Emma

"She's fair and pretty, isn't she?" Jace asked. He frowned at Cregan's pale expression. "Lord Stark, is everything alright? This should be joyous. You look unwell."

"I… I am fine," he covered. He felt a bit breathless. "I just did not expect such a gesture. Thank you, your Grace."

Jace grew a toothy smile and patted the tough North man's shoulder.

…

Cregan spent the month after their talk pacing a path into the stone floors. He was to visit King's Landing in a few days to… have his bride.

Each thought of her made his stomach churn once over. His fears and his excitement mixed together to form a perfect stomachache. 

His mother had died when he was young, and he knew the castle needed a women's touch. How he longed for her to make his home her own.

But with her initial coming, he felt like he needed things to be just right. 

He knew it was foolish. Since when had Cregan Stark cared for which drapes went in the Lady's chambers? But he spent countless hours in there, staring and accessing things. Scrutinizing until it drove the servants mad. 

And he wished for more time. But he didn't have it. He was to leave, bring her back to her new home, and marry her, regardless of which bear-skin rug was in front of the hearth (He had many. He had killed many bears, after all).

He placed a gentle gift onto the furs of her future bed. A pretty necklace he'd had crafted weeks before. A final placement for her arrival. 

And he stepped out of the castle, beginning his long journey to retrieve the woman that had captured his heart long ago.

…

Cregan sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to pull out the stress wrinkles he already had at the age of ten and seven. He had been Warden for five years now, and he was growing frustrated. 

So when he was summoned to King's Landing, it was the cherry on top of a splitting headache.

Lord Hand Hightower droned on about something, frankly, Cregan did not care about. But he let the man chatter while they overlooked the outer castle walls. The wind blew at such a height that the Hand had to widen his stance. Cregan was used to the harsh winds of the Wall. Southerners, he thought.

But something down below caught his eye. "Forgive me for my interruption, Lord Hand-"

Otto followed his line of vision and cursed under his breath. "That blasted girl. Excuse me."

The only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen laid outside of the castle walls in a grassy field that had just began to die off. She looked rather comfortable, simply napping out in the hot sun like a lizard on a rock… or a dragon.

He was entranced from that day on. 

Especially when he got to feast with the entire royal family that night. He nearly dropped his spoon in adoration of the slight sunburn on her nose and cheeks.

…

When Cregan arrived at the castle, things were in disarray. Jace was in a state of worry, crinkled lines between his brows. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. It seems my dear sister has found herself… elsewhere."

"E-Elsewhere? What does that mean?"

The King shrugged. "I dunno. That's the problem. We've lost her."

Cregan laughed. Genuinely laughed. Of course, thought. Just my luck. But at the King's shock of it, he stopped himself. "I mean no offense. But… she is a free spirit. You cannot cage a bird that is best admired in the sky."

"Then what? You wish to call this off?"

"No! No. I only mean… that perhaps she does not wish to be with me."

"I assure you that she will be happy in Winterfell."

Cregan wanted to believe him. Deep down, he wanted that desperately. But this was an arranged marriage. And that was never how they worked. 

"I just do not understand where she could've escaped to," the King sighed.

"Allow me to join the searches, your Grace."

…

"Hiding away from your ugly toad of a husband?"

She gasped, sitting up and meeting the eyes of Cregan Stark.

He's knelt beside her and she's unsure of how he's done it so quietly. Perhaps it is only one of the many Northern gifts he has. 

"No," she answered softly. "I only wished to see if he'd search for me. And he has."

"So you hoped I would give up and leave empty handed?"

"I wanted to see if he cared enough to search for me himself."

"Well, you're quite lucky then."

She realizes that she's instinctively leaned forward to prove her point, and so has Cregan, leaving the two closer than she thought. 

"I am."

"If hard work is what it takes to have your attention, Princess," Cregan utters, leaning in a little further, "you'll find I'll never stop until my work is finished."

She looks away, struggling to keep the warm feeling from wandering to her cheeks. 

"You've been hiding for nearly five hours. And as pretty as your skin is, I don't wish for it to be ruined by the sun."

"I have spent many hours in this field, Lord Stark. My skin is not so easily ruined."

As she begins to walk back, he peers up at the castle, imagining his younger self there staring down at her. "Yes, I know," he whispers under his breath before following.

…

And with their first meeting, Jace let the two go to Winterfell. Love can be made, he just hoped that perhaps they could do it in Winterfell over what should be the spring. But in the North, every season is winter.

It had been a harsh adjustment at first. She had lived in the South her entire life. To suddenly be surrounded by snow, even on the warmest days, made her stir crazy.

When the future Lady of Winterfell came back to the castle from exploring one evening, a beautiful dress laid over the furs of her bed. Unlike some of her others, this one was built for the winter.

To protect from the lack of sun then. -C

That's all the note said. Cregan had thought it was clever. It was humorous, teasing her lightly about her words to him before. 

"He mocks me?" She asks her handmaiden, clearly distraught over it.

"Princess, Lord Stark is a kind man. I'm sure he did not mean t-"

"I understand he may feel like he must spoil a pampered princess, but I am not so. Please send it back as well."

…

Cregan sat at the table in his solar, utterly confused. 

He'd tried so hard. He'd sent dresses, necklaces of beautiful jewels, anything he could. He didn't want her to believe he wouldn't try to care for her, even if it was in ways he didn't understand- like fashion.

