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The storm had burned itself out sometime before dawn.

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

You wake slowly.

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

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

You smile to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your point being?"

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

"Oh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jace had noticed.

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

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

"Why can't you believe it?"

"You drew me a map."

"It was an excellent map."

"It had little dragons."

"So you wouldn't get bored."

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

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

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

A pair of servants step into the corridor ahead.

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

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

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

Not even for a moment.

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

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

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

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

Jace exhales through his nose.

"There he is."

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

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

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

Toward this very window.

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

Jace joins you at the window. "No."

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

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

You blink. "Surely not."

Down in the courtyard, Vermax chirrs again.

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

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

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

"He is stealing my wife."

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

Jace stares. "You see?"

"He wants attention."

"I gave him an entire sheep this morning."

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

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

The dragon has stood and started following.

"Vermax."

He stops, tilting his head.

"You can't come into the castle."

It doesn't stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't even look up.

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

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

And there he remains.

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

"You've got to be joking."

"What?"

He points.

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

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

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

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

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

You escape the hall as politely as you can.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You again?" you laugh.

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

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

You continue scratching him anyway.

The interruption comes quietly. "My princess."

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

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

"You are very kind, my lord."

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

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

The lord laughs and takes a step closer.

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

His smile falters.

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

The rumble deepens.

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

The sound stops.

You blink.

"…That was odd."

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

You think little of it.

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

If someone approaches you too quickly, Vermax appears.

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

A fortnight passes.

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

If anything, he grows bolder.

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

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

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

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

That afternoon, the weather is fair.

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

Or appears to.

His eyes are closed.

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

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

Vermax's eyes snap open.

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

Jace freezes.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither moves.

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

"...Vermax."

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

You blink. "What on earth was that?"

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

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

"What?"

"He has never stood between us."

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

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

He bows deeply.

"My prince."

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

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

"Then tell me."

Another pause.

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

Jace says nothing, but his jaw tightens.

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

"What things?"

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

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

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

"Protective?"

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

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

"No."

"It is only a possibility."

"No."

"Has the princess been unwell?"

"...No."

"Has she been unusually tired?"

Jace opens his mouth. Closes it again.

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

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

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

Three months, almost exactly.

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

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

"Jace?"

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

"What is it?"

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

You blink. "...No."

"Not at all?"

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

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

"I've slept later than usual."

"You've always liked sleeping late."

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

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

You stare at him. "What?"

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

"You don't know?"

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

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

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

You let out a disbelieving laugh. "Jace."

"They've seen it before."

"Surely they haven't."

"They swear they have."

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

"And because he stood between us."

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

"Yes."

You both fall quiet.

"Oh."

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

"I've sent for the maester."

"You've... already?"

"He'll be here shortly."

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

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

"My prince."

Jace has been standing by the window the entire time.

"So?"

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

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

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

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

The door clicks shut.

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

You laugh through the tears threatening your eyes.

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

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

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

"No more riding."

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

The maester, entirely unhelpfully, agrees with him.

Then come the stairs.

"If no one is with you."

"Jace."

"They're uneven."

"They have been uneven for a hundred years."

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

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

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

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

"I am aware, yes."

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

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

Once, you disappear for nearly an hour.

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

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

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

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

"There you are."

"I've been looking everywhere."

"I was comfortable."

"I can see that."

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

"I cannot reach my boots."

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

"I was smaller yesterday."

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

"This child is already causing problems."

"Our child," Jace corrects.

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

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

"Oh, don't you dare."

"You said you couldn't reach."

"I did not ask you to-"

"You were about to."

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

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

"I know."

"So why do you?"

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

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

Not roaring; pacing.

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

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

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

Another rumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The courtyard is in chaos.

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

One keeper catches sight of Jace.

"My prince."

"What happened?"

"We don't know."

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

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

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

The feeling passes as quickly as it came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For one heartbeat Jace simply stares.

Then his eyes widen.

"No."

"I think so."

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

"The maester."

His voice comes out far calmer than his expression.

"Someone fetch the maester!"

Outside, Vermax finally stops pacing.

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

His head remains lifted toward the tower.

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

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

Jace is here.

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

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

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

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

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

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

“He's beautiful,” he says finally.

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

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

“You thought it would feel like what?”

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

“Louder,” he admits.

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

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

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

“Alright, I need to hold him.”

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

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

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

You smile faintly. “Yes.”

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

“That’s probably just you projecting.”

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

“Oh.”

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

“I should-” he starts.

You raise an eyebrow. “You should what?”

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

You blink at him. “Jace.”

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

“Jace, it’s freezing outside.”

“I’ll be quick.”

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

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

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

Then Jace steps into the open.

Vermax’s head lowers immediately.

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

“This is my son.”

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

For a long moment, he does nothing.

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

The baby stirs, and Vermax freezes instantly.

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

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

Jace finally looks up at him properly, smiling.

“Say hello,” he whispers.

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

He declined the chair with a dismissive flick of his hand, pacing instead before the hearth as though the fire might offer counsel.

“He has refused to attend the tourney at Bitterbridge,” Maekar said, irritation threading through every syllable.

You paused only briefly, though your thoughts moved swiftly. Bitterbridge had not been quiet of late; grain levies had tightened, rumors of hoarding had begun to circulate, and lesser lords who resented the crown’s interference had nevertheless grown loud in their demands for royal relief whenever their smallfolk turned restless. A progress to the Reach would not be undertaken for leisure, nor even for spectacle alone, but as deliberate theater of the Iron Throne's presence.

“I suppose my dear husband considers disputes over grain beneath his notice,” you murmured, retrieving your embroidery needle and aligning it with deliberate care.

Maekar snorted, though whether at your assessment or at Aerion himself remained unclear. “Thank fuck someone in this cursed family has sense."

You allowed yourself a small smile. “If you have come to enlist me as emissary, I fear you misjudge the difficulty. Aerion would sooner invite open rebellion than permit me to depart his sight for a fortnight.”

“Yes,” Maekar replied darkly, “that appears to be the fucking problem.”

The bluntness might have scandalized another daughter-in-law; you merely folded your hands in your lap and regarded him with patient attention. For all his severity, Maekar did not waste his visits on trivialities.

“He refuses on what grounds?” you asked.

“He claims the Reach is quiet enough without our presence,” Maekar said, voice tightening. “He insists that to answer every minor grievance with a dragon’s shadow is to encourage further complaint.”

You could almost hear your husband’s voice.

“However,” you ventured, “a prince’s attendance would remind those same lords that their harvest depends upon the stability of the crown.”

Maekar stopped pacing and looked at you fully then, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Precisely.”

You set the hoop aside altogether now, giving him your undivided attention.

“I wish my son to understand that ruling requires more than posturing,” Maekar replied. “The smallfolk grow anxious, which breeds discontent.”

“And Aerion’s absence,” you concluded softly, “might be interpreted as indifference.”

Maekar’s silence confirmed it.

You knew your husband’s tempers, his pride, the peculiar intensity with which he guarded what he deemed his own. You also knew the quieter truths few others witnessed: the way his restlessness eased at your touch, the rare unguarded smile reserved solely for you, the impatience that melted into something almost boyish when you praised him.

You said at last, “ You hope that my presence will render the journey tolerable.”

Maekar’s mouth twitched, almost conceding humor. “I hope your presence will make refusal impossible.”

You laughed softly at that. “Father, you attribute to me a power I do not claim.”

“Do not pretend modesty,” he countered. “He listens to no man at this court without calculating advantage, yet the fool listens to you.”

You rose and crossed to the window, gazing out across Summerhall’s rolling grounds where banners stirred in the mild breeze. Somewhere within those halls your husband would be engaged in some private irritation, convinced that the world misunderstood him.

“The Reach will receive a prince more favorably if he arrives with his princess beside him. Let them see that he can be… tempered.”

The word hung between you.

To tame a dragon was to risk being burned; to refuse was to risk letting it devour the fields unchecked.

“And if he refuses even then?” you asked quietly.

Maekar met your gaze without flinching. “Oh I can assure you that he will not.”

You arched a brow.

“He would rather march into a nest of vipers,” Maekar said dryly, “than admit before you that he shirks responsibility.”

A reluctant smile curved your lips. That, at least, rang true.

“Very well,” you said, returning to your embroidery only long enough to secure the final stitch in the dragon’s wing. “I shall speak with my husband.”

Maekar inclined his head, relief masked as gruff approval. “Convince him,” he said simply.

As he turned to depart, you added lightly, “You understand, of course, that if he agrees, he will insist I remain within arm’s reach at all times.”

Maekar paused at the threshold. “If that is the price” he replied, “the realm can endure it.”

“Sister!”

The brightly unfiltered cry preceded him down the corridor, and a moment later Aegon flung himself toward you with all the enthusiasm of youth, his hands fastening into the folds of your skirts.

“Yes, my love?” you asked, laughter threading softly through your voice as you steadied him with a hand upon his hair, smoothing back the unruly silver-gold strands.

He tipped his face upward, solemnity attempting to replace excitement and failing entirely. “Is it true,” he demanded in a whisper far too loud to be conspiratorial, “that Aerion has refused to go to the Reach because he says it is dull?”

You arched a brow. “Your brother does not find anything dull,” you replied mildly. “He merely prefers his spectacles grand.”

Egg huffed, the sound caught somewhere between indignation and admiration. “Will you make him go?” he asked at last.

There was no mockery in the question; to him it was simply the most practical solution available. If Aerion resisted the realm, the realm would send you.

“I will speak with him,” you said.

“That means yes,” Egg replied immediately, relief blooming across his features. “He always listens when you speak.”

“Always?” you teased.

“He pretends he does not,” the boy insisted, tightening his grip upon your skirts as though afraid you might deny it. “He argues and frowns and says dreadful things about peasants and banners, but then he does what you suggested as if it were his idea all along.”

You laughed then, unable to help it. "Really, now?"

Egg said, straightening with exaggerated seriousness. “Someone must know how to handle him.”

“And you believe it is I?”

“You are the only one who does,” he replied, the certainty in his tone unshaken. “When he is angry, he looks for you. When he wins, he looks for you. When he is bored, he comes to you. He does not even realize he does it.”

The simplicity of the observation struck more keenly than Egg could have intended.

You brushed an errant curl from his forehead. “Your brother is not so easily managed as you imagine.”

“Well, I did not say managed,” Egg corrected, with a dignity he had likely borrowed from some half-remembered lecture. “I said handled.”

The distinction drew a quieter smile from you.

“He frightens the court,” Egg continued, lowering his voice again. “And he frightens me. But he never frightens you.”

You considered that carefully before answering. “He would not wish to.”

Egg’s expression shifted at that, comprehension dawning in a way that was almost painful in its innocence. “He loves you,” he said plainly, as though remarking upon the weather.

You did not deny it.

“He is devoted,” you replied, choosing your language with care.

“That is the same thing,” Egg insisted, though his brows drew together in thought. “Is it not?”

“It can be,” you said, smoothing the crease from his brow with your thumb. “Provided devotion does not forget the world beyond itself.”

He absorbed that with visible effort before a fresh frustration seized him.

“I want to go,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “To Bitterbridge. I told Father I could serve as squire, or carry a banner, or do anything at all, but he says I am not to leave unless my brothers enter the lists.”

“And do they intend to?” you asked gently.

Egg scowled in a manner that suggested he had already received an answer. “Aerion says the lists are beneath him unless the prize is worthy. Aemon says he has no desire to break bones for applause. And Father says that if they will not ride, then neither shall I.”

You regarded him with sympathetic gravity. “Your father wishes to keep you from unnecessary danger.”

“I am not afraid,” he insisted.

“I know,” you said softly. “That is precisely why he is.”

The indignation faltered, replaced by reluctant understanding.

“If Aerion goes,” Egg pressed, returning to his earlier certainty, “and if you go, then Father will have no reason to keep me here. He said I may attend only if my brothers do. So you must convince him as well.”

The scope of the task did not seem to daunt him in the slightest.

“You ask much of me,” you murmured.

“You always make it so," he replied without hesitation. Your heart clenches.

As he darted away at the summons of some distant voice, leaving your skirts at last unclaimed, you remained in the corridor a moment longer, reflecting upon the curious position you occupied within this family.

Aerion is already in your bedchambers by the time you arrive, his face illuminated by the flickering gold of oil-fed flames.

Your husband stands at the edge of the hearth when you enter, one hand braced against the carved mantle as though steadying himself against some irritation that has followed him from council. He does not turn immediately, yet the subtle straightening of his shoulders betrays awareness long before your reflection reaches him in the glass.

“You have that look,” he says, watching you through the mirror rather than directly.

You close the door softly. The gown you wear is one he favors, a fluid red silk that clings without ostentation, thin enough that the heat of the chamber renders it almost indecent.

“What look?” you ask, fingers moving to unpin your hair, letting it fall in a heavy cascade over your shoulders and down your back.

His gaze darkens at the motion despite himself, lingering not politely but thoroughly.

“I know my family sent you. They should know better,” he replies, turning at last. “It implies I may be persuaded.”

“You may be,” you say, stepping farther into the room, candlelight tracing the line of your collarbone and catching in the hollow of your throat.

He studies you in silence, the pull in his expression no longer disguised. He looks as a man starved.

“Maekar grows impatient,” you continue, stopping just within his reach. “The Reach wishes reassurance.”

“The lowborn desire a spectacle,” he says dismissively, though his hand has already found your waist, thumb pressing into silk as if confirming you are real and not some conjured temptation. His grip is firm, almost bruising, yet you lean into it rather than away. “They call for dragons when it is convenient and curse them when not.”

“And you would deny them both?” you ask softly.

His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, bunching the fabric at your hip. “I would deny them the illusion that I perform at their whim.”

You lift your hand to his chest, feeling the steady, contained force beneath linen and skin—the heat of your husband constant. Your palm slides lower, slow and deliberate, until your fingers curl lightly at his belt.

“You command,” you murmur, gaze never leaving his. “You always have.”

His breath shifts.

