there’s still some time

“No, no, not for me, my patient,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Please, I wish it was for me.”

“Why do you need a condom for a patient?” you asked, amused almost. “Is he hot?”

“What? No? My patient, he's HIV but apparently very, very active and he doesn't have condoms. He says he-he prefers it without and I've explained everything to him but there's no condoms in the draw where we keep them!” explained Samira.

“We have a condom draw?” asked Trinity, taking only that as the necessary information from Mohan's ramble.

You handed her the chart. “You sleep with women.”

“What? So I'm not allowed in the condom draw?”

“It's for sex ed teachings, people who are young and having sex,” you shrugged. “Stuff like that. Come on, I can help you out.”

The nurses desk was practically vacant. Around you everyone busied themselves with greeting the nigh shift and getting them out, taking away patients like the changing of the guard. It was almost too early to be dealing with tough patients who wouldn't protect themselves.

You led the way around the counter, Mohan and Santos (who took an invitation for herself) followed you over to the desk as you reached down for Robby's bag, propping it up.

It was no surprise to them that you were reaching for his bag, reaching for his stuff like it was yours. What was Robby's was yours. The real surprise had been when Mel found the two of you eight months ago making out in the storage room, shrieking and dropping a bag of blood that then splashed all over you.

And obviously at the scream everyone ran over and found the two of you rather compromised and covered in blood. You still weren't really done living that down.

You fished around in Robby's bag, the owner somewhere not there to see as you brought out an opened box of condoms. “Here,” you said handing her a thick strip as Santos laughed.

Samira took them wearily, a small dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Won't you... miss these?”

“No,” you said, rocking on your heels, suddenly feeling the familiar creeping heat of embarrassment. “We have... more.”

Santos smirked. “Keeping Robby in shape, huh?”

Samira shuddered. “I really don't want to think about my boss like that, but thank you!” you said, waving the strip like it was a flag and rushing off before her patient could walk off. She was a good doctor, dedicated you knew and you were just happy to help her reach her potential.

Distracted by watching her leave you failed to notice Trinity sneak over to Robby's bag, peeking inside like a nosy cat.

“Hey!” you lectured, pulling the zipper shut on her hand.

“What? Just wanted to know what else you got in there? Does he keep a pair of panties? Vibrator if it gets quiet,” she teased.

You blushed, shaking your head and looking down to the bag. “You have no shame, that's your boss you're talking about.”

She made a pfft noise. “You're the one screwing him.”

Yes, you were. Proudly and happily.

Javadi slid up next to you, practically shoving you a tablet and asking for your advice. You were somewhere deep in your residency, one of the first they were introduced to on their hell of a first day. Not as scary as Robby, easier to talk to than Langdon. It was typical for the Pittlings and Mohan to come to you when they needed advice. You liked it really, as much as Santos teased you and as much as Mohan and Javadi doubted themselves.

“Hey Crash,” said Trinity, all but giddy with the new knowledge she had about Doctor Robby's contents in his bag. “You wanna know what's in this bag of secrets.”

“No,” you chastised.

Javadi's eyes lightened up. “Is that Doctor Robby's bag?”

“It doesn't matter,” you said, pushing it back down to your feet.

“Hey,” Samira joined the group of you again, handing you back the strip of condoms. “He said he can't take these.” The rest of the doctors and nurses hustled around the Pitt, un-knowing of the personal dilemmas being aired out.

You lifted your shoulders. “You needed condoms, those are condoms.”

“Yes but they're not the right size,” said Mohan. “He says they wouldn't fit, they're too big.”

Oh.

Perhaps at some point you'd been shocked at the size of Robby. Before you'd only had your imagination and hints of him beneath his scrubs. The times when he'd brush past you in the teasing beginning of your relationship and you'd feel something prod at you. The first time he'd dragged you to his bedroom, lips seething in heat and teeth nipping in want to only lay you out on his bed and drag his pants and underwear down to show all of him- then you'd been shocked. Mouth watering so.

Over the months the shock transformed to desire, reaching hands and an eager mouth that you stopped thinking about the size.

You didn't think anything of it when you handed Mohan a strip of five extra-large condoms.

Standing at the nurses station it may as well have been a deserted island and you stared down at the condoms like it was your first offering of food.

“Uh-”

Javadi snatched the condoms from Samira first, staring down at them with mouth agape. “Oh my god.”

“Javadi-”

“Holy shit!”

You looked back and Santos had pulled out Robby's bag again, pulling out the box and staring at the size stamped on the front. “Santos!”

“No wonder you walk in limping.”

“I do not- I do not walk in limping!”

“Well, there was that one time-” said Mohan.

“No, there wasn't!” you argued. “I'd bruised my ankle.”

Mohan chuckled to herself. “Sure.”

Trinity smirked. “Bruised something.”

Javadi was still staring at the strip of condoms in wonder. “How do they even get this big?”

You snatched them away from her the way you might have if a child found them. Quickly you stuffed them in the box, threw them back in Robby's bag and kept it behind your back.

“Wait, why do you have a box of condoms for work?” asked Javadi.

“Oh please,” said Santos with a groan. “They're always at it in work. Better safe than sorry.”

“We are not always at it at work,” you defended.

“The storage closet?” asked Mohan, apparently abandoning the venture of finding fitting condoms for her patient.

You held up a finger. “That was one time.”

“The toilets,” added Santos, sadly remembering the time you and Robby had hid yourselves in the bathroom for a break. A break that was only supposed to be comforting touched turned hot and reaching quickly.

“That one time in the exam room where we thought we were examining a broken hip for a Mrs Driscoll-” began Javadi.

“Okay! Okay, I get it!” you interrupted.

“I think it's nice,” Trinity quipped her lip, arms crossing over her chest. “Get some dick when you can right.” She patted your shoulder like a proud sister as she left the group of you, laughing quietly to herself.

Victoria and Samira followed suit, leaving you with the ramifications of your own embarrassment. So what your boyfriend was largely endowed, wasn't it a compliment? Weren't you the luckiest girl in the world to have Robby with soft and tender touches turned to almost hateful thrusts with how hard he loved you.

You made sure Robby's bag was tightly closed before sliding it back under the desk.

The day brought the same usual storm the ED always brought. Enough to distract you from the mornings events and the package sitting inside of Robby's bag. You were left with only a creeping heat crawling up your neck, the last dregs of your doctors eyes on you and their giddy smiles.

You'd only managed to make it to the staff lounge for a coffee by mid day, taking the mug that was yours, marked with an inside joke and given one secret Santa round.

“Hey.” Robby slipped into the room, leaning his back against the sink and standing next to you.

“Hey yourself.”

For a moment there was a silence where you poured coffee for the both of you, handing him his mug.

Robby's fingers grazed yours, the simplest touch sending shivers through your skin. “Can I ask you something?”

You hummed, head tucked away. He wouldn't have heard about the mornings teasing's, would he?

“Santos has been... off today,” he said.

He would.

You gulped, a feign of concern falling to you. “She has?”

“Keeps looking at me and smirking. She's doing this thing with her hands where she-” he demonstrated, spreading his hands to different distances, some small, some bigger. His hands wavered around the imaginary object between his hands.

You were left groaning.

Robby's head tilted toward you. “Do you know anything?”

In attempts of hiding away the story your head ducked and shook side to side.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you said.

Robby's fingers were slightly calloused but no less humble as he pinched your chin, realigning his gaze with yours. His brows rose, gaze pouring into yours. He didn't even have to ask you again.

You sighed. “This morning Mohan had a patient with HIV and she wanted to give him condoms but there was none where they usually are so I gave her some of ours. But they weren't exactly... the right size.”

There was a small furrow of confusion in his face as he waited for you to elaborate.

You turned your body into his, lowering your voice. “Not everybody can fit into an extra large, Robby.”

The furrow gave and a small grin split his cheeks as he glanced down to your shoes, a pink blooming under his beard and to his cheeks. It was different from your own embarrassment. He was more pleased with himself.

Robby straightened, hands wavering. “So how does... this connect to-”

“Santos was there this morning when Samira asked.”

He chuckled, tongue poking out into his cheek as he shook his head in amusement.

“It's not funny,” you said, nudging him.