He'd have to do better then. If she was sending them back, then clearly, it was not nice enough for her standards.

Cregan was determined to get this right.

…

Where is my w-" the word died on Cregan's lips. It felt so natural to say it, but he couldn't. Not yet. "Where is she?" Is what he decided on.

The servants knew exactly who he was speaking of. He wasn't aware, but she was all he had begun to talk about.

He'd ask what she was doing that day. If she seemed happy. What she was wearing. If she felt safe. The times that she ate.

He couldn't seem to get satisfied. He wanted to know everything.

"She is out, my lord. Exploring, I'd suppose."

Cregan had initially panicked the first few times she had gone out, especially without his permission.

But he always had to calm himself down. She's alone. In a new place. With a man she has to marry. 

And why would she ever need permission from him to love the North?

So he pushed down the dread that bubbled in his throat every time. "Exploring. Do you know where, by chance?"

"I don't, my lord. But she didn't take a guard with her, I know that much."

That had been his one stipulation. A guard. He couldn't stop himself this time.

…

Cregan had spent his afternoon on horseback, frustrated when he could not pick up her trail. He was the Warden. A predator. And he could not pick up the trail of a woman not even trying to hide.

But it was worth the relief when he did find her.

"Have you gone mad, my love?" He huffed, voice raised over the sound of wind and snow.

She watched him throw himself off his horse, feet firm as they found the ground.

"What are you doing out here without a cloak?" He continued, clearly frustrated.

He slipped his own off, throwing it around her shoulders.

She almost made an audible reaction as the warmth enveloped her. "I was fine," she assured, nestled under a tree with a book.

He took a long, deep breath, interlocking his fingers behind his head to calm himself down. He took a few deliberate steps towards her, knelt down, and lowered his voice. "Do you not value your safety?"

"I…" she hesitated. "I value it fine."

"Clearly, you do not! Let me see your hands."

She only stared at his outstretched one. 

He rubbed his forehead with his other hand before grabbing her hands himself and pulling her to him. He began pouring all of his attention over her fingers like pieces of art. 

Once he was satisfied, he held them against his warm chest firmly. The feeling almost burned her, having such warmth return after a long time in the cold. "I rather like your fingers, too, you mad woman. Dare I wish for you to keep them."

"They would not have gotten that far! They're fine," she assured, voice raising.

He said her name lowly in a final warning tone, and silence fell over them.

She could only feel his heartbeat under her fingers, keeping track of its erratic beating.

"Do you believe that I could live with myself if something had happened to you?" He whispers.

She gawked for a moment before catching her loose jaw. "Are you truly so vain?"

He squinted. "What?"

"Are you going to… to lock me away just to keep me pretty? Is that what matters to you?"

His brow twitches at her words. She's the one sending back his gifts, he believes. "Excuse me, highness," he feels the anger return in his voice, "but who is the vain one between us? I have tried all I could to please you."

"Please me?" Her teary eyes widened in surprise. "Is that what you call dressing up your little doll?"

"Dressing up w-" he stops himself and sighs. "Get on the horse."

The snowflakes swirl around her. "I wasn't done-"

He's already grabbed her by the waist and picked up her, carrying her to the horse and placing her onto it. "We'll discuss this in front of a fire and not a moment before."

She glares, but keeps her mouth shut.

But when they return to Winterfell, she shuts herself in her room.

Cregan ordered more wood to be taken to her fireplace.

He didn't have to see to her himself, as long as she was cared for. He could live with that.

…

"Are you happy?" She seethed, stepping out into the dining hall.

She was dressed in the finest dress Cregan had given her. Her hair was perfectly done and her makeup must have taken far longer than he could ever guess. 

She did look beautiful, but the frown she carries only discouraged him.

"No," he answered. 

Her lips set in a thin line. "Even this is not enough for you? Or are you so greedy that you require even another woman to try to satiate the great thirst of the Wolf of the Nor-"

Cregan crossed the room in only a few steps, grabbing her chin. "Speak no more," he warned.

"Oh, so a quiet wife w-"

Cregan then rubbed a handkerchief over her lips, smearing the lipstick off of her lips and a bit down her chin. He folded the cloth and wiped it down her cheeks, catching all he could. 

"I don't care how you look."

When her makeup was properly smeared, he dropped the cloth and brought his hand up to her hair and began to tousle it.

Her shoulders instinctively tightened, knowing her handmaiden spent such time on it.

"And I don't care how your hair flows."

Then his hand lowered to her sleeve, maintaining eye contact with her. And he tugged harshly, ripping the outer fabric down her arm. 

Her eyes widened at his brute force. He'd spent so much money on all of this for her, every nice cloth. Every last coin used to make his perfect doll.

But it was carefully done. Like he'd studied the dress to know just where to tear it to avoid making her indecent. The under sleeve still covered her arm, but the outer was now ripped.

"And I do not care if your dress is made of rags."

She wasn't sure whether to feel embarrassed or proud for getting under his skin.

He held her chin tightly with a look she couldn't recognize. Studying. Analyzing. And he smashed his lips on hers.

She was too in shock to react at first. But she could recognize that his lips were soft. And his hands, though rough, were gentle. And he loved her.

He pulled away, determined to make her see his way. "Now, sit."