“They want you seen,” you continue, your thumb tracing the faint rise of his collarbone before drifting to the edge of his jaw. “Not hidden in these halls.”

He draws you closer in a single decisive motion, your body colliding with his, the impact enough to steal the space between your words. One hand remains at your waist; the other comes up to your throat, not choking, merely resting there—a possessive reminder of strength. You do not flinch. Instead, you tilt your chin slightly, inviting.

“And you were not made to be paraded before men who forget themselves,” he says, voice low, controlled, though the hand at your throat tightens just enough to feel.

“They will look regardless,” you reply, your hands sliding upward into his hair, fingers threading through silver strands with slow familiarity. You tug, not enough to hurt, only enough to make him feel it. “At least this way, they will see where I stand.”

His mouth hardens.

“I would sooner gouge out the eyes of every hedge knight and fishmonger who dares stare,” he mutters, disgust curling through the words. “Let them glimpse a dragon’s hoard and think themselves worthy of it.”

His gaze drags slowly over you again, possessive and unapologetic. “They do not deserve to look at you.”

His eyes close briefly at the contact of your hands, composure thinning in a way few ever witness. A faint exhale escapes him when you press closer, the silk between you a poor barrier against heat.

“Beside me,” he says, almost to himself.

“Where else?”

He searches your face then, as though reconciling the prince he presents to the world with the woman who knows precisely how to undo him. “They believe you temper me,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips along the line of his jaw, lingering just long enough to feel the pulse beneath his skin. “Perhaps I only remind you of what you are capable of.”

A low sound escapes him, less laughter than surrender. His hand slides from your throat to your back, fingers spanning wide, pulling you flush against him so there is no doubt of his want.

“If I go,” he says, voice roughened now by proximity rather than anger, “you will remain within my sight. I will not have you wandering those pavilions while half the Reach imagines futures that do not belong to them.”

“I have no interest in futures that do not belong to us,” you reply, your lips grazing the corner of his mouth before you allow him the full kiss.

The word lingers between you.

His hand drifts lower, settling at the curve of your hip, thumb tracing slow, possessive patterns through silk. “You would endure the journey,” he says, though his mouth has found the line of your neck, heat trailing in its wake.

“I would endure far worse,” you murmur, your head tipping back to grant him better access, fingers tightening in his hair when his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. You were made to handle him—to meet heat with heat.

“They sent you because they know,” he says at last, lifting his head though he does not release you. “Because they see that I listen.”

“You do not listen,” you correct gently, your hand sliding between you, flattening over his heart once more. “You choose.”

A faint smile ghosts across his mouth, though his eyes burn brighter for it.

“And what do I choose now?” he asks.

“You choose to ride south not because they demand it,” you say, your lips brushing his again, slower this time, deeper. “You choose because you wish to be seen—and because you know I will be there.”

He holds your gaze for a long breath, and in it is something rawer than pride: it is needy.

“Fine,” he says finally, the admission stripped bare.

Your hand curves against his cheek, drawing him down until your lips claim his properly this time. The kiss deepens without hurry, his grip tightening at your back as though the world beyond these walls has already begun to recede. When he lifts you slightly, just enough that your feet barely brush the floor, you do not protest.

When you finally pull back, his gaze has softened in a way the court will never witness.

“Bitterbridge, then,” he murmurs against your mouth, decision settling with quiet inevitability. “We ride within the week.”

You allow a small, satisfied smile, your thumb still tracing slow circles over his skin as though sealing the bargain.

“Let them look,” you say softly.

His arms tighten around you, rough and reverent all at once.

“They will,” he replies, voice low and certain. “And they will understand precisely why I came.”

You couldn't remember the last time you had felt this bone-deep tired, perhaps the birth of baby Aemon, not even six months ago. That had been exhausting in a different way, more than your previous births.

Thankfully, both your husbands had been as supportive as always, but still.

There was a six-month-old Aemon who demanded your full and constant attention.

There was Aerion, who followed you everywhere like a small, extremely confident shadow.

There was Matarys, who always had something to show you and dragged you everywhere, trying to outbest Aerion in that regard.

And then there were your eldest, Valarr and Daeron, who were at that age where their fathers had become the whole world, gone before you'd finished your morning tea, swallowed up by training yards and council antechambers and whatever else their fathers deemed important for the making of men. You were proud of them. You also hadn't seen them since breakfast, and you missed them with a dull, quiet ache you hadn't quite expected motherhood to produce.

You stood near the window of your shared chambers, little Aemon cradled in your arms, bouncing him gently in the way that seemed to please him.

He squealed and you looked down at his round, cherubic face, wrapped in soft northern linen, a gift from Benjen and his wife, pale blue and so light that the southern heat wouldn't trouble him and felt the tired loosen slightly in your chest.

His small arms reached toward your face and you caught both his little hands and pressed them against your cheek, kissing them. He squealed again.

The chamber doors opened and Aerion strutted in, his short hair bouncing with each step, the full weight of his nearly six years of life behind him. He moved like he owned the palace.

"Aerion, my sweetling, what did I tell you about knocking?"

"I know, mother, but I had to show you something." He opened his cupped hands. Inside sat a beetle, its shell a deep, jewel-bright blue.

"Aerion."

"I know you said no insects inside." He looked up at you, utterly unrepentant. "But it looked very pretty. Like a dragon scale."

"My sweet little pup." You looked at the beetle seriously, giving it its due.

"I am very impressed with your find." Aemon squealed upon hearing his brother's voice and stretched his chubby hands toward him, grasping at air.

"Look, mother, even Aem thinks it's a dragon scale."

Aerion stepped closer and held the beetle up toward Aemon's face. Aemon went very still for a moment, studying it and then squealed so enthusiastically that you had to tighten your hold on him.

You shook your head softly.

"Aerion, my sweetling, put the beetle back outside before your father sees it." You fixed him with the look.

Aerion pouted magnificently. It was a Targaryen pout, you had decided long ago. No Stark had ever looked quite so aggrieved at being told no. "But mother—"

"Outside. Now. And gently, it hasn't done anything wrong."

The pout deepened, but Aerion cupped the beetle carefully and shuffled back toward the door. He pulled the door shut behind him with a decisive little click, not quite a slam, but close enough to make his feelings known.

Aemon made a sharp, displeased sound at his brother's retreat and you bounced him once, twice.

"He'll be back," you promised. "He always comes back."

Aemon did not seem convinced. His little face scrunched magnificently.

The chamber settled into quiet then, briefly, the way it only ever did in the stolen moments between one small disaster and the next. You pressed your lips to Aemon’s temple and breathed in the warm milk-and-soap smell of him.

"Your brothers cause so much trouble, little one," you whispered.

Aemon cooed softly in response, and you turned to look out at the afternoon sun, burning bright and golden over King's Landing the way it never quite did up north.

The gardens were visible from your shared chambers, and you watched a procession of courtiers and planners making their way along the paths below.

At their head walked Baelor, composed, calm, every inch the prince with Valarr close beside him, eagerly drinking in every word. Daeron walked to his left, and even from this height you could tell he was somewhat less enraptured with the proceedings.

Baelor stopped and gestured toward a cluster of trees, said something, and walked on. Then one of the planners stopped in front of the weirwood tree, the one both your husbands had gifted you on your wedding day, still small and slender, but its leaves already red as fresh blood and lingered there a moment too long.

Baelor turned back and shook his head with quiet, unmistakable disapproval. Both your sons fixed the man with identical glares before falling back into step behind their father.

You laughed softly to yourself.

Then, as though you had somehow sensed it coming, the chamber doors flew open and Matarys and Aerion crashed through them, hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs, Aerion's fist knotted in Matarys's dark hair and Matarys's fingers digging into his cheeks, both of them shrieking at each other in High Valyrian.

A chambermaid stumbled in after them, flushed and desperate, and dropped into a curtsy while simultaneously attempting to pull them apart.

"Y-Your Grace, I am so sorry, they were, I couldn't— "

Your sons continued to brawl on the floor, indifferent to her efforts. You caught fragments between the screaming, you put that in my hair and other things rather less fit for polite company.

You looked at them and looked at Aemon, who was watching the chaos with wide, violet fascinated eyes.

I wonder how mother put up with my brothers and me.

"Boys," you said. Softly. Evenly.

They stopped.

Matarys's dark hair stood in every direction, his nails were dirty, and his robes were half pulled from his shoulder.

Aerion had scratch marks across one cheek and looked no better.

They both stared up at you from the floor with the particular expression of children recalibrating very quickly.

You said nothing. You simply looked at them.

"What happened?" you asked, when the silence had done its work.

Matarys scrambled upright and immediately levelled a finger at Aerion, who was gingerly patting his scratched cheek. "He put the beetle in my hair. He knows I don't like them."

"Matarys was being mean to me first! He made fun of me for catching it."

"He's lying!"

"He's lying!"

You sighed, quietly, to yourself. Aemon had begun to fuss at the screaming, his small face crumpling with displeasure, and you gestured the chambermaid over and settled him carefully into her arms. Then you crossed to your boys, crouched down, and let your linen dress pool around you on the floor.

"Boys."

They both turned away from each other simultaneously, arms crossed, chins lifted, pouting in a way that was so perfectly matched it almost made you smile.

You waited.

The silence stretched. And then as it always did when you simply stayed close and said nothing, the argument began to lose its shape. Aerion slid a sideways glance at his brother. Matarys kept his chin up a moment longer, then let it drop.

"I did not mean to put it in your hair," Aerion muttered, grudgingly, at the floor.

Matarys considered this with great seriousness.

"You still did. But I accept your apology."

He extended his arm, and Aerion grabbed it, and they performed the northern clasp with all the solemn ceremony of men three times their age. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

They had watched your brothers do it so many times, and they had never once done it without looking deeply, earnestly proud of themselves for knowing how.

You looked at them both and felt something soft and tired move through your chest.

"The last few weeks have been very hard on everyone," you said gently. "I am sorry, my sweetlings, that I haven't had more time for you."

They both turned to you with identical expressions of outrage, as though you had said something deeply unreasonable.

"Mother—" Aerion began.

"Don't be silly—" said Matarys at the same moment.

And then Aerion's arms were around your neck, warm and a little too tight, and Matarys piled on top of him a second later, and the three of you swayed together on the floor in a heap of rumpled linen and unwashed little boy smell, and you held them both as tightly as you could and breathed them in.

"You are the best mother," Aerion announced into your shoulder, with great authority.

"The very best," Matarys agreed. "Better than anyone else's."

"You haven't met anyone else's mother," you pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," said Matarys firmly. "I know."

You laughed then, quietly, your face pressed into the tangle of their hair, one silver-pale, one dark and for a moment the exhaustion lifted just enough to let the warmth underneath it show.

Then you became aware of a presence in the doorway.

Maekar stood there , in his dark robes, watching the three of you with an expression that was something close to tender.

By the time Aerion and Matarys noticed him and scrambled upright, straightening their backs with the automatic posture of boys who knew better than to slouch in front of their father, it had already settled back into its usual strictness.

"I wondered where the two of you had gone," he said, his eyes moving over them both with the calm, unhurried assessment of a man cataloguing exactly how dishevelled his sons had managed to become since he last saw them.

"I lost you in the gardens."

He crossed the room and took your arm and drew you to your feet with a firmness that allowed no argument. "And do not kneel on the cold floor," he added, directing this at the boys rather than you, his tone making it very clear whose fault your kneeling had been.

Aerion and Matarys looked down.

"Husband," you said mildly. "They were simply keeping us company." You nodded toward the chambermaid, where Aemon had spotted his father and erupted into immediate, happy chaos, both arms outstretched, grabbing fistfuls of air trying to reach him.

Maekar looked at him, something in his expression shifted, that same softening, there and gone, like light moving across water.

He lifted Aemon from the chambermaid's arms without ceremony and settled him against his chest, and Aemon immediately seized his beard with both hands and pulled at it.

"Their septa could not find them this afternoon," he said, looking at you. "Apparently they missed their lessons."

You turned to your sons slowly.

Matarys and Aerion were both suddenly discovering something very fascinating about the pattern on the floor.

"You had lessons today?" You let the words sit for a moment.

"No wonder the two of you have been causing mischief since midmorning." You shook your head, pressing your lips together to keep the smile from showing.

"What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Aerion looked up with the expression of someone assembling a very reasonable explanation. Matarys, wiser, said nothing at all.

"We were going to go," Aerion tried. "We simply... forgot. Briefly."

"Briefly," Matarys confirmed.

Maekar looked at them over the top of Aemon’s head, and the look alone was enough. They both straightened another inch.

"You will apologize to your septa in the morning," Maekar said, "And you will attend every lesson this week without fail."

"Yes, father," they said, in unison, with the particular tone of boys who were very relieved not to have received a worse verdict.

You caught Maekar's eye over their heads. He said nothing. But there it was again, that brief, quiet softening and you knew it for what it was. You turned away before he could see you smile.

"Now. Return to the library." His voice dropped half a register. "Or I will take you there myself."

They nodded, inclined their heads with the hasty propriety of children who had pushed their luck far enough for one afternoon, and fled. Maekar watched them go, then turned to the chambermaid. "See that they arrive."

She curtsied and followed without a word, pulling the door shut behind her.

The chamber settled into quiet again. Maekar turned back to you, Aemon still bundled against his chest, and the baby celebrated his father's full attention by lifting both hands and patting Maekar's jaw with the confident imprecision of someone who had not yet mastered the difference between a pat and a slap.

Maekar did not so much as blink. After four children, you suspected very little could rattle him physically anymore.

He studied your face with the same attention he gave everything.

"You look tired. Have you seen the maester today?"

"I don't feel unwell enough to trouble him."

He made a low sound in his throat and reached out to tilt your chin, turning your face one way and the other, closely examining you. "If you will not go to him, I will bring him here."

"That is completely unnecessary—"

"Then go to him."

"Maekar—"

"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known."

"You say that as though it surprises you still." You laughed softly and stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest, careful of Aemon between you. You could feel the steady warmth of him through the fabric.

"You worry too much."