He rocked on his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Your coffee was turning lukewarm in hand, the bitter taste suddenly too sweet as you made to walk away from him and stew in your own humiliation.

Robby's fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged, using you to pull himself in closer. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he teased, voice dropping into the low drag in his condescending way. The sort of voice he used to coax you down into bed with his darkening eyes and lustful approach. “Is my dick too big? Do I fuck you too good?” His hands grabbed at your hips, bringing you into him, tongue darting out to your neck.

Your body wriggled in his hold, trying to escape as his arms grew strong around you. “Stop!” You laughed.

“Make me.” He nipped at your neck, licking over the sting he caused.

The door was pushed open and Langdon stumbled in the doorway, catching sight of the two of you tangled in arms and laughter.

“Are you two doing it in the lounge now?” he asked.

You guessed you just should've been thankful Langdon wasn't there that morning, otherwise there would have been competitions between him and Santos on who could make the best jokes out of your misery.

Slowly, Robby moved away from you, pulling himself up straight and pulling at his hoodie before leading the way out the room.

McKay was wheeling a patient away to x-ray, Samira was giving aftercare instructions to an elderly couple and Mel was somewhere lurking in a corner talking to Dana.

Santos, however, was still being the most productive, sitting across from Javadi and still trying to make sense of some invisible size between her hands.

You watched, un-able to stop as Robby walked behind Santos and spread her hands apart just a little, enough to leave more than enough inches between her hands.

Robby walked away, satisfied.

"really," he nods and pays you no mind, he tries to take the goblet from your hand but your grip is tightened around it, the bone of your knuckles threatening to break through your skin. "give it here, stupid girl." he moans and you swing the rest of it down, thrusting the empty cup in his direction with an insane grin plastered on your face.

"what is so special about that boy anyways?" he huffs, eyes darting across the room to where your vision has frozen in place. "he's most likely still hung up when i unseated him from that horse of his long ago."

"it could also be our damn brother marrying his sister," you sigh, "that itself is," you pause, sickness filling your stomach, "loaded." there's silence between the two of you as you stand in the shadows, the beat of music looming over you and the party continues. daemon replaces your cup with one filled with water but you make no move to consume it; how could you when every cell in your body has stretched and expanded beyond normal to fit in thoughts of gwayne hightower.

"daemon," you whisper, "he's just so pretty." your slurred confession is almost pathetic and your brother breaks the intense staring competition to place a hand on your shoulder in awkward reassurance. "like a deer," and your eyes shine an alarming amount, streaks of moonlight glittering across your iris. god, you are a goner.

"not that pretty," he scoffs, "you are prettier."

"you say that because we share the same mother," you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. the compliment from him is born from his distaste of the hightowers and maybe a twinge of fondness for you as he ruffles your hair in return.

"true, but you do have such foul taste in men. of all possible sorts, a hightower?" his brows raise incredulously, "really, is there no other man in this realm?"

"no, not for me," you shake your head in a daze, everythings starting to appear fuzzier, softer but you can still make out the small smile painted across his pink lips so clearly. you wonder what itd be like to touch them up close, to feel them against your own, on your bare skin, on your sheets, just anywhere for you.

"oh no," he groans in desperation, "i beg you to find some sanity, even just a shred of it. no, in fact, find some dignity and if you truly must then bed him and be done with it," its mortifying in a sense for him to say this to you, his younger sister but you are in dire need of saving yourself before ypu melt entirely defenseless to this one-sided love.

"you cannot just bed a man like gwayne hightower!" you hiss quietly in annoyance, "look at him," your eyes dart to his direction once more, "no, it will not do. i must marry him," you declare and daemon snorts out, the cackle leaving his lips in a proud twist and he turns to you.

"you have gone mad, dear sister, truly mad," maybe not mad, but definitely drunk, he gathers. but you can't focus on him. not when you've caught the eye of the pretty red-head and you have never been so grateful to have such an annoying brother. you wave, fingers dancing in a slight tease and you watch as his brows knit together in a small scrunch. he then turns his attention back to the kingsguard as if it had never happened. as if he hadn't just knocked on your heart, entered and laid to rest before slicing you inside out.

oh.

"he definitely hates me," your lip wobbles with each word, eyes glassy with dejection and pure heartbreak. daemon looks at you horrified, unsure of what to do with you in this emotional and heightened state.

"come sister," he tries to usher you away from the table and in the direction of the hallway, "we can always let caraxes have her fun, hmm?"

"you'd hurt him?" your eyes widen comically and daemon can make out the heavy breaths heaving from your chest with great concern. oh god, he's just making things worse for himself.

"send me to the seven hells, no! no, of course not," he drawls, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and trying to keep you moving, "maybe just a little," he murmurs but you catch it and push off of him instantly.

"but i love him," you gasp, and daemon sighs. its like having a child, truly.

"love who?" comes the voice of alicent hightower and the two of you turn. daemon shakes his head at the sight of her brother making his way over and landing inches away from the two of you.

"you," you whisper to him and its a moment too soon before daemon can smother your lips with the heavy weight of his palm.

"me?" gwayne speaks with great confusion, he has no recollection of whats been said before thankfully but his sister sends you a knowing look, a mischievious glint in her eyes as she smiles. you've always thought of alicent as oddly sisterly. she's been kind to you when others have not, she's given you chances when others have paired you with your chaotic brother and some part of her wishes that the two of you couldve been greater friends despite the fate that had been forced upon her.

gwayne looks to his sister, hoping for some explanation and almost misses how you bite down on daemon's palm. the elder pulling back with a curse and a wince as you shoot him your most dazzling smile. its earth bending, soul shattering downright gorgeous the way you look in your black beaded gown; a princess of the night and defender of the realm that gwayne allows himself the mercy of letting his gaze linger longer than it needs to.

"hello, you," the excitement is gathered in your voice and gwayne's eyes narrow in. theres a softness in your shoulders, the relaxed state of your posture, the wind in your hair and the wildness in your features.

"are you drunk?" alicent beats him to the question and he inhales slowly, exhaling slower trying to gather restraint and patience. sober you he has been able to handle. he approaches you with nothing more than polite kindness. he knows the way your soul seeks him out in every room he walks, he knows you ask after him, how you wait at the gates anytime he is planned to return to kingslanding and hes very fond of you.

he also knows the family you come from. the cruelty, the power, the damn dragons that give you the ego boost to demand what you have and take what you must no matter the expense. he despises your brothers particularly and though he tries to be fair to you, he knows its easier to create the distance. to be noble gwayne and play his part in this deathly game.

but drunk you? the adrenaline rushing through your body and mind, no gwayne doesn't know how to handle drunk you when he just about keeps hold of his facade of barely tolerating sober you.

"unwell," daemon corrects her without a second glance, "she is unwell and i was just escorting the princess to her chambers, she is rather tired," daemon stresses, keenly aware of how you're minutes away from embarassing yourself and him by extension silly.

you hold up four fingers cheekily and scrunch your nose in delight, "four cups!" you cheer and alicent lets out a laugh.

"is that all?" she grins, taking in your amusement.

"is that all?" daemon scoffs, "anymore and you will find her at the bottom of the barrell," that instantly has you shaking your head in defiance.

"you will find me on the dance floor!" your eyes widen with pure joy and childish excitement, buzzing through each of your veins and you break free from daemon's hold in the direction of the main party again.

you probably make it two steps ahead before a certain knight blocks your path, "princess," his hand is held up, palm outwards, a silent request for yours to join him and you do. he brings your hand to his lips and the second he presses a soft fleeting kiss you are airborn. its only a greeting but you float, rising and lifting and lord can nothing bring you down. its a manifestation of your earlier thoughts and you are purely giddy.

"ser gwayne," you swoon and its the first of a teasing smile you're met with. youre sure hes reserved this just for you.

"oh fuck me," you brother moans, palms smacking against his face in pure embarrassment but gwayne ignores him entirely, his gaze fixed on solely you.

"are you well?" he murmurs just for your eyes, pure honesty and earnest and you somehow melt even more.

the air softens around you and you're not sure your knees are working, everything feels so light and like heaven. "i dunno," you are stunned, your response incomprehensible as you focus on the invisible print of where his lips have scorched your skin. he lets go of your hand and yours drops to your side. no force or willpower to hold it open, no you are molten.