She chewed on her now swollen bottom lip. "I should go clean myself up."

"Sit, my love."

"Cregan-"

"You look wonderful," he breathed out like it was a thought he couldn't hold back.

She knew she didn't. All this work to spite him. And not only had he ruined it, but he created something better from it. Adoration. And vulnerability from them both.

So she sat.

And when he sat opposite her, it was if the entire encounter had not happened. He was calm, eating quietly to himself. "Tell me where else you explored today."

She ate in a state of shock, having a relatively nice conversation with the Northerner despite the fight they had only hours before.

He nodded along, chipping in, "Well, the eastern godswoods can be incredibly beautiful this time of year. Should you want to explore it."

She felt a slight embarrassment. "I'm not sure exactly where that would be."

"Well, if you're going towards-"

"Will you just come with me?"

The question uttered him speechless, and he knew that was somewhat of her aim. His heart soared and he prayed that she couldn't tell. "Um… yes. Should I find time to, I will."

He'd put anything aside if he had to.

…

With the misunderstanding finally passing, the two found themselves bonding. 

"No, no," she giggled. "The red ones are like the ones back home." She took another one of the berries, popping it into her mouth.

"They can be like your home," he grinned. "But the dark ones are best." He puts the berry of the same color into his mouth.

She huffs playfully, laying fully on her back in the snow. "That's a foolish thought to have."

Laying next to her, he props himself up on his elbow to look at her. "I don't think I have many foolish thoughts."

"Then you really are foolish."

He can't stop the laugh bubbling in his throat from that remark. She's far too quick for him. And he's enamored.

He may be able to block a physical punch, but he could never match her wit.

When his laugh dies down, he doesn't move. He just keeps his eyes on her until she looks to him. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And to say that's a foolish thought would be a lie." He leans over her. "I don't lie, my love."

She was in her riding gear, hair surely everywhere from a lack of upkeep while horseback riding and now laying on the cold ground.

There's no hint of a lie in his eyes. He means every word.

"I love you, Princess," he admits. "I have since I was ten and seven."

She's quiet for a moment, studying the sturdy man in front of her. If a Southern man is a fine silk, then Cregan Stark is harsh steel.

She never wanted to see silk again.

…

Jace found his way to Cregan at the wedding, clasping the man on the shoulder. "I see some sort of love between you two. I admit that I was worried."

"Well, she put up a fair fight."

Jace's entire face turned confused. His brows pulled together, his top lip pulling up in a sneer. "What?" He gawked. "No, she did not."

Cregan downed the rest of his drink. "Is that a jest, your grace?"

"You're suggesting that my sister did not want this?"

"Obviously, no. Not at first, anyway."

Then the King's confusion turned to pure amusement. "Forgive me for being blunt, my friend, but who do you think arranged this marriage? Not I."

It was the Warden's turn to be confused. His head tilted like a confused pup. "You s-"

Jace took the time to let him mull over it. He swirled the wine in his cup, enjoying the Northerner try to unwind the mystery. Finally, he gave in. "My sister wanted to be your wife. She stated so years ago."

"My wife? She…" His eyes flickered up in her direction, watching her giggle with her brother Joffrey in her lap. It made Cregan want a little silver headed child of their own. He had always imagined a northern child. Now? Now, he didn't care. As long as it looked like her.

"She's worn her hair down since the first time she saw you," Jace continued. "In that Northern fashion all the women do. Didn't you notice?" He plays the fool for just a moment with Cregan before grinning widely.

Cregan Stark, the man whose battle strategies had won them a war, had been outwitted since he was ten and seven by a girl who'd never had to scheme a day in her life.

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

your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.

your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.

thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.

and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.

but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.

for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.

his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.

he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.

it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.

while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.

what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?

to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"

unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.

"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."

your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"

"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."

gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.

approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.

"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."

a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.

"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."

your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.

"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."

his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.

"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."

you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.

hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"

your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"

"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"

the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.

you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"

he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."

the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."

"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"

it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.

"is that your desire?" you finally ask.

he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."

your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."

he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.

"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"

a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"

"of course—"

you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.

your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."

you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.

"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."

before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.

staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.

The first time Egg realized his father was in love with his aunt, it came to him as most truths did in his childhood: carelessly and from the mouth of someone who should have known better.

The afternoon was hot, with the sun beating down hard on Egg's back, slicking it with hot droplets of sweat. It felt unbearable. Dust was also clinging to the air, to his skin and to the back of his throat.

He thought that squiring would be something finer than this. Something worthy of the stories and songs. Instead it was just weight. It was sweat. It was the sour, lingering scent of wine that followed Daeron everywhere he went.

"Seven save me," Daeron muttered, swaying as Egg struggled with the fastening at his shoulder. "Did they give me a squire or a stableboy?"

"I can do it," Egg said eagerly.

"You always can," Daeron replied, listing his cup. "And yet..."

He did not finish his thought. Egg bit down on his tongue and tried again. His fingers slipped. Until by chance or pure stubbornness, the buckle caught.

Egg stepped back and looked up at his perfect work, waiting for some well deserved praise. But recieved nothing. Egg groaned and looked up ready to complain to Daeron but the older boy was no longer looking at him.

His gaze had gone elsewhere, beyond the yard, beyond the garden hedges, fixed on something Egg could not yet see.