"I will always worry." He said it the way he said most true things, plainly, without decoration, as though it were simply a fact of the world.

You tilted your head and looked up at him. "I remember a time when you told me you would never love me." You let that sit for a moment. "And now look at us. Five children. Two husbands who cannot seem to let me out of their sight for more than an hour."

"We have obligations to you," he said. "It is our duty to—"

"The last time you told me it was merely duty," you said, dropping your voice, "little Aemon was born."

The tips of his ears went red.

You remembered that afternoon in vivid detail. The solar of the Hand of the King, the late light coming gold through the narrow windows, both your husbands with their careful composure thoroughly dismantled, and you pressed between them with absolutely no complaints about your circumstances.

Aemon was very much a testament to how little duty had to do with it.

Aemon blissfully unaware of the subtext, slapped his father's chin again and cooed with satisfaction.

Maekar's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "See the maester tomorrow," he said, his voice returned to its usual steadiness, "and I will stop fussing."

"You will never stop."

He said nothing to that, which was as good as an admission.

He turned and carried Aemon to the crib at the foot of the bed, settling him down with a gentleness entirely at odds with the rest of him, and drew a soft linen blanket over the baby's small, round body.

Aemon blinked up at his father and decided this was acceptable.

Maekar straightened and turned back to you. "Rest. And if he gives you trouble," a small tilt of his head toward the crib, "call your lady-in-waiting. You are no use to anyone if you run yourself into the ground."

"How very romantic," you said.

The look he gave you was deeply unimpressed. Then he crossed to you, tipped your chin back with two fingers, and kissed you, deep and passionate. You sighed into it and brought your hands to his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the soft scratch of his silvery beard beneath your fingertips.

He pulled back. Pressed his lips once to your temple, firm and brief. And then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the warm afternoon light for a moment, your fingers still resting at your lips, and smiled to yourself like a complete fool.

The sun set quickly after that. Little Aemon fell into a deep sleep, and you used what remained of the afternoon working through a considerable pile of letters from the northern houses. Questions about grain stores, disputes over borders, requests for guidance that only you could answer in the particular way they needed answering. The north had not forgotten you were theirs, and you had not forgotten either.

Your lady-in-waiting helped you dress as the last of the light left the sky, easing you into your nightgown. A gift from a Lyseni merchant, silk so soft it felt like cool water against your skin, in a deep, warm red that pooled around your feet when you stood.

You had settled back at the writing desk with the last of the letters when a knock came, and Baelor stepped in. He had changed from his day clothes, his beard freshly trimmed, dark red robes falling neatly around him, and he looked at you the way he always looked at you, like finding you in a room was the best part of whatever he'd been doing before.

He crossed to you and pressed a kiss to your hand with a small, courtly little bow that was entirely sincere and entirely him.

"My love." He dropped into the chair across from you, "How are you faring? Maekar said you felt unwell."

You gave him a look. "Maekar decided I looked unwell. The conclusion was entirely his own."

Baelor smiled, warm and slow. "Ah." He reached across and plucked one of the letters from the pile, turning it over idly. "So you are well."

"I am tired. There is a difference."

“Hmm.” He didn’t comment further, but you immediately sensed the same worry your other husband shows, only softer, more gentle in its expression.

He set the letter down and leaned back, watching you with that particular fond attention of his.

"I heard a whisper this afternoon. From several very curious sources." He folded his hands. "That Aerion and Matarys were seen causing what might generously be described as a scene somewhere in the east wing."

"They argued over a beetle," you said, without looking up from your letter.

A pause. "A beetle."

"Aerion caught one. It was, admittedly, very beautiful. He put it in Matarys's hair. Matarys took issue with this." You set down your quill. "By the time they reached me they had already conducted a full trial by combat on the floor of my chambers."

Baelor pressed his lips together very firmly.

"And what became of the beetle?"

"Released, unharmed. Aerion was very careful about that part, at least." You shook your head, but you were smiling.

"He is so rough and then so gentle, that boy. I never quite know which one I am getting."

"He takes after you," Baelor said.

"Everyone keeps saying that." You gave him a look. "He takes after Maekar in that regard and you know it."

Baelor smiled and said nothing, which meant he agreed entirely.

He stood then, unhurried, and crossed to the crib at the foot of the bed. He stood over it quietly, watching Aemon sleep, the small chest rising and falling, the baby's lips slightly parted, one fist curled loosely beside his cheek.

Baelor's face in profile was still and unguarded, that particular proud softness he never tried to hide the way Maekar did.

You watched him for a moment. Then you stood up and went to him slipping your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He covered your hands with his without looking away from the crib.

After a while he turned, and took your face in both his hands, his mismatched eyes warm, the way they always were when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else either of you needed to be.

"Has he been giving you trouble?"

"Never," you said honestly. "He is the easiest of all of them."

"Don't tell the others that."

"I would never."

Baelor kissed gently the tip of your nose. Then he drew you close, tucking your head against his chest, your hand pressed flat over his heartbeat.

"How have Valarr and Daeron been faring?" you asked against his chest. "These past weeks must have been a great deal for them."

"They have been exceptional," Baelor said, and you could hear the quiet pride in it, "Better than I expected, if I am honest. Valarr has taken to everything with that terrifying focus of his. He asked questions today that made two of the council's planners look at their feet." A warmth crept into his voice. "I was very proud of him."

"He gets that from you," you said.

"He does," Baelor agreed easily. "And the charm he uses to soften it, that is yours."

You smiled against his chest. "And Daeron?"

Baelor was quiet for a moment, "Daeron keeps pace. He always keeps pace. But he is quieter than usual these past days." A pause. "His headaches have been troubling him lately but he does not speak to me about it. "

You lifted your head to look at him. "You noticed too."

"I notice everything about our children," he said simply. "I simply don't always say so."

You held his gaze for a moment, something settling between you, that quite understanding that didn't need words, the kind that came from years of watching the same people and loving them the same way.

You opened your mouth to answer but was interrupted by the chamber door opening.

Maekar came in like a weather front, already unbuckling his doublet, muttering something under his breath.

He shed the doublet, then his outer shirt, until he stood in only his linen shirt and trousers, and ran a hand through his silver hair with the expression of a man who had spent the last several hours in the company of people he found profoundly trying.

"Absolute bloody fools, the lot of them—"

"Brother." Baelor's voice was perfectly pleasant. "Trouble seems to follow you as well this evening?"

"Shut it, Baelor. I didn't ask." Maekar crossed toward the hearth, paused, and looked at it with an expression of fresh outrage. "And which one of these useless servants—"

"Maekar." You stepped forward, your voice firm, "Aemon is asleep."

He stopped. Looked at the crib. Looked back at the hearth. The outrage didn't leave his face entirely but it compressed itself, folded down into something more manageable. He crouched and began building up the fire himself.

A beat of quiet. Then his eyes landed on your writing desk, and the considerable stack of letters still waiting there.

"Seven hells," he said, with feeling, though quieter now. "I will personally write to every one of these lordlings and explain, in plain terms, that you are not their personal—"

"Maekar," you said again.

He pressed his mouth shut. The look on his face suggested the letter-writing remained very much on the table.

Baelor caught your eye from across the room. His expression was one of deep, barely contained amusement. You pointed at him once in warning and he looked immediately at the ceiling.

You shook your head at the both of them and crossed to the bed, pulling back the covers and settling in with the particular relief of someone whose body had been waiting for this moment since approximately midmorning.

You pulled the blankets up to your chin and watched them from the pillows. Baelor had taken the chair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other, perfectly at ease, a letter from your desk open in his hand. Maekar was still standing, because Maekar always needed several more minutes of being upright and aggrieved before he could contemplate sitting down.

"Do you know what one of them asked me today." It was not a question.

"I imagine I'm about to," Baelor said, without looking up from the letter.

"Whether Aemon could be dressed in red lamé and placed in a basket." A pause that contained multitudes. "To look like a dragon egg."

Baelor lowered the letter.

"I nearly relieved him of his head on the spot," Maekar continued, with the tone of a man who considered this response entirely proportionate.

"That does sound like something Desmor would suggest," Baelor said, after a moment. "That man has always had a weakness for the theatrical." He folded the letter and set it down. "Though I will say, in fairness, that Aemon is round enough to pass."

"We are talking about our son, Baelor."

"Yes, I know. I'm simply saying—"

"Not a decoration."

"Agreed. Completely agreed." Baelor pressed his lips together in a way that suggested he did not entirely disagree with the visual, but had the good sense not to say so.

Maekar resumed pacing. A full circuit of the room, then half of another. Then Baelor spoke again, his voice dropping to something more measured.

"I was asked today by one of the planners whether the weirwood tree could be moved." He let that sit for a moment. "Aesthetically inconsistent with the rest of the arrangements, apparently."

Maekar stopped pacing.

"I will personally relocate his hands," he said, "if he goes anywhere near that tree." Maekar spat.

"I thought something similar." Baelor's voice was mild. "I told him it was not open for discussion." A beat. "Valarr, for his part, found the man in council this afternoon and embarrassed him rather thoroughly in front of the others."

Maekar's expression shifted, the hard lines of it easing into something that was not quite a smile but was adjacent to one. A short exhale through his nose. "Good boy."

"Very good," Baelor agreed, and there was real warmth in it.

Maekar finally dropped into the chair across from Baelor with the heaviness of a man setting down something he had been carrying since dawn. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Have you spoken to Merser about the seating arrangements?"

"Not yet."

"Half the lords are refusing to sit within ten feet of the other half. It landed on my desk this morning as though I have nothing better to do than arbitrate the wounded pride of men who cannot manage a banquet without supervision." He leaned back. "I told them to sit down and be grateful for the invitation."

Baelor considered this. "How was that received?"

"Poorly."

"Mm."

"Baelor, these people have been in this Keep for four days." Maekar looked at him with complete seriousness. "I have aged four years."

"You look the same to me," you offered from the pillows.

They both looked at you.

"You are supposed to be resting," Maekar said.

"I am resting. I am resting and listening. It is entirely possible to do both."

He made a sound that communicated his position on this without requiring any further words. Baelor looked back at the fire, the corner of his mouth tucked in with quiet amusement.

They kept talking for a while after that. Maekar listed all the annoying things that had happened to him that day, and Baelor listened with his usual calm patience, occasionally offering a dry observation that made Maekar's mouth do that thing it did when he was trying not to find something funny.

At some point the fire became embers.

Baelor set aside the last of the letters. Maekar rolled his shoulders and both stood up.

They went to the crib first. You watched them from the pillows, this thing they did every night without discussion or ceremony, each of them leaning over to press a kiss to Aemon's small head, careful not to wake him.

Maekar straightened and looked down at the baby for a moment longer before stepping away. Baelor tucked the corner of the blanket back with two gentle fingers.

Then they came to bed.

Maekar settled in front of you, solid and warm. Baelor curved in behind you, and for a moment you were simply aware of being entirely enclosed, the warmth of them on both sides pressing out the last of the noise and the endless weight of the day.

Maekar said something low and indistinct. Baelor made a sound of agreement.

Then Baelor's hand settled over your hip, his fingers drawing slow, idle circles against the silk of your nightgown. He pressed his lips once to the back of your neck, warm and unhurried.

Maekar found your hand beneath the blankets and lifted it, kissed your knuckles, and tucked it back down again, his fingers loosely threaded through yours.

Both of them stilled.

"Goodnight," Baelor murmured.

You closed your eyes and let the warmth of them pull you under.

You surfaced from sleep gradually, pulled up from the dark by something quieter than sound. A moment passed before you understood what had woken you.

Then you heard it.

The small, fussy catch of Aemon's breath from the crib at the foot of the bed, not yet a cry but heading there.

You were already moving before you were fully awake.

Both your husbands hands were on you, you noticed it as you began to stir. Maekar's hand lay heavy across your stomach, and Baelor's rested just below it, their fingers nearly touching. As though even in sleep the two of them had known you might try to leave and had unconsciously, decided against it.

You smiled in the dark and began the careful work of extracting yourself.

Maekar had rolled onto his stomach at some point in the night, one arm flung wide, his face pressed into the pillow, breathing with the deep, slightly aggrieved cadence of a man who even in sleep managed to be annoyed. You lifted his hand by the wrist, slow and deliberate, and set it gently down against the mattress. He didn't stir.

Baelor had stayed exactly as he'd fallen asleep, on his side, his expression smoothed into something younger and unguarded. His hand you moved with equal care, and he made a small sound, his brow creasing briefly before releasing. You held your breath. He settled.

You slipped out from between them, bare feet finding the cool floor, and stood for a moment in the dark making sure neither of them had woken.

Maekar snored once, softly and with heavy breath, you moved to the crib.

Aemon's eyes were open and fixed on the dark as if he was searching something, his mouth was working.

Another few moments and he would have announced himself properly, but for now he only looked up at you as you leaned over him, and his whole small body seemed to relax at the familiar shape of you against the dark. He smiled at the sight of your face and softly cooed.

"Hello, little one," you breathed. "I heard you."

You lifted him with effortless care, settling his small weight into the crook of your arm before lowering yourself into the chair by the window.

When you loosened your gown, he latched at once at your breast and the quiet rhythm of his feeding filled the room.

Your gaze drifted upward, past the glass, to the sky beyond. It was impossibly clear, one of those deep, breathless hours of night when the world seemed to pause, when even the city surrendered its noise.

Nothing stood between you and the stars. They burned sharp and steady, scattered across the dark like something eternal and watchful.

And just like that, you were thinking of Winterfell, of home.

The cold came first, not just the bite of it, but the way it settled into stone and bone alike. Grey walls rising stark against the sky. In winter, sound behaved differently there, softened and drawn close, as though the castle itself were holding its breath. You could almost walk those halls again; the vast stretch of the Great Hall, the quiet hush of the godswood, the warm, waking scents that drifted from the kitchens at dawn.

You saw your mother in motion as she passed through torchlit corridors. Heard your father before you ever saw him, his heavy steps echoing through the stone, as if the walls themselves knew him and answered back.