"might i escort you back to your chambers? perhaps for some rest?" he's hopeful. he catches daemon's deathly stare from behind your back, boring holes straight into him and for a second he's nervous. however, he can sense the hesitation of daemon and the need to get you to safety in this state. youre unguarded and though gwayne would never let anything happen to you now or never, it seems wiser to let you sleep this state off. roaming drunk is not ladylike and he doubts you care too much of what the other noblefolk think, he for sure knows that you are out of control with your actions as you usually like to be and that? that unnerves him incredibly.

"i am perfectly able to do so," daemon cuts in but you pat your brother's chest, cutting off his sentence halfway with a mischievous grin.

"no, ser gwayne will," you order, you clap your hands in delight and press a lazy kiss to your brothers cheek and then one to alicent. "goodnight brother, goodnight alicent, i shall see you both in the morrow," you throw out your arm for gwayne to take and he chuckles at how overly confident you appear before him now. how miliseconds have hardly passed and you stand with great eagerness before him. its a downright straight ego boost and soar to his chest.

sober you is usually more refined, more subtle and reserved for only the right people. gwayne's not spent much time in kingslanding to meet your close aquaintance but theres some things he can gather from afar. like the way you hold yourself with a rare gentleness from a targaryen he's sure its because of you that halaena has grown to be so fond. you take pride in the way you dress and carry yourself, you are friendly with the animals. you tend to the gardens and so often he finds you in the company of the cooks. yet you are still strategic when helping stage coups and plan attacks, you listen attentively to the working folk and despite what you come from, gwayne is intrigued by who you've become.

you hold yourself looser now, slightly leaning into his side as he carries most of your weight. its evident in the slower steps he takes, the silence he finds himself in in an attempt to catch the slow rise and fall of your breaths. he wishes the two of you were so much more than your last names because all he can see is how perfect you fit at his side. he must do a terrible job at conveying it because you stop so abruptly that his body moves in great whiplash, attending to you immediately.

"is something the matter, your grace?" unlike you, he hasn't drank the slightest drop and is so acutely aware of his environment his senses have heightened. your stance surprises him as he takes you, your fists have balled at your sides with an impatience and theres hurt scrunched across all over your face. a sudden flush of dread works it way into his throat.

"yes, i think you detest me, ser gwayne hightower," and his stomach does somersaults with the way his name slips from your lips. he stutters, trying to catch his breath and mind from moving at a million miles per hour.

"detest? my, oh my, that is a strong accusation," he tries to land it in light-heartedness, the chances are you'll most likely not even remember this tomorrow but the betrayal lingering in the lines of your face has him inhaling slowly, choosing his next words carefully. he opts for a simple truth, "i do not hate you," he speaks plainly, brows jumping with each word.

"no?" you question, the bottom of your lip rests into a little pout and gwayne's eyes move like a laser, narrowing in on it.

"no," he confirms with a steadfast heart, "come," and he holds out his arm again, "let us continue."

"no," you refuse and gwayne wonders which of his sins must be in need of divine punishment right now for this to be happening. his hand drags across his face and tries to think of his next course of plans.

"okay," he shrugs, "what would you like to do?" and he watches how you light up with pure ecstasy. your arms raise in the air and he watches how you hurl your body in a poor attempt at a twirl. the drunken spin has your left foot landing wrong, catching onto the seams of your gown and you feel the world falling back.

the scream dies in your throat when youre surrounded by such intense heat. gwayne hightower is warm all over, his arms have caught you just in time, your head neatly tucked against his chest as his arms span the length of your back and waist. its almost intimate the way you can hear his heartbeat, it bounces and jumps and you'll play it as a soundtrack to your life if you could. you bring your own hands to rest onto his chest, the crisp velvet sliding against your skin as you look up.

it must be the biggest mistake of your life to look up because as soon as you do you're sucked straight in. its like the ocean has swallowed you whole, and in the midst of its vastness you can hear the quiet, you can feel the serenity and calmness hit you so gently.

"princess," his voice tries to pull you from its trance, and the throated rasp cuts you free.

"gwayne?" you whisper, and the rest of his features appear back into focus. the small freckles dancing along his skin almost disappear the way the moonlight streaks before him. the bridge of his nose, the way it slopes so perfectly, gwayne hightower must have been made and born of pure precision and patience.

you're not thinking and he's momentarily distracted by the way you've dropped his title, saving the way you've said his name into pure permanent memory. so you reach out, your cold index finger touch his nose and he freezes beneath your touch. your finger then drags, following the path of his nose and down to his lips, they pause on his bottom lip momentarily before continuing its course down to his chin and then the length of his neck. you can feel his adam's apple tense as he swallows under such intensity and then they rest teasingly on the junction where his two clavicles could meet. the small amount of skin escaped from his tunic and burned into memory.

"princess," he murmurs, trying to gather his footing and he's still holding you so tightly he's realised. "this is not proper," he manages to get out and a slow smile reaches your lips. you've done it, you've broken gwayne hightower and it has only took four cups of wine to do so.

"i wonder what five would get me," you want to touch his hair next, feel the copper strands beneath your fingers and tug on them, feel how they would be burrowed against your skin or what noises he would make if you pulled them right. you don't reach out though however, your hands travel lower to his abdomen, pushing yourself more upright and steady on your feet but gwayne tenses at the contact.

"sweetheart?" he breathes in confusion, he has no idea what you're on about or whats even happening but youre set alight. this is new. you love the way this one sounds, you want to brand it to your forehead and let the term of endearment be the only thing he's ever allowed to call you by. you stand on your own, centimetres from him and try to dust the nonexistenr fluff off your gown and even just moving has you slightly dizzy. you try to reach for a railing but gwayne's hands move quicker and he's steadying your weight once more.

"i don't think you should move so suddenly," he warns, "you need to rest, sleep this haze off."

"i'd like to dance," he watches as your face morphs into something so fierecly determined and for a second, he's almost scared. it doesn't last very long however because a boyish laugh quietly escapes his lips at the sight of you.

youve taken a step back and your eyes are closed, your swaying so slowly and way off beat for this to be considered a dance. you imagine your partner to be there, leaving the gap empty for a body as your hands play with the air, mumbling along to the faint tune you can hear but its all so unrhythmic that gwayne almost feels sorry for you. you're going to make yourself dizzy and sick, you'll probably fall into a bush soon and gwayne decides to put his title as protector into action.

"you are," he breathes, and he steps into the gaps, his hand at your waist and the other taking charge of your outstretched one. your palms are interlocked as he moves you to a more practised rhythm. gwayne may be a knight and soldier but hes a man of nobility, a member of the court and he'd be damned if he didn't how to dance.

"mad?" you offer, opening your eyes to steal a peek at him. its so natural how your bodies align together, fit and move as one. its fluid and light, you can hardly feel your feet on the ground.

but gwayne certainly can, you've stepped on his toes twice, lopsided and lazy footing that he finds endearing, "wonderful," he corrects you with a unguarded softness, "you are wonderful," and you swoon once more.

"keep your eyes open," he whispers and you obey, and when he spins you he does it at such an incredibly slow pace in fear of you falling and your nausea rising. you're having so much fun with him right now that you don't realise you've been dancing with the knight for the length of minutes; so long that he has walked or rather cleverly danced the two of you back to your chamber.

truth be told he doesn't actually know which is yours. he ends the dance with a final spin, before holding onto the two of your hands and kneeling into a bow. he presses a kiss to each of them, so gentle that when you shoot him another smile it goes straight to his head. hes unsure of how hes still alive right now, he swells with pride at having earned so many of them tonight they ought to declare him a champion.

"thank you ser gwayne," you mumble, your hand ready at the knob of your door.

"just gwayne," he smiles and the world tilts its axis. "and if you ever find yourself in need of a dance partner then i am at your service," he drawls and a giggle escapes your lips as you open the door then lean your head against the frame tiredly. you are exhausted and want nothing more to go to bed, you also just want to stare at gwayne all night long.

"even if your partner is barely tolerable," your voice is slurred not from the wine but the fatigue now and gwayne steps forward by an inch. but an inch is all you need to feel the sheer heat radiating from his body and heart again.