"What is it?" Egg asked, rising onto his toes, as though the height might grant him some assistance with the high hedge. It did not.

Daeron did not answer at once. He drank what remained in his cup, slow and unhurried.

"Have you ever noticed the way Father behaves around her?"

Egg frowned. "Around who?" (the boy was now jumping up and down to try and gain some view beyond the hedges).

"Our aunt. (Y/N)"

Egg blinked. "No?"

Daeron hummed softly. "It's nothing. Less than nothing."

Egg wracked his brain trying to come up with some possible answer to what Daeron was insinuating. "Does Father have some problem with her?"

Egg was worried then because you as well as your family were meant to come to Summerhall before coming with them to Ashford for a tourney.

"Quite the opposite." Daeron turned to Egg and wiggled his brows. Egg frowned, knowing what that meant. "That doesn't mean anything."

"No, it doesn't."

"She's married. To Prince Baelor."

Daeron hummed.

"Father wouldn't-" Egg stopped, the rest of the thought refusing to settle into something. "He loved Mother."

At that, something in Daeron's experession shifted.

"He did."

The words hung there, unfinished. Egg waited for more but none came. "She's our aunt."

"And he's our father."

Egg shook his head. "You're wrong."

"Perhaps." Daeron set his empty cup aside and crouched slightly, bringing himself nearer to Egg's height. "Just watch him. You'll see it, or maybe you won't. These sort of things aren't meant to be seen at all."

He straightened, clapping a hand against Egg's shoulder. "Come on. I'll need another drink before I pretened to be a knight again."

Egg followed, though more slowly. He told himself there was nothing. Daeron was just drunk and imagining things.

The second time Egg noticed, no one said a word at all.

It happened in the Great Hall, in the lull between courses, when the noise softened just enough to hear the quieter things. The scrapes of a cup against the table, the half whispers of conversations and all that. The portion of the night where everyone was relaxed.

Egg had not meant to watch. He told himself he wasn't. But Daeron's voice had settled somewhere in the back of his mind and it was impossible to ignore it. So he took Daeron's words to heart. Watch him.

So he did. Egg watched his father from his place at the dinner table next to Aemon (who had his head buried in some large textbook. Egg was slightly concered over his brother's potential future neck problems).

His father sat at the end of the high table by his brother and Egg's uncle. His posture was straight and his expression was carved hard. He spoke when spoken to, nodded whe required and drank very little. There was little to nothing strange about it.

Until, his Aunt (Y/N) laughed.

It was not loud, nothing that would turn heads or draw attention to it. (Y/N)'s laugh was a lovely one and a familiar one to Egg. (The laugh came from a joke that Matarys told her but Egg did not hear what it was. From what he knew of his cousin, Egg didn't think it was a funny joke and his aunt was just being polite).

But Egg saw it. The way his father had stilled. Not entirely or in a dramatic way. But it was as if the statue had been shooken. A breath that was being held onto for a second too long.

Egg frowned. His father did not turn, did not look, his gaze remained fix on Baelor as the two were in a conversation. Maekar did not speak right away. Baelor carried on, asking a question that was answered by some lesser lord sitting next to Maekar. His paused moment slipped past, unoticed by all except for Egg.

It meant nothing, Egg told himself. Less than nothing.

People paused all the time. People lost their places. It was not uncommon. Afterall some people just get lost in their thoughts. It was not-

His father's hand tightened slightly around his cup. So slight it might have been imagined. Egg watched however, as he took a measured drink and set it back down with too much attention than it required.

Still, he did not look. Not at you. Egg found his gaze looking upon you instead. Looking radiant in the red silks that were probably made in Dorne. You had now reached your hand over to your husbands to get his attention, and leaned in to speak with a soft smile.

Prince Baelor and Princess (Y/N). Future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They looked right. They looked happy. The very pitcture of what Egg thought a loving marriage would look lile. As though the world had placed them exactly where they were meant to be. Egg was content knowing they loved each other.

So Egg went back to his food and started to shift his peas from his plate to Aemon's instead. Content to pretend that he was overanalyzing his father's behaviour.

The third time Egg noticed, it was close enough to touch.

It happened in the gardens, where the air was softer and world felt far away from the Seven Kingdoms. Egg had not meant to follow. At the time it had felt like nothing at all. He was just wandering paths he knew well, doing his best to avoid the maesters and his lessons.

That was until he saw them. He stopped before he could be seen and hid behind a tree.

They stood beneath the shade of an overgrown arbor, where the light filtered through in fragments painting them in gold. It was rather close. Not close enough to be indecent or improper. Just, closer than what was necessary.

(Y/N) was speaking, though it was too soft that the words could not reach Egg. Instead he had to settle on watching the shape of them. As (Y/N) was speaking his father did not interrupt, did not look away. Just gazed at your face.

From the looks of it, you had finished speaking and there was a moment of silence between the two of you. Then, your hand had lifted.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Just brushing your hand against his sleeve. It should have been nothing because it was nothing. But again, his father had stilled. The way his breath seemed to catch, the way his hand at his side tightened just slightly.

He did not pull away, did not reach back, did not move at all. The two of you stood there, closer than what one would expect, with your hand on his arm. To Egg, it looked like a different sort of painting. One he had not seen at the dinner the other night.

Then you stepped back and distance returned. Whatever had just been there, slipped neatly back into place.