You had been five, perhaps.

Benjen eight, already carrying himself with a kind of quiet responsibility. Rickon seven and utterly chaotic in all matters. It had been his idea, of course. He’d shaken you awake in the middle of the night, finger pressed to his lips, eyes alight with the fierce excitement of a plan long decided.

The kitchens, he had mouthed. Old Nan made blackberry tarts today. I saw them.

You had been out of bed before he’d finished.

At night, the kitchens felt cavernous, strange and unfamiliar, swallowed in shadow in a way they never were by day, when they roared with heat and voices. The three of you had paused in the doorway, small and silent, simply staring into the darkened space as if you’d crossed into something sacred.

Then Benjen spotted them, the tarts, set out along the long table, hidden beneath a cloth and that was the end of hesitation.

You’d eaten them sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. By the second, Rickon’s face was stained deep with blackberry juice, his triumph as vivid as the mess. Benjen had tried, with grave seriousness, to portion them out evenly, calculating what could be taken without notice. And you had eaten yours slowly, carefully, stretching each bite for as long as you could. You always did, when you loved something.

The stone had been bitterly cold beneath you. The air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and sugar. And you had felt it then, with the fierce, unquestioning certainty only children possess, that this was one of the best nights of your life.

Your father had known, of course. He always did.

He said nothing the next morning. Only looked, across the breakfast table, at Rickon’s still-stained mouth with an expression of deep, enduring patience.

Benjen had bent over his porridge.

And you had found the ceiling endlessly fascinating.

Aemon’s suckling slowed, softened, until it became little more than a drowsy rhythm. You looked down at him, eyes fully closed now, his cheek warm and heavy against your arm, the small fist at your breast finally loosening, uncurling. Something in your chest shifted, slow and deep, a warmth that settled and stayed.

You bent your head and pressed your lips to his hair, breathing him in.

And then a thought rose, clear and sudden.

A memory from only a few days past. A kitchen maid, flour on her hands, curiosity bright in her voice:

“My lady, why blackberry tarts specifically?”

“There will be many northern lords present. Blackberries are something of a delicacy in the North. Hardy fruit. They thrive in the cold.”

Your gaze lifted, drifting to the bed where your husbands slept, two shadowed forms, their breathing slow and even in the dark. Then back to Aemon.

Half-asleep as he was, he seemed determined not to be entirely forgotten. A faint shift, a soft sound, as though he sensed your attention slipping.

The corners of your mouth curved.

“What do you say, little one,” you murmured, voice barely more than breath. “Shall we go and find your brothers?”

Aemon blinked, slow, uncertain, but present.

You gathered him closer, snug against your arm, then reached for the robe draped over the chair by the door. The fabric whispered as you pulled it on. Carefully, quietly, you eased the chamber door open.

The guards outside startled.

One of them actually stepped back.

“Y—Your Grace.” The taller recovered first, though his voice came out a touch too loud for the hour.

You lifted a finger to your lips and inclined your head toward the chamber behind you.

Both men stiffened at once, voices dropping to urgent whispers.

Their eyes flickered downward and then snapped resolutely upward again, fixing somewhere far above your head with the rigid concentration of men who valued their continued existence.

You suspected, with amusement, that if either of your husbands stepped out now and found their guards looking at you, there would be fewer guards come morning.

“My lady,” the shorter one said carefully, gaze anchored above your left shoulder, “where are you going?”

“I need to walk a little. Stretch my legs.” You shifted Aemon lightly on your hip, offering a pleasant, untroubled smile.

They exchanged a look.

“We cannot leave you unguarded. If either of the Princes were to—”

“I order you to remain at this door,” you said, gently but with a finality that had stilled council chambers. “If anything happens, I will scream. You will hear me well enough.”

Another glance passed between them. A conversation entire in its silence.

And then you turned the corner, moving just quickly enough that neither could gather a proper objection before you were gone.

You made your way down the long corridor, your steps soundless against the stone. Aemon gave a soft, pleased coo, catching your finger in his small hand and promptly guiding it to his mouth when you brushed his chubby cheek. You huffed a quiet breath of laughter and let him have it.

The keep slept around you. Tapestries loomed in shadow, doorways dark and still, the air cool against your bare feet as you passed.

At the first door, you paused.

The guards there reacted much the same as your own, startled, eyes widening before darting anywhere but at you once they registered the nightgown. You lifted a hand at once: stay, quiet, not a word. They obeyed without hesitation.

You slipped inside.

Valarr’s chamber was exactly as it always had been, orderly, composed, every detail in its proper place. Even when he was very young, he had kept his space this way. You had always found something quietly endearing in that.

He was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face, dark hair loose across the pillow. That single strand of silver lay against his temple, catching what little light there was.

You crossed the room and rested your hand lightly on his shoulder.

He woke slowly, gently, as though rising through water rather than being pulled from sleep.

He blinked once, then focused on you, taking in the robe, his little brother, the hour. His mismatched eyes, so like his father’s, the very thing that had made half the court catch its breath at his birth, were soft with sleep, warm and steady.

“Mother… is everything all right?”

“Everyone is perfectly well,” you murmured, smiling. “Get up. Put something warm on.”

He studied you for a moment.

“Are we doing something we shouldn’t?” he asked, his voice threaded with genuine curiosity.

“Absolutely not,” you said lightly. “We are simply going for a walk.”

The smile that spread across his face was so entirely his father’s that, for a moment, it caught at your breath

"Give me a moment," he whispered, already pushing back the covers.

He crossed to the chair where his linen clothes were draped and pulled them on, his arm catching in the sleeve. You reached over and guided it through without a word, and he gave you a small, grateful smile.

Leaving his chambers, he simply fell into step beside you as you slipped back into the corridor. Aemon reached out to his brother and Valarr took his small fist and held it for a second. Aemon happily bounced at his brothers attention.

The guards watched you both go with the expression of men who had decided, collectively, that whatever was happening was above their station to address.

Daeron's chamber was next.

The reaction here was considerably less serene. He jolted upright the moment the door opened, already half out of bed before he was fully awake, violet eyes wide and scanning the room for whatever disaster had sent his mother to his door in the middle of the night. You watched his gaze move from you to Valarr to Aemon and back to you, working through the evidence.

You said nothing. You only smiled.

Daeron stared at you for a long moment, his longer silver hair sticking in several directions, looking deeply uncertain about every single aspect of this situation. Then he pressed his mouth together, exhaled through his nose, and reached for his clothes with the air of someone who had decided to reserve judgement until more information became available.

He shuffled out into the corridor still tucking in his shirt, and fell in behind Valarr.

"Any idea what Mothers doing?" he muttered, low enough that he presumably thought you couldn't hear.

Valarr considered this with great seriousness. "No," he said. "But she looks pleased with herself."

"That's what worries me."

You did not dignify this with a response and led them both down the corridor.

Aerion and Matarys's chamber was last. You eased the door open to find them both deeply, thoroughly asleep. Matarys on his back with the composed stillness of a small bat, Aerion face-down and diagonal, one leg hanging entirely off the bed. You went to Aerion first and touched his shoulder.

He was awake in an instant, blinking up at you with those quick, bright violet eyes that never took long to arrive at full alertness. He took one look at your face, the hour, the assembled brothers visible in the doorway behind you and something in him simply knew. He sat up without a word, shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed your hand.

Matarys required rather more encouragement. He surfaced from sleep slowly and with great personal offense, squinting at you with an grumpy expression. For all that he was Baelor’s son, there was no doubt he had inherited something unmistakable from Maekar.

And so you went, down through the long, torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep, all six of you, Aemon riding high on your arm and looking back over your shoulder at his brothers, smiling at them. Every guard you passed did a visible double-take. Every servant you encountered stopped and stared. You smiled at each of them in turn with the serene pleasantness of a woman who had done absolutely nothing wrong and intended to continue doing so.

You stopped at last before a wide, weathered oak door, its edges dark with years of kitchen smoke, warmth bleeding faintly through the wood even at this hour.

You turned to face them.

Four children looked back at you. Valarr composed and curious, Daeron suspicious but present, Matarys still half-asleep and Aerion practically vibrating, feeling something.

You bounced Aemon once and let the silence build just long enough.

"I heard," you began, "that the kitchens have been preparing the most extraordinary sweets for your grandsire and grandmother’s wedding anniversary. Heaps of them. Every kind imaginable." You tilted your head thoughtfully. "Now. You all know how your grandsire feels about things that are too sweet."

A pause.

"It would really be a terrible shame," you continued, "if something were served that didn't suit his palate. Someone really ought to go and check."

The silence lasted approximately one breath.

Aerion's face split into a grin so wide it threatened to leave his face entirely. Matarys, sleep forgotten, straightened with sudden and complete attention. Daeron looked at the ceiling briefly and then looked back at you with the very beginning of a smile pulling at his mouth despite his best efforts. Valarr simply looked at you with his warm, delighted eyes and said nothing, because nothing needed saying.

You put your free hand on the door.

"We are, of course, doing this purely in service of your grandsire," you said gravely.

"Of course," Valarr agreed, equally grave.

You pushed the door open, and the warm smell of sugar and woodsmoke and blackberries rolled out to meet you all.

The kitchens at this hour were vast and still, the great fires banked low, the long tables scrubbed clean and waiting for morning. Copper pots hung in rows along the walls, catching the ember-glow, and the air was thick and warm and sweet in a way that settled in your chest like a memory before you had even fully stepped inside.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, all of you, just looking.

It was Aerion who moved first, naturally, already padding toward the long central table with the focused intent of a hound that had caught a scent. Matarys followed a half-step behind, equally determined.

"Quietly," you murmured after them, though you were smiling.

Daeron drifted in behind you, his eyes moving around the kitchen with the alert. He spotted the far shelf almost immediately. "There," he said, low, and you followed his gaze.

Three wide trays, covered in cloth, sitting on the long shelf above the bread boards. The smell coming from them was extraordinary.

Valarr was already pulling a stool across without being asked, he set it below the shelf and looked at you.

"Allow me," he said, with a small courtly incline of his head that was so thoroughly Baelor it made something squeeze warmly behind your ribs.

He climbed up and lifted the cloth.

The blackberry tarts were arranged in neat rows, small and perfect, their crusts golden, the dark filling catching the low light like gemstones. There were other things too. Honeyed almonds in paper twists, small spiced cakes dusted with sugar, candied orange peels in a shallow bowl, and sugar filled dates; but it was the tarts that held the room.

Aerion made a sound of profound satisfaction.

"Go on," you said again, and sat yourself down on the wide kitchen bench with Aemon in your lap, bouncing him up and down.

Valarr passed out the tarts with careful precision, one to Daeron, one to Matarys, one to Aerion, and then two to you. Aerion, impatient as ever, bit into his before fully receiving it, earning a sharp, amused look.

Then Valarr climbed down and settled beside you on the bench. He handed you one tart, keeping the other in his own hand. Together you sat in the warm, quiet darkness of the kitchens, the great sleeping castle looming above, and ate.

Aemon watched with rapt fascination, reaching toward the tart and fussing a little. You smiled at him, dipped your finger into the center of the tart, and brought it close. He eagerly grasped your finger and suckled, delighted by the sweet taste.

For a few beautiful minutes there was nothing but the sound of quiet chewing and the occasional delighted sound from Aemon, who it seemed loved the sweet taste.

"Well?" you asked, after a moment.

Aerion considered his tart with great professional gravity. "Too sweet," he announced. "Definitely too sweet. Grandsire will hate it."

"Terrible," Matarys agreed, and took an enormous bite.

"We should try another," Aerion said. "To be thorough."

"For grandsire," Matarys said seriously.

"Purely for grandsire," Valarr agreed, already reaching for one.

Daeron said nothing. He was on his second tart and leaning against the table with his ankles crossed and the most relaxed expression you had seen on his face in a fortnight, so you decided that counted as endorsement enough.

Then Aerion reached for the tray and his elbow caught the edge and a tart slid off and landed filling-side down on Matarys pants.

Everyone looked at it.

Matarys looked at Aerion.

"That," Aerion said carefully, "was an accident."

A pause that lasted precisely long enough for Matarys to decide it was not.

He picked up the fallen tart, weighed it for a single, deliberate moment and pressed it firmly into Aerion’s cheek.

The kitchen erupted.

Aerion retaliated instantly, scooping up a fistful of tart and smearing it across Matarys’s shirt with wholehearted enthusiasm.

Matarys lunged.

Aerion ducked under the table and reappeared on the other side.

You were on your feet at once, “boys, boys, boys”, hissed in urgent succession as you turned in a slow circle, keeping Aemon lifted safely above the chaos while the two of them waged war around you, their fierce whispers rapidly abandoning any pretense of quiet.

Daeron, who had withdrawn to the far table with folded arms and the expression of someone firmly committed to non-involvement, took a stray piece of crust to the side of the face.

He went very still.

There was a brief, visible moment in which he reconsidered his position.

He revised it.

Reaching out, he caught Aerion by the collar and, with calm precision, deposited an entire tart squarely atop his head.

“Daeron—”

“He had it coming,” Daeron said simply.

And then Valarr, your composed boy, all grace and good sense, leaned past you, dipped his hand into a jar of blackberry jam, and flung it neatly into Matarys’s face as he rushed by.

“Valarr,” you said.

“It seemed fair,” he replied.

What followed was pure chaos.

There was jam, everywhere.

At some point, an entire tart sailed through the air.

Aerion seized a tray and began distributing its contents on every one of his brothers, sparing only you and Aemon.

Matarys lost a shoe.

A careless flick sent jam across your cheek, your robe marked beyond saving and somehow, impossibly, Aemon, who had remained tucked safely against you, acquired a bold smear of purple across his face. He was delighted by it, shrieking with laughter each time another tart went flying.

All four of them chased each other through the kitchens, shouting and laughing, slipping on stone and grabbing at sleeves. At one point Valarr and Daeron turned on each other, hands in collars, smearing jam across one another’s faces with breathless indignation.

Aerion and Matarys collapsed laughing at the sight.