"i told you," he uses a finger to trace your cheek now so tenderly it shatters all the walls youve ever built in your heart and laid entry for gwayne and gwayne only, "you are wonderful."

"wonderful," you whisper and there's moons in your eyes again.

"goodnight, sweetheart," he pulls back, clearing his throat. he sees the gears in your head turning and a faint furrow in your brow but before he can even ask what is the matter, youve stepped forward in an ambush, wrapped your arms around him in a bone crushing hug.

and to finally finish him off and send him to heaven, you aim to kiss his cheek. its lazy, off target and lands in the corner of his mouth. before he can register whats happened youre off him in an instant and the door closes.

"w-what?" he whispers to the dead of the night, his fingers come find the place where your lips met his if you can even call it that and its slightly wet. he has half a mind to knock the door down, break it with his bare hands and steal a proper one. however, you are drunk. beyond so and you need to rest.

he could bring this up tomorrow to you but theres a strong possibility that youd either not remember or would be mortified at the memory and avoid him entirely. the latter would devastate him for centeries.

hes still standing at your door, burning holes inside of it that he doesn't know how much time passes. a young jaecarys passes by and stops.

"ser gwayne?" he calls out and the elder is undeterred, his gaze still stuck on where you had once been before him that he doesnt register the onyx curls before theyre completely blocking his view.

"yes?" the trance is broken.

"what are you doing here?" jace speaks, suspicion laced in his tone.

"dancing," he mumbles, "i was dancing," he nods to himself and then lets out one last longing exhale before making a move to the opposite direction. the distance between the two of you burns as it grows but gwayne forces himself to keep moving. and despite the man not having a single drop of alcohol tonight, gwayne feels the buzz in his blood.

"drunk," jace mutters and continues his footsteps.

yeah, he is.

Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.

It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.

Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.

The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.

Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.

No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.

He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.

His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.

"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."

It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.

No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.

By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.

Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?

-

By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.

It was hardly the first time.

The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.

Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.

You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.

Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.

Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.

So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.

That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.

You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.

Just a little farther...

"You appear to be losing your battle."

The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.

You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.

A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.

You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.

You were in far too much of a hurry.

"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."

His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."

You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.

"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."

"You are trying to do something."

"I am not."

"You are."

A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.

"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."

"I am simply a guest in the Keep."

The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."

There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"

You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."

"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."

His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."

You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."

"Are you?"

"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."

A beat passed.

"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."

You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."

"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"

A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."

You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."

The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.

Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.

"...It's you."

The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.

He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.

When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."

The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"

You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."

Silence settled between them.

Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.

You did not look mad.

Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.

More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.

Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.

His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"

He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.

You said nothing.

For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.

His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"

You instinctively stepped back.

"I only jest," he said quietly.

Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."

Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.

Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.

I've dreamt of you.

Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.

He pushed the heavy oak door open, the sound a soft groan in the stillness, expecting the familiar sounds that greeted him each night: the gentle scrape of a brush through her hair, the delicate click of pins set aside one by one as she readied herself for sleep. Instead, he was met with a scene that stole the breath from his lungs.

There, in the centre of the large canopied bed, was his wife, Y/n, fast asleep. But she was not alone. Curled around her, tucked into every available space like a litter of dragon pups, were their children. Daeron, his eldest, the one whose failures tasted of sour wine and regret even in Maekar’s mouth, was slumped against the headboard, his face slack and peaceful in slumber, free of his usual fearsome dreams. Aerion lay sprawled at the foot, one arm flung out dramatically even in sleep, the dangerous, restless energy that so often animated him finally stilled. Aemon, home for a brief respite from the Citadel, had a book open on his chest, his spectacles askew, the profound intellect behind his closed eyes momentarily at rest.

Closer to Y/n, Daella was nestled into her mother’s side, her gentle face serene. One of her small hands rested on Maekar’s pillow, as if keeping his place. Then came Egg, his Aegon, tucked under the crook of Y/n’s arm. Even asleep, there was a determined set to his jaw, a prince’s pride softened by the utter safety of the moment. And finally, little Rhae, a mere whisper of silver-gold hair and rosebud lips, was cradled in the hollow of Y/n’s other arm, her tiny fingers tangled in her mother’s nightgown.

Maekar stood frozen on the threshold, his hand still on the door. The stern lines of his face, etched by wind, worry, and will, did not soften so much as they stilled. The intimidating Prince of Summerhall, the hard man, was utterly disarmed.

His first, instinctual thought was of discipline. The bed was for rest for him and his wife, not a gathering place for wayward princes and mischievous princesses. They had their own rooms, their own duties. This was indulgence. Chaos.

But the thought died before it could take root, washed away by a wave of feeling so profound it was almost violent. This was not chaos. This was a fortress. This was his family, drawn by some silent, collective instinct to the heart of their home—to her. Y/n, the centre of their gravity, the warm sun around which even his own cold, distant star was forced to orbit. She had gathered them all, the brilliant and the broken, the stubborn and the sweet, and given them the one thing he so often struggled to provide: simple, unquestioning comfort.

He saw the affection he could not voice with words made manifest in this tableau. Daeron was safe here, away from temptation. Aerion’s destructive fire was calmed. Aemon’s endless mind was quieted. Daella’s understanding heart was at peace. Egg’s fierce loyalty was rewarded. Rhae’s innocence was protected. And Y/n… she held them all, bearing the weight of their needs as effortlessly as she bore his own.

Slowly, quietly, he closed the door. He removed his boots, the leather sighing against the stone floor. He unbuckled his sword belt, laying the sword aside not as a prince, but as a man coming home. The rigid set of his spine finally eased.

He did not wake them. He did not scold or sigh. Instead, he walked to the side of the bed and looked down at the precious, impossible mosaic of his life. His gaze lingered on each face, a silent inventory of his greatest burdens and his only treasures. Then, with a care that felt foreign to his calloused hands, he reached out and pulled a light woollen blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed. He unfolded it and, with a tenderness he showed nowhere else in the world, draped it over the tangle of his sleeping family.

There was no space for him, and he would not have disturbed them to make any. His expression, in the dim light, was one of stark, unguarded devotion. The protection, the sacrifice, the relentless preparation for a harsh world;it was all for this. For the right to walk into a room and find his entire world sleeping safely in one bed.

He turned and settled into the large armchair by the cold fireplace, his own vigil begun. He would watch over them. He would let them have this peace, this softness he could not personally give but would move mountains to preserve. And as he sat in the dark, the sounds of their soft, synchronized breathing the only music in the room, the hard man with the soft heart finally found his rest.

GIF by @sakuraspoke

The thing about Valarr, sweet, naïve Valarr, was that he had absolutely no survival instincts.

"He's just reading," he said, from beside you on the kitchen counter, stealing grapes from the bowl between you with the casual ease of someone who had decided you were close enough friends that your food was his food. "It's not that interesting."

"He's got two pairs of glasses on," you said.

"He does that." Valarr ate another grape. "He loses one pair, so he puts on another and then he finds the first pair and instead of swapping them he just—" he gestured vaguely, "stacks them."

You looked back through the kitchen window into the living room where his father was arranged in the armchair by the lamp with the particular quality of a man who had achieved a level of comfort he intended to defend unto death. Dark hair, threads of white catching the warm lamplight. Two pairs of glasses. A book that appeared to be roughly the size of a brick, held with the careful reverence of someone deeply personally invested in its continued structural integrity.

He had a cup of tea on the side table that he had not touched in forty minutes because he kept forgetting it existed.

"What is he reading," you said.

"Something about Byzantine military strategy."

You stared.

"For fun," Valarr added. "He does it for fun."

Baelor turned a page. The lamplight shifted across the lines of his face — the strong bearded jaw, the particular set of his brow when he was concentrating, the slight movement of his lips because he occasionally read difficult passages quietly to himself without realising he was doing it, a habit Valarr had told you about once with the fond exasperation of someone who had grown up watching it and could no longer imagine its absence.

He reached for his tea without looking. Missed it by four inches. Patted the table twice, frowning faintly at his book, and then looked down with an expression of mild surprise at the existence of the cup, like he had genuinely forgotten he had made it.

"Oh no," you said quietly.

"Yeah," said Valarr.