His father inclined his said, said something Egg could not hear but it was probably something drab (his father was a rather blunt speaker). Whatever it was, it resulted in a smiling (Y/N). Your smile was smaller and softer and gone quicker than normal.

And then it was all over again.

Egg did not move from where he stood, though he knew he should. He felt as if he was intruding on something. His thoughts felt tangled. Nothing had occured.

With that, he took a step back and starting walking back into the castle.

The fourth time Egg noticed, it nearly did not remain theirs alone.

It was not meant to be a moment at all. That was what made it dangerous.

The corridors were quieter at that hour, the castle settling into itself as the evening wore on. Voices dulled behind closed doors. Footsteps softened. Even the torches seemed to burn lower, their light unsteady against the stone. Everyone was preparing for bed.

Egg had been sent on some errand he no longer remembered.

It did not matter. He would forget it entirely, later.

What he would remember, what would stay, was this:

The turn of a corner. The sound of a voice, too low to make out. And the way he stopped before he understood why.

This time, from behind a corridor, Egg saw them at the far end of the passage, half-shadowed, as though the castle itself meant to keep their secret.

They were close. Too close. Much closer than before in the garden.

Once again you were speaking. Or not. Even in the dimmed hallway, Egg could see you were loosing your composure. The normal picture perfect you seemed frazzle in the dark corridor. Words were spilling out quick but quietly. As if it was something that had been held back for too long.

Egg could not hear them, only feel the shape of them in the air, sharp and unsteady. (He was thinking to himself that he should really work on his sneaking abilities so he could somehow find himself closer so he could properly eavesdrop).

His father said nothing. He only watched you. Not as a prince might. Not as a brother should. As though the rest of the world had fallen away.

Egg’s breath caught, though he did not know why. He should not have been there. He knew that. And yet he did not move.

You stopped speaking. The silence that followed was not empty. It pressed in, taut, waiting.

His father took a step forward. It was small, measured and hesitant. Enough to close what little distance remained between you.

Egg felt it then, that strange, tightening awareness, like a thread pulled too thin. Something was about to happen. Something that could not be undone.

Your hand lifted, hesitant, uncertain, as though you had not meant to do it at all. His father’s followed. Not touching. Never touching.

But close enough that the space between them felt like something real. Something fragile. Something one breath away from breaking.

And for a moment, the two of you didn't move.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. And the spell shattered. Your hand dropped at once. His father stepped back just as quickly, the distance snapping into place as though it had never been crossed at all.

By the time the servants turned the corner, there was nothing to see.

It was just a prince standing where he ought to stand. A lady composed, untouched. Silence, neat and proper, where something else had been moments before.

Egg pressed himself back against the wall, heart beating too fast for something he did not understand.

No one noticed. No one said a word. And yet, Egg knew.

That it had almost—

He swallowed, the thought slipping from him before it could take shape.

It had been nothing.

A step taken. A hand lifted. A moment that came too close to becoming something more.

The fifth time Egg noticed, nothing threatened to happen at all.

There was no interruption waiting in the wings. No footsteps. No tension poised to break. Only certainty.

It happened in a corridor (the same one as before) and he was not meant to linger in, though he had long since stopped believing that mattered. The castle had begun to feel less like a place one moved through, and more like something that simply contained him.

He heard your voice first. And then his father’s.

Egg stopped before he saw you.

You stood facing one another, not hidden, not secret, simply… there. As though there had never been anything to conceal.

Your hands were folded neatly before you, composed and contorlled. The opposite of what you looked like the previous night he had seen the pair of you.

“I leave with Baelor at first light,” you said. Your voice did not tremble. It did not need to.

His father nodded once. “I know.”

No hesitation. No question. Only acknowledgment.

Egg watched the way you held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. Not lingering. Not resisting. Just, steady.

“As it should be,” you added quietly.

It was not said like a comfort. It was said like a truth that had already been lived. His father’s expression did not change. But something in him did.

Not outward. Not visible in any way that would matter to anyone else. Only Egg saw it.

The smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth. The faintest pause in his breathing. As though something had been set down carefully, something heavy, something once held too close.

“You will be well,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a fact he had chosen to believe.

You gave a small nod. “As will you.”

And that was all.

No step forward. No reach. No fracture in the space between you. Only distance, held deliberately in place. As if it had always belonged there.

You turned first.

Not away from him in avoidance, but toward what was waiting for you beyond the corridor. Beyond the castle. Beyond this moment entirely.

Duty, already ahead of you.

His father did not watch you leave. Not when it mattered. Not when it might have changed anything.

He simply stood there until your footsteps faded completely, until even the echo had gone soft enough to disappear.

Then he turned away as well.

Egg remained where he was. Not because he was unseen. But because there was nothing left to witness.

Only something he finally understood in full:

Not all loves ended in ruin. Some ended in choice. And in that choice, quiet, certain, unspoken they had already lost each other long before either of them ever reached for anything at all.

The one and probably last time Egg understood how truly doomed they were, it was at Ashford Meadow.

Some loves are loud enough to shake kingdoms. Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.

The tourney had turned the world bright again.

Colour returned in banners and gowns, in the gleam of armor beneath the sun, in laughter that carried too far across the fields as though nothing in the world had ever been wrong.

For a moment, Egg believed in that brightness.