And you laughed with them, openly and without restraint, forgetting entirely the hour.

You had just opened your mouth to speak—

—and the door opened.

Every child in the kitchen froze.

The silence fell so fast it rang, broken only by Aemon, who had no understanding of consequence and cooed happily into it.

Maekar filled the doorway.

He had come as he woke: linen shirt, linen trousers, bare feet, silver hair disheveled. His expression made it very clear he was not amused.

His gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in everything with deliberate care. The overturned trays. The ruined tarts. Jam smeared across stone and wood alike. Matarys. Aerion. Daeron. Valarr. Each of them marked with evidence. Aemon with purple staining his cheek.

He said nothing.

Baelor stepped in behind him, looking over his brother’s shoulder. His expression followed the same path but where Maekar’s expression became strict and controlled, Baelor’s faltered, catching on something close to laughter.

His mismatched eyes found yours. Moved, one by one, across each of your children. Then returned.

No one breathed.

Baelor stepped forward.

He crossed the kitchen came to your side, and without a word, bent to Aemon, pressing a kiss to his jam-smeared cheek. The sound was soft and distinct.

Aemond squealed.

“Blackberry,” Baelor said, “Excellent. Very good filling. Not too sweet.”

Aerion broke first.

A sharp, breathless laugh escaped him, quickly smothered, unsuccessfully.

“We were,” you began, with impeccable dignity, “conducting a quality inspection.”

“At the third hour of the night,” Maekar said.

“Sweets can change considerably after dark,” Valarr offered, helpfully, from his position of perfect composure at the edge of the bench.

Maekar looked at him.

Looked at the others.

Looked at you.

Something shifted in his expression, he turned away without a word and crossed to the shelf above the breadboards.

He lifted the cloth from a third tray.

Selected a tart and turned back, leaning lightly against the shelf as he took a measured bite.

“Too sweet,” he said flatly and took another bite.

And the kitchen, in one long, helpless exhale of relief and laughter, fell completely apart.

The atmosphere settled like something warm being poured into a cold room. Your sons arranged themselves across the benches in the kitchen, voices dropping to the low comfortable chatter.

Matarys was attempting to explain to Daeron, with great conviction, the precise aerodynamics of a thrown tart.

Aerion had helped himself to another and was eating it untroubled contentment. Valarr sat on a counter in front of you, occasionally contributing a dry observation that sent Daeron into muffled laughter.

You sat in the middle of it and felt something in your chest so full it almost ached.

Baelor settled on your right, Maekar on your left, and the bench, already crowded, the three of you pressed close in the warm ember-lit dark. Aemon drowsing now in your arms, finally running out of night.

You felt fingers at your collarbone.

Maekar, lifted a streak of jam from your skin with two careful fingers and brought them to his mouth. His eyes were on your sons. His expression revealed nothing.

You felt the warmth of it all the way down.

On your other side, Baelor leaned forward and pressed his thumb gently to Aemon’s cheek, collecting the last traces of purple there, and tasted it with the same quiet seriousness he had given his verdict earlier.

Then he settled back and both of them drew closer to you, until you were pressed entirely between them.

Then lips at your ear, warm breath, Baelor's voice dropped to something that was for you alone.

"Don't slip away in the middle of the night like that." The words were soft.

The tone beneath them was not.

"Maekar woke first and found you gone, the bed empty, Aemon’s crib empty. We thought—" A pause, brief but weighted, "The guards told us you had gone yourself, with the children. You cannot imagine what the moments before that information felt like."

You shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen.

On your other side Maekar said nothing. He didn't need to. His hand had found the back of your neck, large and steady, his thumb tracing slow along the nape in a way that made it very difficult to think clearly about anything at all.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, meaning it.

Baelor's lips moved to just below your ear, "You will make it up to us," he murmured, so low it barely qualified as sound. "When the children are back in their beds."

The warmth that moved through you had nothing to do with the kitchen fire.

Maekar's thumb stilled at your neck. "Next time," he said, low and even, "you wake one of us." His fingers pressed fractionally tighter, just once, deliberate enough that it could not be mistaken for accident.

You turned to look at him. He was watching your sons, jaw set, the firelight catching the silver of his hair and beard. But his hand remained at your neck and the tips of his ears were very slightly red.

"Next time," you agreed softly.

He gave a single nod. His hand did not move

Baelor pressed his lips once to your temple, slow and deliberate, and then leaned back and surveyed the kitchen. He exhaled a long quiet breath that had the shape of a laugh living somewhere inside it.

"Your grandsire," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry to your sons, "is not going to be pleased."

All four of them turned to look at him with varying degrees of guilt.

Then Baelor glanced at Valarr and tipped his chin toward the tray. “Pass me one.”

You stared at him.

Valarr, without hesitation, chose a tart with careful consideration and held it out. Baelor took it and bit in as if nothing at all were amiss.

Daeron looked at Maekar.

Maekar, already on his second, a trace of blackberry at the corner of his mouth.

And something in your chest gave way.

You thought of your brother back in Winterfell, stolen nights and sweet desserts.

This, you thought. This is exactly what I wanted.

You did not realise you were crying until Maekar's thumb came to your jaw, tilting your face toward him. He said nothing. He simply looked at you, and then pressed his lips to your forehead, firm and quiet and sure.

On your other side Baelor turned and found your hand under the bench.

You sat between them in the warm dark and let yourself have it, all of it, the laughter still ringing in your chest, the ache of it, the sweetness.

The faces of your children. The weight of Aemon sleeping.

The smell of blackberries and woodsmoke and the particular warmth of the people you loved.

That night you would keep. You would fold it up and put it somewhere safe and take it out again on the days when everything was loud and exhausting and too much, and you would remember it, the way you remembered your childhood.

And you would be alright.

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“Father please I want my doll back.”

“Well, no she pulled my hair.”

“You said we were going to the gardens.”

“Papa—“

All voices mixed into one, small hands tugging and roughing their way onto the fabric of his doublet, the usual string and broad posture faltering under all of the weight. Aerion had clung to his arm, attempting to snatch whatever Daella had taken, most likely already hers back from her, Daeron shoving him off, tangled around his legs. Rhae babbled in the corner, rocking in the still of her bassinet, whacking the rattle in her hands against the cotton covered wood, bright violets gawking up at her father. Aemon sat beside her, a book tossed into his lap, absentmindedly grabbing the pages as he held her other hand in his.

Sweet it would seem, but even as a babe she was much a handful as the rest of them. Something her elder brother knew not to get too close nearly hit with the wooden toy.

Though the final blow, came quite literally. Aegon only tel years of age and on small wobbling legs, had swung his sword, wooden and bravely straight into Maekar’s shins. He cursed aloud, all children stopping short at once as he stumbled forward. Daella grappled in his arms, small hands tangling into the silver hair at his head only agitating him further, though he wouldn’t show that to her. Aerion fell into his father’s middle with a shove from Daeron jokingly, the pair of them tumbling to the ground at his feet.

“Ow, that was in the bloody shin—“ He groaned, Aegon lowering the sword as he met his father’s eyes, exhausted and displeased. Though he stopped himself short seeing them all, still around him, the air of mischief still rife in the air, but one thought came over him, sly and useful.

“Do you want me to call for your mother?” He called out them, grumbling more like as his hand clasped gently around Daella’s hand, removing it from their tight grasp at his beard and hair.

And that was enough.

“No.”

All of them moved at once, Aegon throwing the sword to the side, it colliding with the plush of the ottoman, tucking into Aemon’s side next to Rhae’s bassinet. Daella curled into him, as sweet as he ever was though knowing at the mention of you straight away.

The eldest boys were the quickest to jump, hands and feet shoving into one another as they climbed to their feet, far too old to be wrestling at one another, but their childish sneers remained.

He chuckled to himself then, a low one, barely noticeable but proud. The sight of all of them straight backed and feigned innocence, still kicking eachother when no one was looking.

Works every time, they’re scared to death of her. He thought.

“Call me for what?”

The hairs of the back of his neck stood up, jumping slightly, curling just into himself as he spun, to face you.

“Y/N, my love..” His voice stumbled, only by the slightest bit enough, the air escaping his lungs quickly camouflaged by the roll of his shoulders, a fish of wind meeting you as you stood before him, arms crossed.

“We were just waiting on you.”

“So it seems.” Your eyes cast across them all, like butter wouldn’t melt, sweet smiles finding you, your lips pulling into a smirk at the obvious stumble in his step and flush at his cheeks. It was lighthearted of course, though your words were short all of you knew better, the children resuming their chaos once more as he set Daella down. They were not scared of you, not really, as they had no reason to be.. but Maekar, well, perhaps he was just projecting, your presence never shy of making him shiver — and he did not need to tell you that.

A heavy arm wrapped around you, kissing your forehead, “We were.” He insisted, slinking you into his grip as he moved you just a pace away. You stepped with him, watching over them once more, distanced only by the slightest more of respect than fear. Something that your husband often admired, your nature, the ability to command the room as well as your family, so much so it was clear whose presence truly kept you all together. Yours.

Your hand curled at the nape of his neck, smoothing the still flush rosy red of his skin, chuckling softly, bringing him down for a kiss. He took it gratefully, lips pressing to yours softly, ignoring the few gestures ‘yuck’’s behind you. You hushed them, giggled and secret disgusted faces still pulled just out of your view.

“They give you trouble because you let them walk on you.” Your palm slid over the side of his face, resting just over the white, coarse hairs of his beard shaking your head lightly.

“I do not.” He tutted, glaring down at you, though it did not meet his eyes, only squinting them slightly as his nose bumped yours.

He cracked on a Friday afternoon. You had both decided to drive out to the coastline, away from the clatter of the city, to watch the waves crash against the rocks. The drive was long, the inside of his vintage black car smelling of leather, his cedarwood cologne, and the faint, sweet scent of your shampoo. You’d kicked off your sandals, curled your bare legs up on the seat, and within twenty minutes, your head had lolled against the window, your breathing deepening into the soft, even rhythm of sleep.

Valarr’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He glanced over. The sun slanted across your face, illuminating the fine, soft hairs on your cheek. Your lips were parted just slightly.

His right hand left the gear shift.

It hovered in the air for a second, trembling. He should put it back. He was a gentleman. His father had instilled in him a code of honor as rigid as Valyrian steel. A man did not take advantage. A man's love was a shield, not a sword.

But the memory of his father’s lectures warred with the roaring in his blood. He placed his palm on your knee. Just a friendly, steadying touch, he told himself. The car hit a slight bump in the road. You stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, but didn’t wake.

His hand didn’t move. Instead, it crept higher. His fingers splayed over the warm, smooth skin of your thigh. He could feel the hem of your cotton skirt, the light fabric bunching under his knuckles. He was barely breathing, his eyes fixed on the empty road ahead, his peripheral vision consumed by the sight of his own pale hand against your sun-kissed skin.

He slid his fingers inward. The contact was featherlight at first, just tracing the seam of your inner thigh. Your legs shifted, parting slightly in your sleep, an unconscious invitation that sent a jolt straight to his groin. His jeans became painfully tight. He could feel the damp heat of you through the thin cotton of your underwear. He pressed the heel of his hand gently, right there, against the soft mound. He could feel the shape of you, the yielding give.

His fingers curled, rubbing a slow, torturous circle against the fabric covering your core. You made a small, breathy sound in your throat, a sound that wasn't discomfort. It was a sound of sleepy, dreamy pleasure. It shattered the last vestiges of his self-control. He was a monster. He knew it. He was supposed to be protecting you, and here he was, using your unconsciousness to steal a taste of the paradise he craved. The guilt was a cold, sharp stone in his gut, but it did nothing to quell the fire in his hand.

He drove the rest of the way with one hand, the other resting, heavy and hot, on your thigh, his thumb stroking a rhythmic pattern. When you finally blinked awake as he pulled into the scenic overlook, he had snatched his hand back to the gear shift, his knuckles white. He made a joke about the view. You smiled at him, bleary and trusting, and he felt like the lowest creature in the Seven Kingdoms.

The obsession didn't stop. It grew roots, fed by the spring sap. He found himself in your apartment one afternoon when you were in the shower. His excuse was flimsy, he’d come to pick up a book he’d left. Instead, he found himself in your bedroom, his face pressed into the soft wool of the cardigan you’d left draped over your desk chair. He inhaled deeply, his eyes squeezed shut. It smelled like you. Like clean laundry, the vanilla lotion you used, and the indefinable, lovely scent of your skin. He was hard again, just from the smell of you. He felt a wave of shame so profound it nearly made him nauseous, but he stood there, breathing you in like a drowning man gasping for air.

The breaking point came a week later, on a night when the air was thick with the scent of jasmine. You were both in his living room, the windows thrown open to the warm night. You’d just finished a movie and were in a funk, poking morosely at a stray thread on the sofa cushion.

“It’s just…barren out there,” you sighed, gesturing vaguely at the world beyond the window. “I went on that date with the guy from the economics department, the one Daeron said was ‘nice.’ He spent forty-five minutes explaining cryptocurrency and then tried to split the bill down to the exact copper penny.”

Valarr’s jaw clenched. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, your legs dangling near his shoulder. “He sounds like an absolute dullard.”

“They’re all dullards! Or they just want one thing and then they’re gone. I just…I miss it, you know? Not the dullards. But the…the closeness.” You pulled a face. “I don’t want to sleep with a stranger. The whole idea of starting from scratch, explaining what I like, trusting someone not to be weird about it…it’s exhausting.”

This was it. The moment. The words were a maelstrom in his skull. I’m right here. I know what you like. I know you hate the taste of black coffee but love the smell. I know you get cold feet in bed even in summer. I know the exact spot on your back that knots up when you’re stressed, and I’ve dreamed about kissing it until you sigh.

What came out of his mouth was something else entirely. His voice was low, scraped raw. He was staring straight ahead at the dark television screen, terrified to look at you.

“If it’s…intercourse you miss,” he said, the word sounding clinical and absurd in his mouth. “I could…provide that. For you.”