Baelor took a sip of the tea, realised it was cold, made a face of profound personal betrayal directed at no one, set it back down, and returned to his book.

You were experiencing something you didn't have a clean word for. It sat somewhere in the vicinity of I would like to bring this man a fresh cup of tea every day for the rest of my natural life and considerably south of that as well, if you were being honest with yourself, which you were trying not to be.

He turned another page. Murmured something to himself. The lamplight caught the line of his jaw and the silver in his hair and the careful way his hands held the book, and you were, genuinely, a little embarrassed about yourself at realizing that you were, in fact, biting your lower lip.

"Valarr," you said.

"Mm."

"Your dad is—" You stopped. Tried to start again. Stopped again.

"Is…" Valarr prompted, with the patience of someone who had been watching this unfold for the better part of an hour and had popcorn, metaphorically speaking.

You watched Baelor reach for his tea again. Miss it again. The same four inches. The same faint frown. The same expression of mild existential surprise upon locating the cup.

Something in you gave way entirely.

"Valarr," you said. "I want to fuck your dad."

The grape Valarr had been eating went somewhere it was not supposed to go. He coughed. You waited. He held up a finger, collected himself, and turned to look at you with an expression that cycled through several distinct phases — shock, offence, processing, reluctant resignation — in the space of approximately four seconds.

"That's my father," he said.

"I know."

"You just said that about my father."

"I'm aware of what I said."

"He's reading about Byzantine military strategy."

"I know! But him being a nerd isn’t helping," you yelled-whispered to your friend.

You looked back through the window. Baelor had found his tea again, remembered it was cold, and was now looking at it with an expression of genuine philosophical sadness, as if looking at it would eventually warm its content again.

Valarr stared at you for a long moment. Then he looked at his father through the window. Then back at you. The reluctant resignation had settled into something that looked almost like the beginning of a plan.

"He needs a fresh cup of tea," he said slowly.

"He really does."

"Someone should bring it to him." A pause. "He likes it with a splash of milk. No sugar. He'll look up when you come in and forget what he was reading for a moment because he's polite like that, and when he takes his glasses off to look at you properly he'll probably—" Valarr stopped himself. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm doing this."

"Valarr—"

"The kettle's right there," he said, getting off the counter and leaving the kitchen with the dignity of a man washing his hands of a situation while absolutely enabling it. "I'm going to be upstairs. Not hearing anything. For a very long time."

You were already filling the kettle.

GIF by @prettysharwood

You had come over to study.

That had been the plan. That was still, technically, the plan, in the same way that standing in Daeron's kitchen doorway staring into the back garden while your notes sat untouched on the kitchen table was still, technically, adjacent to studying.

"What are you looking at," said Daeron, from somewhere behind you, in the tone of someone who already knew and was choosing to witness it anyway.

"Nothing," you said.

"You've been looking at nothing for six minutes straight."

Through the kitchen window and the glass of the back door, Maekar was in the garden.

He was doing something to a raised bed that appeared to involve a great deal of focused activity — kneeling in the dirt in old jeans and a worn grey t-shirt that had not survived contact with the garden soil in any meaningful way, hands dark to the wrist, white hair shoved back from his face with what appeared to have been a forearm and was now sticking up at an angle that should have looked ridiculous and did not. He was frowning at the soil the way, Daeron had once told you, he frowned at everything that failed to immediately cooperate with his intentions.

He said what seemed like a profanity by the look on his face under his breath. Adjusted whatever he was doing. The frown deepened fractionally.

The t-shirt was doing a lot.

"He's been out there since eight," Daeron said, now beside you with a mug of coffee and the expression of a young man who had made his peace with his life. "Something about the drainage not being right."

"Does he garden a lot?"

"He acts like it's a tactical problem he's been assigned to solve." Daeron drank his coffee. "Last month he made an Excel spreadsheet."

"A spreadsheet."

"For the tomatoes." A pause. "It had conditional formatting."

Outside, Maekar sat back on his heels and looked at the raised bed with his arms resting on his knees and dirt on his beard and the particular expression of a man reassessing a situation and preparing a revised approach. The late afternoon light was doing something entirely unreasonable to the line of his shoulders. His forearms were right there. Existentially. Just present in the world, doing that to your composure.

You needed to get a grip.

"He looks like that when he's cooking too," Daeron said conversationally. You wondered if he wore an apron. "And when he's parallel parking. And when he's doing the crossword. Basically, whenever he's concentrating on anything he gets that—" a vague gesture toward the window— "face."

"The face," you repeated.

"You know the face."

You knew the face. The face was a problem. The face combined with the forearms combined with the dirt on his bearded jaw combined with the knowledge that he had made a colour-coded spreadsheet for his tomatoes was creating a situation inside your chest that you were not equipped to manage.

You did not get a grip.

"Daeron," you said.

"Mm."

The words were out before you made a decision about them. "I want to fuck your dad."

The silence that followed had genuine texture.

Daeron lowered his coffee mug with the slow care of a man buying himself time. He looked at you. You looked at the garden. Outside, Maekar was frowning at the soil again, entirely unaware that his drainage problem was the least of what was currently happening in his kitchen.

"That's—" Daeron started.

"I know."

"He's my dad."

"I know."

"You came over here to study."

"I am studying."

A long pause during which Daeron appeared to conduct an internal debate of some complexity. You watched Maekar stand, brush the dirt from his jeans, push his hair back from his face with one forearm, and survey his raised bed with his hands on his hips. The t-shirt. The forearms. The hair. The frown.

"He's going to be insufferable about the drainage for the rest of the evening," Daeron said finally. "He needs something to redirect his attention."

You said nothing. You let that sit.

"He doesn't know you're here," Daeron continued, in the tone of a man constructing a case for something he will deny constructing. "I could go tell him. He does this thing when he's surprised — not bad surprised, just caught off guard — where he kind of—" another vague gesture— "resets. Stops frowning. It's a good moment."

"Daeron."

"I'm just providing information."

"You're facilitating."

"I'm going to go tell my dad you're here," he said, setting his mug down and heading for the back door with the air of someone who has made peace with their choices. "And then I'm going to remember that I have somewhere else to be. Urgently." He paused with his hand on the door. "He likes it when people are direct, by the way. He has no patience for anything else."

"I know," you said.

Daeron looked at you with suspicious eyes, like how long has this woman been observing my father without me noticing kind of eyes. He preferred not to walk down that line of thought and went to open the back door instead.

"Dad," he called, "look who came to visit!"

Maekar looked up from his raised bed. Found you through the glass. The frown shifted into something else — not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one, that fractional movement at the corner of his mouth that you had learned was as much as you usually got and had discovered was entirely sufficient.

Daeron brushed past you back into the kitchen, collected his jacket from the chair, and pointed at you on his way to the hall.

"I want absolutely no details," he said. "Like ever. Under any circumstances."

"Obviously," you said.

"Not even a look. Not a grin. Nothing."

"Daeron."

"I mean it,” he directed one final look to you from the front door. He turned on his heels and, with that wicked smile he usually saved for when he wanted to get under your skin, said: "Go on, pup, go get your toy."

Your eyes widened at the audacity of the man. But, when the front door closed behind him and you looked back through the glass at Maekar, who was still watching you with that fractional almost-smile and the dirt on his jaw and the forearms, you smiled and decided, for maybe the first time in your friendship, to not argue with Daeron.

So, you opened the back door.

I am completely normal about these men. Yeah. Completely normal.

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna

“What?” You ask opening the door to look at 3 of your six children. Aerion holding a ripped shirt while Daella and egg are both crying.

“They ripped my shirt! They deserve punishment!”

“That’s nice dear.” You say walking past the children, just wanting a moment of peace. Why don’t they go bother their father for once?

“Mother!” Aerion shouts shocked wanting your attention and sympathy for a shirt he doesn’t even like being ripped.

“Muña! Aerion pushed me!” Egg complains wanting Aerion to get in trouble not him. It’s not his fault Aerion was playing to rough with them.

“Muña! Aerion mean!” Daella shouts toddling along after you and her brothers.

“Muña! Aerion hid my book!” Aemon shouts running up to you on the brink of tears as he can’t find his favourite book. His elder brother stealing it.