He had never seen so much life. Never felt so far from the boy he was meant to be. He had lost Daeron somewhere in a tavern’s chaos and shaved his head in reckless relief, as though shedding identity might make him freer. He had even met a hedge knight, Ser Duncan, before the crowd swallowed him whole.

Then the royal family arrived. And everything began, quietly, to fall into place.

Egg hid among skirts and passing legs as he watched them take their places. His aunt stood near the pavilion.

The wind caught at her dress, lifting it in soft, unsteady motion, and for a moment she looked less like a princess and more like something imagined, something almost too gentle for the weight of her name.

She smiled more easily now. Baelor lived. And so she could, too.

He stood beside her with easy warmth, speaking to those who approached them, his hand resting at the small of her back as though it had always belonged there.

She laughed at something he said, turning toward him, bright and unburdened.

It should have been enough. It was enough.

And still... Egg knew, somewhere deep and unspoken, that in another life, in another shape of the world, it might have been his father standing there instead.

Behind them, Maekar stood at a careful distance, speaking with a lord he was not truly listening to. His attention kept returning, again and again, to where it should not.

There was no grief in it. No rupture. No visible wound.

Only something quieter. Something held too tightly to be named.

Their eyes met once. His father’s. Hers.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. And yet Egg felt it as something entire. A silence stretched between them, thin, precise, almost reverent.

Until Baelor spoke her name.

She turned. And the moment was gone. The world continued exactly as it should have. But Egg did not move. He watched.

Later, Baelor was called away. And Maekar stepped into his place beside her. It looked like nothing. It was nothing.

A conversation between in-laws. A passing exchange. A courtesy sustained by courtly habit.

But Egg saw too closely now. The ease that should not have been ease. The closeness that should not have existed at all. A handmaiden passed. Words were spoken too quietly to catch.

And then, Maekar offered his arm. She took it with no hesitation. It was a simple thing.

And yet the way her fingers settled there, the way his arm did not move away, the way neither of them corrected the distance. It felt like recognition. Like something remembered instead of chosen.

Too familiar to be coincidence. Too natural to be allowed. A blush rose faintly at his father’s neck. Gone as quickly as it came.

And for a moment, it felt almost right.

Until Valarr came running, bright and alive, breaking everything open again. The spell did not shatter. It simply… dispersed. Like smoke.

The world ended at Ashford Meadow.

It did not, of course.

The sun still rose over Ashford, pale and indifferent. The wind still moved through the fields, stirring banners that now hung heavy and dark. People still spoke, still walked, still breathed.

But something had ended all the same.

Baelor died.

The bells had tolled for what felt like hours, their sound low and unrelenting, echoing through the castle and out across the tourney grounds. Even now, standing among his family, Egg swore he could still hear them, like something lodged deep inside his chest.

They had chosen to burn him at Ashford. Egg wasn’t sure why that made it worse, but it did.

This place had been bright, only days ago. Full of laughter and colour and life. He could still remember it, the banners snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd, the way everything had seemed so large and full of promise.

Now everything felt hollow.

Egg stood stiffly beside his father, his hands clasped too tightly in front of him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.

His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling back. If only he hadn’t left Daeron. If only he had stayed. If only—The pyre crackled. Egg forced himself to look.

Flames climbed steadily, consuming what remained of Baelor’s body. The heat pressed against his face, sharp and unbearable, and still he couldn’t look away.

His gaze shifted. His aunt stood closest to the fire. She did not weep. She did not speak.

She stood as though carved from stone, her face pale, her expression empty in a way that frightened him more than tears ever could.

Valarr stood before her, shaking. Egg could see it even from where he stood. The way his cousin’s shoulders trembled, the way his head bowed forward as though the weight of it all might crush him.

Her hand rested gently in his hair. Not moving. Just there.

Behind them, Kiera stood still and silent, her presence quiet, almost ghostlike.

Egg swallowed hard. He had heard what happened. Everyone had.

Whispers had spread quickly, slipping through corridors and between servants like smoke.

They said she had been the first to reach him. That she hadn’t believed it. That she had demanded a maester, again and again, as though saying it enough times might undo what had already been done.

They said she had knelt beside his body, hands pressed to him, begging the Seven to give him back.

That she hadn’t seemed to notice the blood. That it had soaked into her sleeves, her hands, her skin.

Egg squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

They said Ser Duncan had tried to pull her away. That she had fought him. That she had screamed. Not words, just sound. Raw and broken.

And then his father came.

Maekar had been the one to pull her back. They said she had struck him. That her fists had hit his chest, over and over, as though he were something she could break. That she had cried into him like the world was ending.

Egg opened his eyes. He looked up at his father now.

Maekar stood beside him, unmoving. Rigid. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key.

Egg wanted to say something. Go to her.

He didn’t know if he would have said the words aloud or not. He only knew the thought pressed against his throat, desperate and insistent.

Go to her. She shouldn’t be alone. Not now. Not like this.

But Maekar did not move.

He stood where he was meant to stand. He did what was expected of him. Nothing more.

Egg felt something twist inside him.

But he had learned, by now, where to look.

So he looked closer.

He saw the way his father’s hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale beneath the skin. He saw the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the stillness that was not calm but restraint stretched too thin.

And then it happened. Briefly.

So brief Egg might have missed it, if he hadn’t been watching.