The silence that followed was so thick it seemed to have its own texture. You stopped breathing.

“As friends,” he added hastily, his heart pounding so hard he was sure you could see his shirt moving. “Nothing weird. Just…a physical need. Like…like me rubbing your back when it’s stiff.”

The memory of his last back rub seared through both your minds. His hands working the muscles along your spine, and you’d felt the undeniable, rigid pressure of him beneath you. You had pretended not to notice, just as he had pretended his breath wasn't coming in ragged gasps. You’d both been lying to yourselves for so long you were experts at it.

“Okay,” you whispered. The word was barely audible.

He turned his head so fast he almost cricked his neck. “Okay?”

“Okay. As friends. Just this once.”

Just this once.

His bedroom was cleaner than yours, obsessively so. He led you there, his hand gentle on the small of your back, a gesture he’d done a thousand times. But this time, the touch burned through the thin fabric of your shirt. The door clicked shut behind you. The spring night air drifted in, carrying the sound of distant laughter from a party somewhere.

And then the illusion of “just friends” shattered like a dropped glass.

His mouth was on yours, and it was not the kiss of a friend doing a favor. It was starving. Desperate. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if you were the most precious thing in the world. He walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of his bed, and you tumbled down onto the cool, grey linen sheets. He followed, a supplicant.

Somehow, your clothes were gone. The lamp on his nightstand cast a low, golden glow across his body, lean and strong, his pale skin flushed with heat. His eyes were wide, pupils blown. He kissed a path down your stomach. When his shoulders pushed your thighs apart and he settled between them, you gasped.

“Valarr, you don’t...”

But he did. He looked up at you from between your legs, his hair tousled, his expression one of agonized adoration. “I’ve thought about this,” he confessed, his voice a wrecked whisper. “Every night. The way you’d taste. Let me. Please. Please.”

He didn't wait for another answer. He lowered his head, and his mouth found your center. The first touch of his tongue was hesitant, a soft, flat lick that made your back arch off the bed. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure relief, and the vibrations went through you. He was a quick study, his every movement guided by your soft gasps and the way your fingers twisted in his hair. He learned what made you whimper, what made you pull, what made your thighs tremble against his ears. He feasted on you as if he’d been lost in a desert and you were the first spring of fresh water.

And all the while, his hips were moving. Unconsciously at first, then with a frantic, grinding rhythm. He was humping the mattress, his weeping cock trapped against the linen, leaving a damp, sticky smear. The friction was maddening and insufficient. He was overwhelmed, drowning in the scent and taste and sounds of you. The guilt was still there, a specter in the corner of his mind, this isn't what a gentleman does, this isn't what she agreed to, but the pleasure was a hurricane, and the guilt was just a faint, distant bell.

He pulled his mouth away, his lips and chin slick, his eyes wild. He crawled up your body, his weight a welcome anchor. His erection pressed hot and heavy against your thigh.

“Just the tip,” he promised, the words tumbling out in a frantic, breathless rush. “It doesn't count. It doesn't. I just need…I need to feel you. Just for a second. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll stop.”

He positioned himself, the broad, flushed head of him nudging against your entrance. He didn't push in. He just rubbed. He slid himself through your wet folds, coating himself in your slickness. He watched, mesmerized, as his tip glistened with the evidence of your shared desire. He was panting, little whimpers catching in his throat with every pass over your clit.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, the words a broken litany. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I was raised better than this…my father…I’m ruining it…”

And then, his control, frayed to a single, snapping thread, broke. On the next pass, the angle shifted. The head of him caught, and the searing, tight heat of you swallowed him.

He froze. A long, shuddering groan was torn from his chest. “Oh, gods.”

He had promised just the tip. But his body was a traitor. He pressed forward, an inch. Then another. The feeling was so staggering, so complete, it short-circuited every rational thought in his brain. He watched his length disappear into you, inch by agonizing, blissful inch, until he was seated to the hilt. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his whole body shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered again, the apology muffled against your skin. But he was already moving, a slow, deep withdrawal followed by an inexorable slide back home. He wasn't stopping. He couldn't. The rhythm he found was deep and grinding, his pubic bone pressing against your clit with every thrust. He was whispering your name like a prayer and an apology all in one, his hips working with a desperate, single-minded purpose.

His hands found yours, lacing his fingers through them and pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head. He lifted his face to look at you, his eyes wet with a storm of emotion: guilt, ecstasy, and a love so profound and terrifying he’d been hiding from it for years.

The world swam back into focus in fragments. The damp warmth of his breath against your throat. The frantic, rabbit-fast thrum of his heart where his chest pressed against yours. The overwhelming, foreign sensation of being so utterly filled by him. Valarr Targaryen, your best friend, the man you'd watched from across library tables and coffee shop counters for three agonizing years, was buried deep inside you, and he was shaking like a leaf in a storm.

You should've say something. You should've pushed at his shoulders, demanded an explanation, reminded him that "just the tip" had become a spectacular, breathtaking lie. But your body, traitor as well, had already made its decision. Your legs had wrapped around his hips, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer, deeper. A soft, surprised sound escaped your throat. It felt like coming home to a house you'd only ever admired from the street, forbidden to enter.

He lifted his head, and the sight of his face cleaved something open in your chest. His eyes were glassy, shimmering with unshed tears of overwhelm. His cheeks were flushed a deep, feverish pink. He looked wrecked.

"I can't," he gasped, the words a broken rasp against your lips. He withdrew a few inches, the drag of him against your inner walls making you both moan, and then he pushed back in, a helpless, instinctive thrust. "I can't stop. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You feel…you feel heavenly."

His rhythm was clumsy. He was so far gone, his usual grace and composure stripped away, leaving only raw, aching need. He shifted his weight, bracing one forearm by your head, his other hand fumbling between your bodies. His fingers found your clit, and he pressed there, his touch unpracticed but earnest, trying to replicate the rhythm his tongue had learned so quickly.

"Like this?" he panted, his brow furrowed in concentration even as his hips stuttered. "Tell me. Tell me what you need. I want…I need you to…please."

The combination of his deep, shuddering thrusts and the insistent pressure of his fingers was unraveling you. The knot of tension that had been building since his mouth first touched your core tightened, coiling hot and urgent in your belly. You arched up into him, your nails digging into the sweat-slicked skin of his shoulders. He was close too; you could feel it in the frantic jerk of his hips, hear it in the high, desperate whimpers that were spilling from his parted lips without any semblance of control.

"That's it," he babbled, his voice cracking. "That's it, please, I can feel you, you're so tight, oh gods, I'm going to...I can't hold it..."

Your climax hit you like a wave crashing. You cried out, your body clenching rhythmically around him, and the sensation tore the last shred of his restraint to pieces. With a guttural, almost pained moan, he buried himself to the hilt and stopped moving. His whole body went rigid as a bowstring. And then you felt it: the hot, insistent spurts of his release flooding you. He pulsed inside you, once, twice, a third time, each spasm accompanied by a wrecked, unabashed sound of pure, animalistic pleasure that seemed to be ripped from the very depths of his soul.

He collapsed. All the strength left his body and he became a dead weight on top of you, his face burrowing into the crook of your neck. He was still whimpering, small, broken sounds that vibrated against your skin. He pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the mantra returning. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I spilled…I didn't mean to…I should have pulled out, I know I should have, I just couldn't, you felt too good, I'm an animal, I'm the worst sort of..."

His hips gave a weak, involuntary twitch. Even now, soft and spent inside you, the sensation sent a jolt through him. His babbling cut off abruptly. His breath hitched.

"It doesn't matter," he said, the words tumbling out in a new rush, trying to fix things, to be the responsible one, the gentleman he'd so thoroughly failed to be. "It doesn't matter, I'll fix it. I'll go. Right now. There's an all-night apothecary on the Street of Silk, I'll get the morning after pill. I promise. I'll get it for you. You don't have to worry about a thing. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you."

He made a weak attempt to push himself up, to pull out of you and make good on his promise. But the motion made him slide against your sensitive, slick walls, and he froze. A shudder wracked his frame. He looked down between your bodies, to the place where you were joined, and a fresh wave of heat flooded his face.

"Oh, gods," he breathed, his voice small and utterly defeated by his own body. "I'm…I'm hard again."

He was. You could feel him stiffening, thickening inside you, the impossible resurgence of his desire. He looked back at your face, his expression a mask of pure, agonized apology.

"Just…just one more time," he pleaded, even as his hips were already beginning to move again, a slow, deep grind. "I just need…I need to be inside you. I've needed it for so long. Please. Just once more."

He took you again, slower this time, with a tender, worshipful reverence that was somehow more devastating than the frantic desperation of the first round. He whispered your name like a litany, his eyes locked on yours, his thumb stroking your cheek. He made sure you reached the peak again before he allowed himself to follow, his own release a long, shuddering groan that seemed to drain every last ounce of feverish energy from his body.

Afterwards, he lay still for a long moment, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Then, with a gentleness that made your heart ache, he withdrew. The loss of him was a physical pang. He disappeared into his adjoining bathroom and returned with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you with meticulous care, his touch featherlight, his brow furrowed in concentration as if this act of service, was the most important task he had ever undertaken. He wouldn't quite meet your eyes. When he was done, he retrieved a soft, worn t-shirt from his drawer, one you recognized, a faded grey thing with the university crest, and helped you sit up, guiding your arms through the sleeves. He pulled the hem down over your thighs, his knuckles brushing your skin.

Then he knelt on the floor by the side of the bed, eyes huge and fearful. He looked like a puppy who had chewed his master's favorite shoes and was awaiting his banishment to the yard.

"Please," he said, his voice hoarse and small. "Please don't kick me out of your life. I know I ruined it. I know I said 'just friends' and then I…I did all that. I'm a liar. I'm a cad. My father would be so ashamed."

He reached out, his fingers hovering over your knee but not quite daring to touch. "But I can be good. I swear it. I'll be the best boyfriend you've ever had. I'll bring you pastries every morning. I'll remember every anniversary, even the small ones. I'll let you pick the movie every single time. I'll rub your back every night, and I won't even complain when you sit on me and I get...well, you know." A faint, miserable blush crept up his neck. "Or…or if you don't want that. If you don't want a boyfriend. I can just be…this. Just someone you sleep with. A convenience. I won't ask for more. I won't be weird about it. I'll just be here, whenever you need…whenever you miss the closeness. Just please. Please don't leave."

He looked so utterly devastated, so certain of his own imminent rejection, that you felt a laugh bubble up in your chest. It was a sound of pure, uncomplicated joy. You reached out and cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs stroking the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

"Valarr," you said, your voice soft but firm. "You absolute, beautiful idiot. I've been in love with you since I spilled that latte down your sweater."

He blinked. The fear in his eyes warred with a dawning, incredulous hope. "You…what?"

"I've been pining," you continued, a wide smile spreading across your face. "For three years. Watching you. Smelling your stupid, wonderful cologne. Pretending I didn't notice when you got hard during back rubs. I want the boyfriend. I've always wanted the boyfriend. I want you."

The tension bled out of his shoulders so completely he seemed to shrink. The fear in his eyes was replaced by a light so bright, so incandescently happy, it was like watching the spring sun finally break through a lifetime of clouds. He surged forward, burying his face in your lap, his arms wrapping around your waist.

"You mean it?" he mumbled against the fabric of his own t-shirt. "You really mean it? You want me to be your boyfriend?"

"I really, truly mean it," you promised, running your fingers through his tangled hair. "Now, about that morning after pill…"

He lifted his head, his smile so wide it crinkled. "I'll get it now. Right now. And then I'm bringing you back a raspberry jam pastry. And coffee. Because you're my girlfriend now. And that's what boyfriends do." He said the words like they were a sacred oath, the most solemn and wonderful vow he'd ever made. And as he scrambled to find his keys, tripping over his own discarded jeans in his haste, you realized with a dizzying, giddy certainty that spring in King's Landing had never felt so warm.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

the university’s grand amphitheater was packed for baelor's annual guest lecture. valarr was center stage, helping his father organize his slides. he looked painfully out of place under the bright spotlights. he kept adjusting his glasses, his shoulders hunched, his pale blonde-and-chestnut hair combed back so neatly it looked painted on.

"look at him," your friend whispered, leaning over to you. "poor valarr. he looks like he’s about to faint. he’s so sweet, isn’t he? i bet he’s never even been on a date."

you gripped your coffee cup until the plastic lid crinkled. if only they knew.

valarr [10:14 am]: stop crossing your legs like that. i can’t focus on my father’s speech when i’m thinking about how you looked on my desk last night.

you looked up, startled. valarr was still sitting on the stage couch, looking perfectly studious, his face a picture of innocence as he took notes. he didn't even look your way. 

but when you slipped into the empty lab an hour later the innocent act vanished the second the lock clicked. valarr was leaning against a black-topped lab table, his glasses already sitting on a stack of petri dishes. he didn't say a word as he crossed the room, his movements fluid and expensive, pinning you against the cool metal of the door with a force that made the glass rattle.

"you're late," he growled, his voice that low, arrogant rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. his hand came up to your throat to tilt your head back so he could see the marks he’d left on the library desk. "i told you i hate being kept waiting. especially when i've been sitting out there for an hour listening to my father drone on while thinking about the sounds you’d make as i ruin you."

his mouth crashed onto yours, tasting of mint and unbridled ego. his tongue was a hot, demanding intrusion, claiming your mouth with a cocky confidence that shouldn't have belonged to a man in a sweater vest.

"valarr, someone might—" you gasped as he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist by instinct.

"let them," he hissed against your pulse point, his teeth grazing the skin. "i want them to hear you. i want them to wonder who’s making you scream in a locked lab. i want you to tell me how much better this is than anything else you've ever had."

his hands were impatient, tugging at your panties with a frantic, possessive urgency. he had barely unbuckled his belt before he pushed his cock into you, his breath hitching as he told you exactly what he was going to do to you.

"look at me," he commanded, pulling your hair back until your eyes met his mismatched ones, dark with a heat that could melt lead. "tell me you're mine. tell me you want me to ruin you again. say it loud, sweetheart." 