“Mum? Do you know where my blanket has gone?” Daeron asks, when he sees you walking past his chambers. The boys doors wide open while he looks for the blanket you made him.

At all the commotion Rhae burst out crying. All the children’s voices over lapping when you snap. “Right, that’s it!” You shout passing Rhae to Daeron, all children immediately silencing as you never shout at them. “I’m having a nice long bath. If you need or want anything at all. Don’t ask me. Go to your father, if I do get disturbed no dessert.”

At that you walk off all the children just staring in shock. Not sure what to do.

-

“Father?” Aemon asks knocking on the door where their father works. Everyone else just barging in, not caring they’re meant to enter without permission.

“Kepa!” Daella shouts throwing herself into her confused father’s arms who was just about to tell them to fuck off.

“Mums gone crazy.” Daeron says bouncing Rhae, doing his best to get the girl to sleep.

“What?” Maekar asks confused, standing up from his chair, Daella still in his arms.

“It’s all Aerion’s fault!” Egg says before anyone can explain.

“No it not! It’s the little brat’s fault!” Aerion argues, thinking it’s never his fault.

“I didn’t do anything all I asked was if she’d seen my blanket.” Daeron says when Maekar looks at him wanting clarification.

“Muña mad.” Daella confirms from her father’s arms.

“The lot of you shut up.” Maekar says annoyed by all the talking, looking at his third and most well behaved child. “Aemon, what’s going on with your mother?”

-

“Can I come in?” Maekar asks through the door not bothering to knock. Having sent the children to the solar to play, after spending an hour with them.

“Who’s with you?” You ask from your nice hot bath, having the nice expensive oils in it. A glass of wine in your hand while you use the other to read. Having the most amount of peace you’ve had in years.

“No one, it’s just me.” He answers, needing a moment away from the children.

“Fine, enter.” You say, not looking up from your book when he quickly enters. “What do you want?”

“A brake.” Maekar says staring to get undressed, not caring that you’re giving him a look of annoyance. Him disturbing your alone time. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Fine.” You sigh, moving forward so he can fit behind you in the bath. Water spilling over the side as he joins you, hands wrapped around you pulling you back into him. Kissing your shoulder before laying back with a sigh.

“How is the water still this hot? It’s been an hour.”

“Shut up.” You say going back to reading, at a very interesting point in the book you’ve been trying to read all week. Him taking your wine to drink some for himself. “Are they ok?” You ask after 10 minutes of just laying in the bath together.

“They’re fine.” He says having missed time just the two of you, egg and daella sneaking in to your chambers every night. “I’ve missed spending time with you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” You say placing your bookmark on the page you’re reading before placing it on the little table that held the wine. Turning to face the man, lying on him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says pulling you into a kiss.

-

“Muña!” Daella shouts in excitement when you enter the solar, Aerion quickly pretending he wasn’t cuddling the girl. “Missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too baby.” You say placing the toddler on your hip, looking at your horde of children. Daeron lying on the sofa with Rhae sleeping on him while Aemon reads to egg. “Are you all ready for dinner?”

“We get cake right?” Aemon asks, still a big fan of cake.

The air in the royal chambers was so thick it seemed to require physical effort to breathe. You stood by the fireplace, your fingers buried in the velvet of your skirt, your knuckles as white as the marble of the statues in the gardens. You were not Dornish , you did not possess the desert fire in your blood; you came from a lineage of silences and duties, raised to be the gentle breeze that would soothe Maekar 's temper. Targaryen .

But the breeze had become a vacuum.

"Where is she?! Where is my wife?"

His scream echoed down the corridor, making your shoulders heave in a spasm of silent agony. You closed your eyes, but the image of that night refused to leave you. The banquet, the wine, the lights... and that excruciating moment when you, seated beside King Daeron the Good, heard the monarch sigh as he looked at you.

"It's a miracle of mercy," the King had said, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Looking at you, my dear, is like seeing my Dyanna return from the grave. Maekar has finally recovered what death stole from him. You are the mirror of his happiness... you are Dyanna herself reborn."

Those words were the knife that finally pierced his armor of caution.

The door was flung open. Maekar entered, the aura of a warrior prince emanating from him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you once called love, but now recognized as possession.

"What was that?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously hoarse tone as he closed the door. "You rose from the royal table without a word. The King was confused. I was... humiliated. What troubled you, wife?"

You didn't answer immediately. You turned your back to him, staring at the mirror. In the reflection, you saw a young, beautiful, and pale face—the face he had handpicked from among so many other noblewomen in the kingdom.

"Your father complimented me today," you said, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the embers. "He said I'm a miracle. That I'm Dyanna 's return ."

Maekar stood motionless. The silence that followed was a silent confession. "My father is an old and sentimental man. He sees what he wants to see."

"And you, Maekar ?" You turned slowly, your eyes filled with a deep sadness that seemed ancient. "What do you see? Because I spent months being the perfect wife. I accepted the jewels that belonged to her. I accepted the rooms she decorated. I even accepted you calling me by nicknames that, now I know, were exclusive to her."

"I gave you my name!" he exclaimed, trying to regain control of the situation, approaching with heavy steps. "I treated you with honor. What more do you want from me?"

"I want to exist!" The word exploded from within you, a cry for help you had kept inside for too long. Caution shattered like glass under the weight of your despair. "I want to be seen! I am not a receptacle for the soul of a dead woman! I am not a painting you can retouch to feel less guilty about her leaving!"

You began frantically tearing the diadem from your head, tears finally overflowing, hot and bitter. "I wondered why you insisted so much on keeping me in the shadows at night. Why your hands seemed to grope my face as if searching for features that aren't there. Today I understand. You don't love me, Maekar . You love the ghost that inhabits my flesh!"

"Shut up!" Maekar lunged forward, his pain transforming into a defensive rage. "You have no right to dig up what I tried to bury so I could live again!"

"But you won't live again!" you screamed, recoiling until your back hit the cold stone wall, your chest rising and falling in spasms of pure suffering. "You're just trying to steal my youth to feed your grief! I'm barely older than your eldest son! I should be your new life, but I'm just your macabre consolation!"

The distress on her face was so raw that Maekar seemed to hesitate for a second. He tried to reach out and touch her face, a gesture that would once have been affectionate, but now seemed like a profanation.

"Don't touch me with the hands that seek her!" You pushed him away, your voice faltering, despair draining your strength. "You destroyed my chance to be loved for who I am. You condemned me to compete with a woman who never makes mistakes because she no longer breathes!"

Maekar lost what little patience he had left. In a sudden movement, he grabbed his arms, pinning them against the wall above his head. The impact was sharp, and his body—massive, hot, and oppressive—crushed his against the rough stone.

"You're my wife," he hissed, his face millimeters from hers, his breath mingling with her sobs. "I chose you. I brought you to my bed. Do you think I could bear to look at you every day if there wasn't something real here?"

"What's real, Maekar ?" you whispered, your eyes locked on his, challenging him through the haze of tears. "Say my name. Now. Without thinking of the mother of your children. Without thinking of the woman Dayne gave you. Say MY name and convince me you know who I am."

His silence was the cruelest answer he could give. The grip on her wrists tightened, not from desire, but from the agony of a man caught in his own lie. He held her there, immobilized, while the weight of the substitution hung over them both, heavier than the walls of the fortress itself.

How do you cope with the fact that, even now, in his rage, you can see the reflection of another person in the depths of his pupils?

His silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving you dizzy, suffocated by the realization that, for the man who held your destiny in his hands, you were a blank page on which he insisted on rewriting an old poem.

Maekar kept his wrists pressed against the cold stone. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the ice of the wall, creating a symphony of sensations that made your stomach churn. You could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest, but you knew, with a bitterness that burned your throat, that this rhythm wasn't for you. It was the gallop of a man chasing a ghost.

“Say it …” you pleaded, your voice faltering, tears tracing hot paths down your pale face. “Please, Maekar … say my name. Just once. Claim the woman who is here, bleeding before you, not the memory you hold in your chest.”

His eyes, as dark as the sea before a storm, scanned every inch of her face. He analyzed her forehead, the curve of her nose, the trembling line of her lips. For a second, you saw the conflict—the agony of a man who wanted to love her, but who was chained by a grief that had become his very skin.