His aunt lifted her head, just slightly. As though something had pulled her attention away from the flames. Her gaze crossed the distance between them. And found his father.

Maekar looked at her. Not as a prince. Not as a brother. Just as a man.

Everything was there. Egg felt it, even from where he stood.

Grief, sharp and consuming.

Longing, familiar, aching, unrelenting.

Regret, heavy, suffocating, endless.

All of it, laid bare in a single look that lasted no more than a heartbeat. It was too much. Too intimate.

Her gaze dropped. Maekar’s jaw tightened. And just like that… It was gone.

The fire crackled. The wind shifted. The world went on.

And whatever might have been… didn’t.

Egg shouldn’t have followed her. He knew that.

Even so, he slipped from the hall, keeping to the edges where torchlight thinned and attention softened. He was careful, quiet and was left unseen.

He told himself he would stop at the doorway. He didn’t.

The hall was dim when she entered, curtains drawn heavy against the day. It felt smaller than it had before. Quieter in a way that pressed at the ribs.

She moved slowly, like each step had to be chosen in advance. Egg lingered just beyond the threshold, half-hidden in the corridor’s shadow.

She crossed to the high table to Baelor’s seat and sat down. For a long moment she did nothing at all. Then, carefully, she lifted her hands. Baelor’s rings caught what little light remained.

Egg’s throat tightened before he could name why. She turned one of them between her fingers. Over and over. Not fidgeting, holding on.

As though stillness might undo something. The door opened again. Egg went rigid. His father stepped inside.

There was a pause in him that Egg did not recognize. Not fear, exactly. Not hesitation either. Something closer to awareness. As though the room had become uncertain ground.

As though he was not sure he was allowed to cross it.

She did not look up. Did not acknowledge him. Did not move. For a moment, he only stood there. Then he crossed the room and sat beside her. Not close. Never close.

Silence gathered between them, dense and unyielding.

“I do not know where to begin,” Maekar said at last.

His voice was quieter than Egg had ever heard it.

She let out a breath that almost broke on its way out. “I do not know either.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt too small the moment they left him.

They stayed anyway. Unanswered.

“You know,” she said after a while, still looking at the ring, “my mother once told me not to love anyone more than my children.”

Maekar did not speak.

“I loved my children,” she continued. “And I loved my husband.”

Something in him shifted at that, barely visible, but real.

“And I loved you.”

The silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt held.

Carefully. Like something fragile that neither of them trusted to fall.

“(Y/N),” Maekar said at last, roughened, “there are no words—”

“You know,” she cut in, not unkindly, but with something steadier beneath it, “in a way, I wish you had meant to kill him.”

The air changed.

Maekar’s head turned slightly, as if the words had weight enough to move him. “How could you say that?”

“It would make things simpler,” she said. “For me. As selfish as that sounds.”

He did not answer. There was nothing to answer. A long pause. Then—

“Do you remember,” she asked, quieter now, “when Baelor and I were betrothed?”

A breath left Maekar that might once have been laughter. It wasn’t now. “Of course I do.”

A faint sound from her. Almost agreement. Almost nothing.

“You said you would burn your entire house down before you let it happen.”

His mouth tightened at the memory, something old and unguarded passing through him and gone again before it could settle.

“I was young,” he said.

“We were all young,” she replied.

Silence returned, softer this time. Less sharp. No less heavy.

Then she moved.

Slowly, she took one of the rings from her hand. Turned it once between her fingers. Twice.

And placed it in his palm.

“Here.”

Maekar looked down at it.

“I cannot take this,” he said. “He was your husband.”

“And he was your brother.”

That landed cleanly. Without argument. Maekar closed his fingers around the ring anyway. Not tightly.

Egg stepped back before either of them could notice him there, retreating into the corridor as quietly as he had come. He did not run. He did not linger.

Some things, he understood, were not meant to be seen all at once. Or spoken.

He understood then that some things were never meant to be spoken. Just simply known and lived with.

…Meanwhile, Simon’s entire body is imploding trying to think of what to say next. Like, we’re talking heart racing, palms sweating so fiercely they’re practically dripping, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth never to work again.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Doesn’t give you his name or even ask for yours. Nope.

What’re the first words that come out of his mouth, you might ask?

“You like Marlboro Red?” He grunts brutishly.

After sitting in silence for a few minutes, a respectful distance between the two of you, the fear is slowly hedging into straight up confusion.

“No,” you answer bluntly.

“…Okay,” he replies after a painfully long pause…LIKE AN UTTER IDIOT.

For the next ten minutes, you sit in pure, uninterrupted silence. Simon, holding the umbrella above your head even when his shoulders become drenched in rainwater, making sure to blow his cigarette smoke in the opposite direction.

And you, slowly taking stock of the man before you.

The way his eyes flit back and forth between your face and the street, watching carefully for a taxi.

The way his hands shake around the handle of the umbrella, not daring to move a single inch, as if you were a T-Rex threatening to eat him.

The way he quietly takes stock of the entire situation without you even having to ask, despite how you can practically see his pulse jumping in his neck.

When a yellow taxi finally comes cruising down the street, he doesn’t hesitate to let out a loud whistle—one that is much, much better than your crude attempt. Without jostling the umbrella, he takes your purse from your hand and wordlessly opens the door for you, making sure you’re comfortably seated before he withdraws the umbrella.

