side alcove.

Valarr follows, recognising the look in his father’s eyes and bracing himself. For a moment, neither of them speaks, as Baelor studies him with a quiet attentiveness that is somehow more difficult to process than an outright scolding.

“It seems you were elsewhere today.” His father says at last.

Valarr exhales softly through his nose, straightening unconsciously. “I was paying attention.”

“You were,” Baelor agrees easily, lips curling up at the edges. “But not to us.”

There is no accusation in it, which more than anything makes it difficult to answer. Valarr’s jaw clenches, bowing his head slightly. “I apologise, father. It will not happen again.”

Baelor’s expression shifts, something softer threading through it. “I do not intend to reprimand, I merely wish to understand what captured your awareness.”

Silence stretches between them, and Valarr looks away first, gaze drifting briefly toward the tall windows, the light pooling across the floor, unsure how to disclose his tumultuous thoughts. “It’s nothing,” he says finally.

Baelor watches him a moment longer, weighing the words, the tone, the look in his son’s eye – one he recognizes, but does not wish to force him to disclose. “You are allowed distractions,” he says after a moment, quieter now, almost conspiratorial. “You are not made of stone.”

Valarr’s mouth tightens faintly, eyes still trained on the sun-soaked stones. “I am not,” he agrees. “But I am expected to behave as though I were.”

A flicker of something – amusement, perhaps, or wry recognition – passes through Baelor’s expression. “And yet.” He does not finish the thought.

Instead, he reaches out, resting a hand briefly against Valarr’s shoulder – a steadying weight, familiar and grounding. “I heard you handled yourself well this morning.” He adds, almost as an afterthought, and it is that which makes his son’s mismatched eyes rise to meet his own.

Valarr stills. So he had heard. Of course he had. “It was a simple bout,” he replies, defensiveness creeping in. “Yet it seems the entire Keep has taken an interest in it.”

Baelor’s brows lift slightly. “The Keep takes an interest in anything new. Our new guest has captured the interests of many.”

Valarr does not respond, brows pinching together faintly, and for a moment longer, Baelor studies him, as though considering whether to press further – then, with a small nod, he lets it go. “Go,” he says lightly with a small smile. “Before your grandsire finds another use for you.”

Valarr inclines his head gratefully. “Father.”

The corridor beyond the chamber is quieter now, the earlier rush of movement faded into something slower, more measured, and Valarr walks it without thinking.

And, still– he sees it. White flowers, woven clumsily together, resting crookedly in his brother’s copper hair.