“You don’t understand,” she finally hissed, her voice hoarse, laden with a pain so dense it felt palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who suffers? Every time I look at you, it’s like a wound is reopened. I try to find you, I swear I try … but fate was cruel enough to give you the same light in your eyes, the same tilt of your head…”

“So it’s a punishment?” you interrupted him, your distress exploding into a desperate sob. “Am I your punishment, Maekar ? Am I the torture you chose for yourself so you wouldn’t forget what you lost?”

He released one of her wrists, but only to bring his hand to her neck, not to choke her, but to hold it with a possessiveness bordering on delirium. His thumb caressed her jaw, and for a moment, the touch was almost tender, if it weren't for the shadow of another person lingering between you.

“I wish it were different,” he murmured, drawing his face closer, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “I wanted to walk into this room and see only you. But when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the similarities become chains. I see her movements in you. I hear the echo of her laughter in yours. How can I love you for who you are, if everything about you screams at me what I can no longer have?”

That confession was the final blow. You stopped fighting his grip. Your body felt heavy, the will to resist draining away along with the tears. Despair was now a calm, deep sea, where you were sinking with no intention of surfacing.

“So you admit it…” you whispered, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t see the denial he was still trying to maintain. “I’m just a shadow. An echo of flesh and blood. You brought me to this castle to be a living tomb.”

Maekar released her other wrist and, instead of pulling away, he pulled her into a violent embrace, burying his face in her neck. You felt his body tremble—a tremor that came from the depths of his tormented soul.

“ Don’t leave me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin, sounding less like a prince and more like a man lost at sea. “Even if it’s a lie, even if you’re just a reflection of her… I can’t lose her again. I wouldn’t survive burying that face a second time.”

You felt his hands slide up your back, gripping the thin fabric of your underwear, a mixture of desperate desire and a morbid need for confirmation. In that moment, in the oppressive silence of the royal bedroom, you understood the extent of your tragedy: you loved a man who could only love you through the lens of his own loss.

You were both his cure and his disease. And, as he held you tightly as if his life depended on it, you wondered if there would ever be anything left of you to save, or if you would end up disappearing completely, consumed by the ghost of the woman you never knew, but whom you already hated with all the strength of your broken heart.

Maekar 's hands , once iron claws, now tried to find in you a refuge you no longer had the strength to offer. His embrace was heavy, an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an ocean of melancholy. But, inside you, something had died the moment he confessed that you were merely a reflection of an absence.

You didn't hug him back. His arms hung limply at his sides, useless, like those of a porcelain doll whose strings had been cut.

“Let me go…” you whispered, your voice devoid of any warmth, cold as the crypts where Dyanna lay.

“No,” he growled, squeezing her even tighter, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re my wife. Your place is here, with me, in our bed.”

“This bed was never mine, Maekar, ” you said, and the sound of your own voice, so hollow, startled her. “I’m just an intruder occupying a ghost’s space. I smell her scent on the sheets, I see her trace in your eyes when you look at me… I’m dying here. Every touch of yours takes a piece of my soul.”

With a desperate effort, you broke free. The separation wasn't violent, but it was definitive. You walked to the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight didn't reach, wanting to disappear into the shadows so he could no longer use your face as a source of comfort.

(...)

In the days that followed, the castle became a silent mausoleum. You began to dress only in gray and pale colors, rejecting the vibrant silks he so loved. You stopped wearing her jewelry, let your hair fall straight and unadorned, and avoided parties, banquets, and, above all, his gaze.

You became a ghostly presence in the Red Keep. You ate little, spoke even less, and when Maekar entered a room, you left as if his presence were poison. Maekar , in turn, began to crumble under the weight of your silence.

At first, he tried to act with the arrogance of a prince. He ordered your presence, demanded that you dine with him, but you remained there, an ice statue, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single word or a glance of affection. His desire, which had previously been fueled by resemblance, had transformed into a dark and painful obsession with you—with the woman he was truly losing.

One night, he broke into your private chambers. He smelled of strong wine and a despair that stifled the air around him. You were sitting by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.

“Look at me!” he roared, grabbing his chair and turning it violently. “I’m your husband! I demand you look at me!”

You looked up. But there was no gleam in them. There was no "light" he so desperately sought. There was only a gray emptiness, an abyss of indifference that struck him harder than any sword blow.

“What do you want, sir?” Her voice was a monotonous whisper. “Do you want me to smile? Do you want me to bow my head as she used to? I’ve forgotten how. I’ve forgotten who I was supposed to imitate.”

“I don’t want you to imitate her!” he shouted, falling to his knees before you, his large hands gripping your thighs, squeezing the fabric of your dress with trembling strength. “I miss your voice… your laugh… I miss when you looked at me and I felt there was something alive in this castle.”

“You killed that woman,” you replied, and a single, solitary tear rolled down your cheek, not of anger, but of mourning for yourself. “You suffocated her with the weight of a dead woman. Now, all you have is what’s left. The body you so longed to inhabit. You can use it if you want. I’m no longer inside it.”

Maekar let out a broken sound, a sob he tried to stifle in her skirt. He realized, too late, that in trying to reclaim the past through you, he had destroyed the only future that could have made him happy. He missed your genuine touch, your spontaneous affection, the unique woman you were before he tried to mold you into someone else.

He began kissing her hands, desperate, almost feverish kisses.

“Please…” he pleaded against her cold skin. “Come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll burn the portraits, I’ll move to another castle, I…”

“You can’t burn what’s etched in your mind,” you said, pulling your hand away with cruel slowness. “And you can’t bring me back. I’m not Dyanna , I can’t be resurrected.”

You stood up and walked towards the bed, lying down and turning your back to him, leaving him there, on his knees on the cold floor, a powerful prince reduced to a man begging for a crumb of attention from the woman he himself had broken.

The room was utterly dark, but his suffering was almost visible, a black shadow enveloping him as he realized that he now had two dead women in his life: one buried in the earth and the other lying beside him, alive, but forever out of his reach.

(...)

Night crept like a wounded animal along the walls of the Red Keep. Maekar could no longer bear the silence you had erected between them—an ice wall more insurmountable than any fortification he had ever besieged.

He entered the room, the sound of his boots echoing like the beating of an anxious heart. He found her standing before the fireplace, her eyes lost in the flames, her body enveloped in a white linen nightgown that made her look like a specter. She didn't move. She didn't recognize him.

“My sons asked about you today,” he began, his voice low, trying to find a way through the fog of indifference that surrounded her. “ Daeron is drinking more than he should, Aerion is growing increasingly cruel, and even little Aegon misses you… Aemon tried to explain his sadness to me with maester ’s words , but none of them understand why the light in this house has gone out.”

You remained motionless. The names of his children—the four princes Dyanna had left as his inheritance—hung in the air. You loved them, in a melancholic and distant way, but every time you looked at them, you saw the traces of the one you could never overcome.

“They are her children,” you finally said, your voice devoid of emotion. “They have her blood. They don’t need an echo to comfort them.”

Maekar growled, a sound of pain and frustration, and lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist with an urgency bordering on desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with a hunger that seemed to devour her soul.

“I want children of yours ,” he whispered against her skin, his warm lips tracing the outline of her ear. “I want daughters who have your spirit, not hers. My sons are a disappointment, but my daughters, I know they will be glorious. I saw them in my dreams, beautiful girls. Beautiful like you.”

His hands moved up, bold and possessive, squeezing her breasts through the thin fabric, trying to rekindle the flame that once burned so easily. He turned her forcefully, pressing his body against hers, his muscular thighs trapping hers. His desire was evident, a rhythmic and dark pulse that demanded surrender.

He kissed her with desperate violence, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands feverishly exploring her curves. He wanted to possess her, he wanted pleasure to make her forget, he wanted her moans to drown out the screams of his own conscience.

But you remained rigid. Your arms lay limp at your sides. Your lips didn't move beneath his. Your eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, cold and empty like those of a corpse. You were marble beneath his fire.

Maekar stopped. He stepped back only a few inches, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps, his face flushed with lust and growing anger.

“React!” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Scratch me, hit me, hate me if you have to, but be here !”