When he goes to hand you the purse, content never to let you see his face again, you don’t let him escape so easily.

You grab him by his pale wrist, yanking it through the taxi window while you pester the driver for a spare pen. Simon can only stare down in shock as you scribble ten little digits onto his skin, making sure they’re not smeared by the falling rain.

“See you soon,” you quip as the driver turns the ignition.

Meanwhile, all Simon can do is look on incredulously, only managing a single, hoarse word: “what?”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you met your husband.

Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles bled white.

The room was dark. The silence was deafening.

You stood by the door, your back pressed against the wood.

You didn't turn on the light.

You knew better than to bring light into Andrew’s room when he was like this.

"Andrew," you whispered, his name felt heavy and fragile all at once.

He didn't move. He looked like a statue carved from grief, a monument to a war he was losing every single day.

You knew the ghost he was chasing. You knew that no matter how close you got, how many times you held him, you were just a placeholder for a peace he was never destined to find.

"I have nothing to tell you," he said, his voice was low and raspy.

A sudden sting hit the back of your eyes, and your vision blurred before you could stop it. "You know I'm right here, Andrew. Look at me." Your voice cracked on his name, a pathetic sound that you hated yourself for making.

He finally looked at you. There was a terrifying emptiness in them, the kind that comes from looking at someone you love and realizing they cannot save you.

He reached out with slow movements, and his thumb brushed against your cheek. His touch was freezing, dragging through the silent tear that had just spilled over your cheek.

"I look at you," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, wiping the wetness away without actually comforting you, "and I don't know who I'm seeing anymore. I don't know who I am."

"You know me," you pleaded, a sob catching hard in your throat, choking you. You leaned into his palm, desperate for the friction, desperate for him to feel you. "Andrew, please. You know me. You know you. You know us."

But he was already looking past you.

The realization hit you, knocking the air straight out of your lungs. A hot rush of tears flooded your eyes, blurring his face.

You were willing to bleed for him.

You were willing to let the Cody family dynamic tear you to pieces just to keep him whole, but you were loving a man who was already half a corpse.

He belonged to Smurf.

He belonged to them.

He belonged to the darkness that lived in the corners of his mind.

You were just a visitor passing by.

"Why does this feel like we're just strangers who happen to know everything about each other?" you said, the words trembling on your tongue.

Andrew’s hand dropped from your face. The rejection was silent, but it made your breath hitch.

He pulled away, shutting the world out.

Shutting you out.

Your chest heaved as you pulled your hands up to cover your mouth, trying to muffle the pathetic sound that wanted to tear out of you.

You realized then that you could freeze to death in his shadow and he would never even notice the cold.

You had given him your heart, and he had used it to cushion the blows of his own misery, leaving you entirely hollowed out.

The tears were coming faster now, hot and blinding, spilling over your fingers.

"I love you," you whispered, the words trembling and completely broken against the back of his head.

It felt like a confession.

It felt like an apology to yourself.

Andrew didn't answer. He just breathed, trapped in a prison of his own making.

You stood there for a long time, your shoulders shaking with quiet, exhausted sobs, watching his back rise and fall.

You waited for a sign, a word, a glance, a shift in his posture, that meant he wanted you to stay. That he cared that you were breaking right in front of him.

But it never came.

You stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you.

It felt like the version of you that loved Andrew Cody had died in that dark room, and you were just the ghost left carrying the pieces.

The hallway of the house felt instantly like a tomb. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass.

Pushing through the front door, the cool night air hit your face, chilling the wet tracks of tears still burning your cheeks.

You made it to the driveway, your car just a few yards away, a dark place where you could finally fall apart completely.

Then, the front door slammed open behind you.

You didn't even have time to turn around.

A hand caught your arm, spinning you around with a force that nearly stole your breath.

Andrew was there.

His chest was heaving violently, his hair wild, and his eyes were terrified and full of heavy tears that were actively spilling down his face.

Before you could speak, before you could even process the sudden shift, his hands came up and slammed against the sides of your face.

They were trembling violently, gripping your jaw and your hair with a desperate intensity, as if he were trying to anchor himself to you.

He leaned down and kissed you.

It was hard and completely chaotic.

It tasted of salt, desperation and the panic of a drowning man finally breaking the surface of the water.

His mouth pressed against yours with a frantic attempt to erase the distance he had just put between you minutes ago.

When he finally pulled back just a fraction, his forehead crashed heavily against yours. His breath came in sobbing gasps, mixing with your own.

The tears running down his face smeared against your cheeks.

"I-I love you," he choked out, his voice cracking completely. "I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you."

He couldn't stop. The words poured out of him messy and desperate, his thumbs frantically wiping at your fresh tears even as his own continued to fall.

He gripped your face tighter, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability you had never seen in him before.

"Don't leave. P-Please, don't leave me. I'm sorry. I love you. I love you, I do," he begged, his entire body shuddering against yours as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hands moving to wrap completely around your back, crushing you to his chest. "Please. I'm yours. I love you, so, so much."

Standing at the driveway, wrapped in the trembling hold of Andrew Cody, your heart fractured completely at the agonizing sound of his weeping.

You reached up, your own hands shaking as you buried them in his hair, pulling him closer as his tears soaked into your skin.

He was broken.

He was still theirs.

But he was holding onto you.

And you knew you couldn't walk away.

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