“a-all yours, only yours, valarr.” you moan against him, face burried in his chest as his sturdy arms bounced you against his length. “yeah? you enjoying yourself sweetie?” he groans against your ear.

the way his name slid of your tongue as you broke felt like a victory to him. he buried himself further into you as he came with a triumphant growl. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

TAGLIST:

Colt invited Ryland out to lunch; nothing too serious, but he did notice his brother's change in texting habits and even the small signs of exhaustion that started to appear on his form. The cafe was pretty quiet, Ryland having already gotten a table, nursing a triple espresso to hopefully wipe the need for a long rest from his soul. You weren't invited; this was strictly a lunch between brothers despite how much your company was always welcomed.

You had become a rock in Ryland's life and by extension, Colt's. You were a bright flower in the garden he stumbled into; you found his aspirations and hobbies entertaining. Ryland adored every part of you, but there was one small quirk that he could still barely handle.

Colt sat down across from Ryland. "Glad you came to meet me. Was worried you'd be too busy to do anything. It's hard to get a handle on you lately."

"Don't remind me. Finals on top of yearly reviews and…" Ryland trailed off at the end. "So why did you invite me out here?"

Colt narrowed his eyes and sipped his drink before setting it down. "Ryland, you look like you've been run ragged."

"Is it that noticeable?"

"Very," Colt said, nodding before gesturing with both his hands. "What is it that's gotten you so tired? Is grading really grinding your gears this hard?" Ryland rubbed his face with one hand, trying to muster up the words for what he was about to admit.

"You know..the love of my life, right?" Colt nodded, to which Ryland covered his face with both hands. "She's got me drained."

"….Like emotionally?"

Ryland shook his head, embarrassed, and lowered his hands, his face tinged with red. "You could say…physically."

Colt took a second before bursting out laughing, causing Ryland to glare and whisper-yell at him to shut up. He wiped his eyes and started to attempt to calm down.

Ryland Grace was saying, in blunt terms, that he was getting way more sex than he knew what to do with. That…was probably the funniest thing Ryland could've said, and Colt's laughed at a lot of things he said. Poor guy lives every fantasy. Ryland really was living such a tough, tough life….

"Let me…get this straight." Colt said, failing to wipe the smile off his face, "You are exhausted… because you are getting laid too much. By your hot girlfriend. What an amazing problem to have."

"Colt, you don't understand. I am physically drained. I love her and the intimacy to pieces, but my god I can not cum anymore than I have in the past two weeks." Ryland said, exasperated. "Living room, Bedroom, Bathroom—"

"Those are pretty typical places, Ryland."

"—The Hallway, garage, the car, the kitchen, the backyard, the backseat of the car at the mall, a public restroom in a busy bar, my home office; literally anywhere she can run her hands over me."

"….Ryland.."

"I didn't even know about half these positions: London Bridge, Good Ex, Butter Churner, there was this one pose where I didn't even know I could bend that way, the—"

"Ryland, please stop." Colt interrupted before exhaling. He put his hands palms together before pointing at your brother, "I would kill to live your life."

Ryland choked on his drink, coughing. He patted his chest as Colt continued.

"You get laid, anytime, any day, anyway? If you can't handle it, I'm so down to swap places." Colt said before he snapped his mouth shut when Ryland's eyes slowly widened at the proposition.

Colt just offered to fuck you, his nympho girlfriend who had him shooting blanks from the frequency. The allure of a break…was tempting. His eyes flickered to the text message from you that had popped up; only expressing curiosity at when Ryland would be home. But he knew what that meant: You opening the door in thin red lingerie, pulling him by his tie and using the same fabric to tie his hands up.

And he'd let you every time; he could never deny you such a simple request, no matter how long you wanted to go. Ryland slowly nodded, trying to hide the growing smirk.

Colt can cover this session.

"You think you can handle it?" Ryland said, "Have you even gotten laid this year; this may be too much for your inexperienced life." Colt sat there in shock. There is no way Ryland just called him inexperienced. He can so handle a couple rounds with a frisky lady in his place.

"Fuck you, get up. We're swapping clothes in the bathroom. I'll show you what I can handle. Sex won't be anything; I'll even tire her out!" Colt spat, falling for Ryland's setup. Ryland immedately started booking himself a spa trip; he was not answering when he called for help. He also made notes to bring his grading along so he can work on it between.

You glanced at the clock before going back to resting your chin in your palm. The black lingerie wrapped around you under a sheer robe. You had given yourself smoky eyes, had everything in the bedroom within reach; all you needed was your beloved other half. When the knob turned, you slid over. 'Ryland' stepped inside, his eyes rising above the glasses. You smirked before slinking up. Your arms wrapped around his neck, nails scratching at his scalp.

'Ryland' started to melt as soft kisses pressed to his throat, as you slowly beckoned him to the stairs upstairs, his eyes devouring your skin and the way the clothing gave away all the curves you'd gotten.

"Come upstairs, love~" You said, dropping the robe to the ground and tugging him by the tie. "I need something only you can give me." The coat was thrown to the ground, and shoes were taken off as you were playfully chased up the stairs and into the bedroom. Once the door shut, you dragged him down on top of you.

Colt, masquerading as 'Ryland', threw every other layer to the ground, immedately pressing kisses to your neck.

You smiled and reached for a leather strap just out of his view…

The following morning's rays leaked through the curtains, painting the trail of clothing up the stairs with a golden hue. The house remained still on the first floor, like a scene frozen. Up the stairs was another story. Colt slowly blinked as he gathered any strength to crawl into the hallway from the bedroom. Red claw lines marked up his back, hickies all over his neck and collar, littering down his stomach and all over his hips and thighs.

Red rub marks existed around his wrists and ankles, and he's pretty sure his jaw is still sore from how many times he ended up eating you out. Any belief in his stamina was gone; he was probably not even capable of popping another erection.

Colt shakily exhaled, "I owe Ryland such an apology for making fun of him for this." He froze, hearing your heels tap against the floor, walking around his spot on the floor.

"Oh baby…" You cooed, "I'm not tired yet, and I just got a new toy in, and it'll drive both of us wild…"

"L-Listen..I'd love to, but there's nothing in me anymore. As hot… as…you are…I don't think I can keep up." Colt swallowed, glancing up at you. Her hair was a mess, and she had marks all over her chest and neck; her thighs had the indents of hands that spent all night holding on. "Look, I'm not—"

"I know exactly who you are, Colt. You and your brother don't exactly feel the same inside." You hummed squating down and poking his nose. "Now…one more round for me……?" You whispered, lifting his chin, so his lips brushed with hers.

Fuck…no wonder Ryland was drained.

“Okay.” You pull the phone back, just far enough that she won’t hear your shaky exhale. Just for a second. “Okay, Lena. I’m coming over, ‘kay?” You’re already in your car. Already praying that the engine will catch as it turns over.

“Kay.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“I dunno.”

You grit your teeth. Turn the key again. Keep your voice light. “Okay. Where’s your uncle Pope?”

“I dunno.”

You might break your jaw if you clench it any harder. The engine catches. You breathe. “Okay. That’s okay. Can you go to the back room?”

She’s silent for a moment, and you whip around a curb so hard you think it might dent your front bumper.

“Uncle Jay wants his phone back.”

“Will you do me a favor? Will you tell your uncle Jay to fuck off, and have him put you to bed?”

She giggles, and you feel just a little bit better.

“You said a bad word.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You’re eight minutes away.

You get there in four.

-

The party is fucking insane, and Lena should not be here, let alone have been wandering around unsupervised.

You nearly leave your car running in the driveway with how quickly you dart out of it. You pass beer bottles. Liquor bottles. Drunk strangers littering the yard and shouting loudly enough to wake people on the fucking moon.

And then you see a toy car, just big enough for a little girl to fit in, crushed and broken in a mess of pink plastic, and your vision swims with red.

As you push through the house, pass lines of cocaine and screaming drunks, hear someone shout expletives and swallow them with a swig from a bottle of tequila, and even glimpse a couple going at it in the corner, the rage builds inside of you like a cresting wave.

“Hey, the nanny’s here!” Craig shouts from the kitchen, standing before a counter littered with lines of white powder. “You finally come to party with us?”

You ignore him, and storm past.

When you reach the back room, you pause outside the door. Take a deep breath. Force a gentle expression. You have to stay calm. The last thing she needs is to see you freak out.

Lena is buried under blankets, and you think she might be shaking.

You’re by her side in a second, smoothing her hair back and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Hey, cutie.” A bottle breaks outside. Someone shouts. Lena keeps shaking.

When she catches your hand, and her own hand is so small and still trembling in your own, you finally break.

You are about to be so, so fucking fired.

“Hey,” you whisper, “can you do ear muffs for me? It’s gonna get louder in a second, and then I’ll be right back.”

“How much louder?” She asks, small and nervous, and you squeeze her hand.

“I’m just gonna yell a little bit. Other people might yell too. You might hear a pop or two. No biggie.”

Lena nods. You pull your hand back, and cover your ears in demonstration.

“Ear muffs.” You remind her, and she mimics your movement with a nod.

-

It takes you forty five seconds to find the shotgun in the fireplace, and eight more seconds for people to start noticing that you’re holding it. You rip the cords out of the speaker hard enough that you might break it, and the music cuts off with a near-deafening whine of static.

“Out! Everybody get the fuck out!”

They listen. They scatter. Craig and Darren shout as everyone bolts from the house, and when someone in the pool calls you a ‘crazy bitch’, you respond by cocking the shotgun. All you can see is that broken, pink plastic car in the driveway. All those pieces it was crushed into. How easily that could have been Lena.

Craig is moving towards you, one large hand outstretched to snatch the weapon away from your unpracticed grip, when an arm suddenly wraps around your waist from behind and hoists you clean off of your feet.

“I’ve got her.” Pope’s voice is low and firm by your ear, so close that the feeling of his breath on your skin makes something warm curl in your stomach. Craig stops. The gun is pulled from your hands, and he doesn’t even bother to put you down as he places it on a nearby pool chair.

You squirm as he carries you over to the side of the house, uselessly kicking your feet, and you realize that you never even tied your shoes in your hurry to get here as he finally sets you down on the grass, pulling back just far enough to look you over in that intense way he has. Silent. Assessing. Taking in your sweatshirt, rumpled jeans, and untied shoes. You realize, suddenly, that you probably still have a hell of a case of bedhead. No wonder everyone scattered so quickly at the sight of you.

Well, that and the gun. Probably mostly the gun.

“What was that?” He doesn't sound angry. Just…concerned. Guilty, even.

“Where were you?” You hiss back, still so unbelievably furious. “Where the fuck were you, Andrew? Why is Lena even here?” It’s a rare occasion when you use his actual name, and you’re too angry to notice how his eyes soften a little. How his hand lifts by his side, like he’s about to reach for you, before dropping back down.

“I don’t know.” His rough voice is steady, like always, and you don’t fail to notice that he’s only answering your last question. His face is still blank. It’s his eyes that always hold all of his emotions. Those eyes are fixed right on you, with an intensity that locks your muscles more than your anger ever could. “I thought she was with Baz.”

“Well, where is Baz?”

“I don’t know.”

You run a hand through your hair, and blow out a puff of incredulous, furious laughter. “Unfuckingbelievable.”

“You were about to fire that gun. To protect her.” Still, no anger. Barely even a hint of surprise. His tone holds an entirely different emotion. One you can’t place. His eyes are still on you.

You barrel on. “Look, I miss Cath too. And I don’t give a shit what you all get up to when you have your cryptic family meetings or whatever, okay? That’s not my problem. But Lena is scared and confused and you can’t just fucking forget about her like-“

The feeling of Pope’s lips against yours is so sudden, such an absolute shock, that you stumble back a little. You don’t fall far before his arm wraps around your waist, catching you and pulling you upright against his broad chest so smoothly that you squeak in surprise. His free hand comes up to your cheek, rough and calloused and yet so oddly warm and soft that it makes you shiver.

Your eyes, having flown wide in surprise, flutter shut. The moment you begin to kiss him back, he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and pulls you closer. Gentle - always gentle, always careful - but hungry. He parts your lips with his own, curls his fingers in your hair, and tugs you impossibly tighter against him until you can’t think of anything other than the solid warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the bone-melting feeling of them moving expertly against yours.

“Hey, I’m- oh, what the fuck.”

You break the kiss at the sound of Baz’s voice, but Pope doesn’t let you go. In fact, his eyes remain locked on your mouth, thumb still tracing over your cheek like he hasn’t even noticed that his brother is there. Or, more likely, like he couldn’t give half of a shit.

“Shit, who had Pope fucking the hot nanny? One of you owes me twenty bucks.” And there’s Craig’s voice. Fuck. You are so, so fired.

“You owe me twenty, dumbass.” Darren grumbles behind him.

“No fuckin’ way. I called this shit forever ago.”

“Are you okay?” Pope asks, never taking his eyes off of your face, like you’re the only people in the yard.

You just nod, and pull back. He hesitates, but releases you.

“M’gonna…go check on Lena.” You mumble, and make your way back into the house with the ghost of Andrew Cody’s kiss still lingering on your lips.

-

You fall asleep with Lena curled into your side, the impossibly soft bed knocking you out within minutes.

When you wake, morning sunlight is streaming in through the windows. You turn your face into the pillow for a moment, exhaustion pushing the memories from the night before into the back of your mind, before clarity hits you like a freight train and your eyes fly open.

Lena. The party. The crushed plastic car in the driveway. Pope Cody kissing you like he was drowning and you were air.

You blink yourself awake, carefully sitting up without jostling the little girl in your arms.

And you nearly jump out of your fucking skin, because Pope is sitting at the end of the bed, watching you. It should be creepy. Watching you sleep is creepy, definitely, and yet you don’t feel the slightest bit afraid. You wonder if your survival instincts might be broken, after working for this family for so long.

“Hi.” You whisper.

“Hi.” He whispers back.

You look pointedly down to the sleeping child, then back up at him.

He nods, and holds out his hand. You take it, and wiggle carefully off of the bed as he leads you out of the bedroom and into an adjacent one. You’re pretty sure it’s Pope’s old room. You know he doesn’t live here, and yet you’re still surprised by how clean and sparse everything is when compared to the other bedrooms that his brothers tend to crash in sometimes. You suppose, with how obsessively he cleans, with how neat he likes to keep things, that it’s always looked this way.

“Are you okay?” He asks, with that lowered brow and intense gaze that makes your heart stop beating correctly.

“I…yeah.” The feeling of his lips against yours. The way he crushed you to his chest and kissed you so deeply you felt like you’d never be able to breathe again. His fingers in your hair. His arm around your waist. “Yeah, I’m fine. Am I fired?”

He looks genuinely confused by the question. “Why would you be fired?”

“I figure firing a gun in your house violates some kind of verbal contract.”

“You didn’t fire it.”

“I would have. I think I was about to.”

“You didn’t. You were protecting Lena. Why would you be-“

“Why did you kiss me?”

Again, surprise. His eyes dart around the room, shoulders hunching a little like they tend to do when he gets overwhelmed. When he can’t find the words he’s looking for.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while. Since…four minutes after I met you.”

Now, it’s your turn to pause. “Four minutes, huh?”

“Yeah.” At your curious look, he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck, nervous. “You…smiled at me.”

“That’s all it took?”

“For me to want to kiss you, yeah.” You raise an eyebrow, and he frowns. “You’re not afraid of me, like everyone else is. You talk to me like a…person.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t quit.”

“What?”

“Don’t quit. Lena likes you. You take good care of her. I’ll leave you alone, if you want me to-“

This time, you kiss him. You barely even register that you’re moving until your hand comes up to the back of his head, pulling him down to you until his lips are covering your own. He grunts with surprise, but wastes no time gathering you into his arms, lifting you against him and pulling you closer like any distance between your bodies might kill him.

He doesn’t kiss you like he’s trying to devour you. Like the kissing is some kind of foreplay, some introduction into what might come after. Just like he did last night, he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. Like every movement of your lips against his is more than he could ever ask for. He takes his time trailing his fingers over your face, arm tightening around you, tongue tracing the seam of your lips like he’s tasting a fine wine.

You’re breathless when you finally pull back, and he’s no better. His forehead drops against yours, noses brushing and chests rising and falling together in a staccato rhythm.

“I think I’m gonna let Lena sleep in.” You murmur, and Pope nods as his face tilts a little closer to yours, lips brushing your own like his entire body is screaming to just close the barely-there distance between you. “She had a rough night. She can be a little late for school.”

He nods again, nose skating over your jaw, to the hollow of your throat. “Okay.”

“Maybe we can take her to breakfast.” His lips are on your neck. His hands are sliding beneath your shirt - not pushing, not demanding, just feeling you - “but she should sleep for an hour or two.”

You gasp when he tugs you to him, moving you backwards to lay you down on his bed. You smile against his lips as they find yours, and reach down to drag his shirt up and over his head.

“So an hour, you think?”

FLASHBACK

“Are you sure you want to go?” Kol questioned me from the driver’s seat of his car. We had just pulled up to the club that Monty told me to meet her at and Kol was less than enthusiastic.

“Yes, Kol. It’ll be fun. I haven’t seen Monty in ages and it’ll be nice to have a girl’s night.” I told him but by the scowl on his face he wasn’t impressed.

“If you wanted a girl’s night you could stay home and hang out with Rebekah.” Kol tried to reason.

Raising my eyebrow I give him an unamused look.

“My girl’s nights with your sister usually just end up with her complaining about Marcel and her drinking whatever poor soul she gets her hand’s on.”

Kol looks like he doesn’t want to agree but ultimately nods his head in agreement.

“You’re not going to cancel are you?” I just shake my head, which earns a sigh from him.

“Fine. But I will be here right at 12 like you told me, no later. And if you need anything. Anything at all, you call me first ok?” I smile as I lean over the center console of the car and press a kiss to Kol’s scowled lips.

“I will, Loverboy.”

END OF FLASHBACK

And now here I am, a massive headache and my nostrils are filled with the excessive smell of B.O. that this club reeks of. I know I should call Kol to come pick me up but if I do, I’m just asking for the “I Told you So Talk.” That he oh so loves to give. And I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

“You come here often.” A drunk deep voice comes from beside me. Kill me now. I don’t even look over to the man that is now seated to my right. I just keep twirling whatever is left of the bourbon in my glass and keep my gaze focused. Fighting off the urge to roll my eyes.

“You deaf of something girl? I asked you a question.” The man said again. Him leaning over to me to the point where I have to move to the edge of my seat to get away from his disgusting hot breath.

“Leave me alone.” I deadpan hoping he’d be smart enough to get the message.

“Well, that’s not very ladylike. Has anyone ever told you that men don't like women with sharp tongues?” Definitely not smart enough. I go to move away, not wanting to deal with this anymore but I feel his hand grip my thigh pushing me back into my chair. I go rip the little bitch of a man a new one but my favorite British accent fills my ears.

“Speak for yourself mate. I love a woman with a sharp tongue.” I look over my shoulder to see Kol standing in between me and the man. To anyone, his tone would mean he’s in a joking mood, but the look in his eyes is something that could put any person on their knees ready to beg for mercy. Those same eyes gaze at the man's hand on my thigh and if it was even possible, they darkened.

“Well not me man. So why don’t you leave me and my lady here alone and buzz off.” The man tells him with a dismissive wave of his other hand. A dark laugh exits Kol’s mouth and he brings his hand down and grasps the man’s.

“She’s not your anything, mate. So I suggest if you want to keep your throat inside your body, leave and never come back,” Kol threatens the man as he towers over him. I can practically hear the bones cracking in the man’s hand.

“Listen bro, I don’t want any trouble.” The man tries to say which mostly comes out as a cry as he looks at his now broken hand.

“Then get out of here,” Kol snarls, “Bro.” That’s all it takes for the man to drunkenly stumble away, clutching his hand.

I look up to Kol from my seat to see him with his eyes closed, his fists clenching in anger.

“I should find him and rip out his intestines for even being near you.” He breathes out. I sigh as I stand up and grab his hand and hold it in mine.

“Ya you probably should.” I tell him which gets him to open his eyes in shock of what I just said.

“But, you’re better than that now. And trust me, you probably just scarred him for the rest of his life. So I think we’re even.” Kol just shakes his head.

“But he touched you, he put his hands on your body. I’m the only one allowed to do that.” I watch as his lips slightly turn into a frown which makes me want to laugh.

“Are you jealous, Kol Mikaelson?” I questioned.

“Of course not. I’m Kol Mikealson, I don’t get jealous.” He responds almost matter of factly.

“Oh, of course,” I tap my chin playfully, “So you wouldn't mind if I go check with him to make sure his hand is ok? Maybe go kiss his booboo?” I say, having to hold in the laugh threatening to escape. It gets especially hard when Kol looks down at me with a flabbergasted look. His mouth slightly opened in disgust.

“You're joking right?” He asks slightly unsure. I just lean up and peck his lips.

“Let’s go home, Loverboy.” I say as I grab his hand and lead him towards the exit.

“Y/n, you’re joking right, right?” He exclaims.

I just give him a sickly sweet smile, “Sure Darling. Whatever eases your mind.” I say as we go through the exit. A thought crosses my mind as I glance at my watch and see it’s only 10:33p.m.

“Wait, why are you here? You weren’t supposed to be here until 12?” I ask as Kol walks with me to the car. He stops and smirks at me.

Mattheo swiped the bottle from Lorenzo, grinning and ducking out of his grasp as he took a hefty gulp before it was stolen away again, leaving his lips burning from the liquor as he wiped them with the back of his hand.

In truth he was just as eager for tonight, maybe even moreso than his friends, though for a much different reason; he didn't care about getting wasted, or snagging the best table at the Three Broomsticks to watch the quidditch finals, he was just looking forward to seeing you.

Though if anyone would have asked him, he would have vehemently denied it.

Because you were friends... just friends. Friends like he was friends with Pansy or Astoria... Except that he didn't have endless thoughts about the feeling of their skin under his fingers, didn't smell the lingering scent of their shampoo in the Amortentia he'd brewed last term, didn't study every detail about them from their favorite food, to the color they painted their nails, didn't fantasize about them like he did about you: that one day you'd want him the way he wanted you. Because even though you were inseparable, even though you orbited around each other, even though he swore sometimes he caught you looking at him, your gaze always dissolved into something sweet and friendly and he'd have to remind himself that even though he could confidently have any girl in the school, and had proven as much, you were both the only one he genuinely wanted and the only one that seemed immune to him.

The boys continued in their cacophony of shouting over one another as Mattheo lugged his laundry to his bed and overturned it unceremoniously and Enzo turned on his favorite muggle pop playlist.

"You can't be serious" Blaise commented the second it started.

"Enz, turn this shit off" Mattheo agreed. "Your taste in music is worst than..." he started before fading off.

"...Than what, Riddle? I'm sorry we don't all listen to edgy alternative depressing shit" Enzo chirped to no response. He finished pulling his shirt over his head and then peered around his four-poster to see Mattheo staring silently at the pile of clothes in front of him.

“What’s?—” Enzo started to say as he wandered over until he saw what had captivated Mattheo's attention. "No fucking way" he laughed as he stepped closer and stood beside him.

The emerald comforter of the bed was covered almost entirely in lingerie, soft cottons, delicate lace, bralettes, thongs, floral sets, petal pinks and curve-hugging boy shorts. Enzo bit his fist.

"Fucking hell" he breathed as he reached reverently for a transparent pink bralette before holding it up for the others to see, each immediately stopping what they were doing and making their way over, drawn to it.

"Who's is it?" Blaise muttered, reaching for the laundry bag and turning it over in his hands. "S'got your name on it..."

"You holding out on us, amico?" Theo smirked as he nudged Mattheo's shoulder. "A little amorina on the side?"

"I wish" Mattheo said, his eyes locking on a rosy thong that had him swallowing.

He was completely transfixed, unable to tear his gaze from the pile of pink in front of him, certain that not a single classmate he knew could be wearing stuff like this because surely he'd know, surely one of them would know... right? But something about the colors, the style, tickled something in the back of his mind and made him want to tell his friends to keep their hands off of it.

"Theo, you're telling me even you have no idea whose this is?" Lorenzo confirmed.

"Nooo" he drawled. "Trust. I would not forget this" he said, picking out a peach thong that was barely more than a string as Draco let out a low whistle.

And then they heard voices in the hallway, a murmur and the high-pitched squeak of a house elf.

"Penny is so very sorry, Miss. Penny must have switched the bags. Penny will make it right, Miss."

And with a soft knock you pushed the door open to see all of your guy friends standing around a pile of your lingerie, your bra in Enzo's hands, your thong between Theo's fingers, each of them looking genuinely guilty and completely shocked at the sight of you; Draco's mouth hung open and Mattheo's eyes were as wide as galleons. Enzo and Theo slowly lowered the pieces back to the bed and you swore you could hear the fabric hit the comforter for how quiet it had become.

"Awww, thanks, boys!" you said, completely unphased as you dropped the laundry bag you’d been holding and strode towards them.

Five sets of eyebrows hit the ceiling.

Draco mutely picked up the bag with Mattheo’s name mistakenly printed on it and held it out, his eyes never leaving you.

You accepted it and began grabbing handfuls of your delicates, stuffing them back in the bag. With a muffled cough and a murmur, the boys shuffled away leaving you with Mattheo who was physically incapable of moving as he watched you grab fistfuls of your underwear off his bed. It was without a doubt the hottest shit he'd ever seen and would never ever unsee, in the outline of your fitted t-shirts, in your leggings, beneath your oversized sweaters that tended to slip off your shoulder.

"Sorry for the mixup" you said, your eyes focused as you stuffed the last of it into the bag, “I brought yours back, it’s over there” you nodded towards the door.

"Y-yeah s'no problem" he muttered, tearing his gaze away for a second, his voice sounding alien to his own ears.

And then the bed was clear and you were standing in front of him, the bag against your hip, smiling up at him as if your thongs hadn't just touched his sheets.

"See you in a few?" you asked.

He swallowed.

"...Yeah..." he mumbled as he watched you leave, your hips swinging as five heads turned to watched you go.

That night Mattheo tossed and turned, unable to stop thinking about it, about you, about the lace and the cotton and the way they'd sit against your skin, about how the entire night he wondered what was under your dress and how he was sure your perfume lingered against his sheets even though you hadn't been here for hours.

He buried his head into his pillow and moved to hug it when his fingers brushed something beneath it. He grasped it and pulled it towards him to see a baby pink lace thong. But how could it possibly have gotten under his pillow?

Unless...

Had you...?

He didn't get a wink of sleep.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

The following morning he wandered, exhausted, into the Great Hall to see you wearing one of his hoodies, his favorite hoodie, in fact, engulfing you so perfectly that it made his heart dip and swoon so fast he bumped into the Ravenclaw in front of him.

He shook his head and pushed them out of the way as he righted himself and strode confidently to the Slytherin table and slid in beside you.

You turned to him and your eyes fluttered under your long lashes as you searched his face; you could see faint bags beneath his eyes and a darkness in their amber depths that tangled with a warmth you were well familiar with.

"Hope you don't mind...." you said as you rolled your bottom lip into your mouth and bit it gently.

His eyes tracked every movement.

"...Looked too comfy to give up" you smiled.

"Not at all" he conceded, breaking your gaze to reach for the coffee, which he poured and took a long sip from before he leaned over to you, his lips lingering against your ear in a way that had goosebumps running up your arm.

"But if you get to keep that, then I get to keep what you left me."

You flushed beneath the fabric of his sweatshirt, beneath his gaze, beneath the feeling of his breath on your cheek even as he pulled back, though not far, your noses nearly touching.

"Or" you whispered as you rested your hand on his thigh that flexed in response. "Maybe I could come by later tonight and trade you for the pair I have on?"