“You wanted a dead woman, my prince,” you replied, your voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Here I am. You may use my body. It is yours by right, by law, and by conquest. But do not ask me to participate in your fantasy. Do not ask me to pretend you are looking at me.”

He let her go as if he had been burned. The humiliation of being rejected not in body, but in soul, was a wound that the pride of a Targaryen could not bear.

“You’re torturing me!” he yelled, kicking a chair that flew against the wall. “I’m trying! I’m begging for a fresh start! I talk about future daughters, about our legacy, and you treat me like a rapist in my own bed!”

“Because you don’t want a fresh start!” you exploded, the first sign of life in days being a bitter rage that lit up your eyes. “You want redemption! You want to put children in my womb to prove to yourself that life has conquered death, but you still wear her wedding ring! You still sleep on her side of the bed! You want my daughters so they can grow up and become part of your fantasy!”

"That's not true!" he roared, moving closer with his finger pointed, his face inches from hers.

“It’s the purest truth that exists in this castle of lies!” you retorted, your chest rising and falling with a vibrant agony. “You miss her, Maekar . You miss her so much that the scent of my skin punishes you because it’s not the scent you memorized. You hate me for not being her, and you hate yourself even more for desiring my body while thinking of her soul.”

Maekar remained silent, his breathing erratic. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had just tried to seduce her, and saw the trembling in them. His despair was so intense it seemed he would collapse right there.

“I miss who I was when I was with her,” he confessed, his voice almost a broken whisper. “But I miss who I thought you would be…”

“ I could have been everything,” you said, sadness returning to extinguish your fury. “But you turned me into nothing.”

You walked to the bed and lay down, covering yourself up to your neck, leaving him alone before the ashes of the fireplace. Maekar remained there, a prince without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, realizing that the "love" he had tried to force was the very rope that was strangling what remained of both your hearts.

(...)

The weeks that followed were marked by a Herculean effort on Maekar 's part. He was not a man of delicate gestures or poetic words, but the silence you maintained was a punishment he could no longer bear. He began to act with desperate caution, as if he were trying to tame a wounded creature that could vanish at the slightest rough touch.

The room, once a battlefield, had become a sanctuary of silent offerings. In the morning, you would find flowers that were not Dyanna 's favorites , but wildflowers that grew on his own family's lands, brought by knights he had hastily sent. On his dressing table, the jewels of the deceased were no longer there, but new pieces, recently forged, with designs that he himself tried to describe to the blacksmiths—something that would be uniquely his.

But her soul only found rest away from him, in the gardens or in the library, surrounded by his children.

“Look, Mommy!” Little Aegon, with his tousled silver curls, ran toward her, holding out a stone dragon egg that he swore he could feel warming.

You smiled—a real smile, the first in a long time—and pulled him onto your lap, sitting on the stone bench. Aemon sat beside you, a heavy book on his lap, reading passages about the history of Westeros in his young, serious voice.

“The egg isn’t hot, Egg, ” Aemon corrected, though his eyes shone with affection for his younger brother. “But the sun is. You should be careful not to burn your skin.”

You stroked Aegon's face, feeling the purity of that child who, unlike his father, loved you unconditionally. Daeron , the eldest, lay on the nearby grass, a jug of water (which you insisted replace the wine) within his reach. He watched you with a look of melancholy understanding; of them all, he was the one who best understood the shadow that hung over his father's marriage.

Even Aerion , whose cruel tendencies were beginning to blossom and frighten the court, became docile in her presence. He approached with an almost predatory beauty, but knelt at her feet to show her a dragonbone dagger he had acquired.

“ If anyone in this castle dares to make her cry again,” Aerion hissed, his violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, “I will make them forget how to breathe.”

Aerion 's hair , a gesture of affection that seemed to ease the tension in the young prince's shoulders.

"No one will make me cry, Aerion . We are at peace here."

It was in this scene that Maekar found her. He stopped under the stone arch in the garden, observing the scene in silence. His chest ached at the sight of the smile you so generously bestowed upon his children, but which you categorically denied him. He felt a pang of envy for his own children, but also a profound admiration. You were what held that broken family together, even though it was shattered inside.

That night, he didn't enter the room with the weight of authority. He entered slowly, carrying a small tray with tea and honey.

“I saw you with them today,” he said, his voice hoarse, keeping a safe distance. “You have a patience I never possessed. They love you… and I’m beginning to realize they love you for who you are, not for who you represent.”

You turned around, the moonlight framing your melancholy silhouette.

"They are pure. They don't look back. They look to the present."

Maekar set the tray down on the table and took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of surrender.

“I want to learn to do the same,” he whispered, distress etched into every line of his stern face. “I know what I did… the way I tried to mold you… was a crime. I was lost in my own hell and dragged you there with me. But today, seeing you with Aegon and Aerion , I realized it’s not the past I want to reclaim. I want to conquer your present.”

He knelt down, not to demand, but to beg.

“Let me try again. Not like a man chasing a ghost, but like a man desperately in love with a woman who hates him for good reason. Give me a chance to prove that I know your name, that I know who you are in the dark and in the light.”

You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders eased an inch. The pain was still there, deep and dense, but the sight of Maekar Targaryen — the Prince of Summerhall , the relentless warrior — knelt and vulnerable, and began to pierce the ice around his heart.

“Words are easy, Maekar, ” you said, your voice still trembling with sorrow. “Time will be my judge.”

“Then give me all the time in the world,” he replied, taking her hand with a tenderness you never imagined he possessed, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that seemed like a blood oath. “I will spend the rest of my life in your shadow, if it means that one day you will smile at me again as you smiled at Aegon today.”

(...)

Time was no longer measured by the beating of the stars, but by the cautious rhythm of Maekar 's breaths . He kept his word. In the following months, he became a silent observer of his own life, a man who seemed to be relearning the alphabet through his gestures.

He no longer forced her into bed. In fact, he began sleeping on a small divan in the corner of the room, or often spent sleepless nights in his office, just so she could have the vastness of the real bed to herself, free from the weight of his body and the suffocation of his memories.

However, his true healing came not from his apologies, but from the boys' laughter.

One autumn afternoon, the wind was blowing strongly from the Bay, and you were sitting in the inner courtyard with Aegon and Aemon . Little " Egg " was desperately trying to balance himself atop a low wall, while Aemon read aloud passages about dragons of old.

“If I had a dragon,” Egg exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with an innocence that almost made her cry, “I would take her flying far away from here, to where the sun never sets!”

You laughed, pulling the boy to the ground before he fell.

"And what would I do in a place where the sun never sets, Egg ? I wouldn't be able to sleep."

"You don't need to sleep to dream, Mom," he replied, hugging her neck tightly.

The word "mommy" still vibrated in her chest with a bittersweetness. You felt a pair of eyes on you and looked up. Aerion was leaning against a nearby column, watching the scene. He didn't join in the games, but his posture was less aggressive when you were around. He approached and, with a rarely gentle gesture, placed a perfect red apple in your lap.

“For you, ma’am,” he said, with a half-smile that hid the darkness everyone said inhabited his soul. “It’s the sweetest in the orchard.”

"Thank you, Aerion, " you whispered, touching his hand briefly.

Maekar watched from the upper balcony. He saw how you flourished among his children, how you were the glue that held those distinct and difficult personalities together in harmony. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a mixture of gratitude and a heart-wrenching loneliness. He desired you, but that desire was now purged of any trace of Dyanna ; he desired the woman who knew how to soothe Aerion 's fury and nurture Aegon's dreams.

That night, the cold intensified. You were in bed, almost asleep, when you heard his hesitant footsteps. Maekar didn't go to the divan. He stopped beside the bed, his imposing silhouette cutting through the light of the fireplace.

“ They’re growing up so fast,” he said, his voice muffled by weariness and melancholy. “ Daeron challenged me today. He said I don’t deserve his silence, that I should be grateful you still breathe the same air as me.”

You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets up to your chest.

" Daeron is too observant for his own good."

Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, but his eyes were fixed on his with a desperate hunger for connection.

"He's right. I don't deserve this. But today, seeing you in the courtyard... I realized I can no longer live in this self-imposed exile."

He reached out, pausing mid-way, waiting for your permission. You didn't recoil. He touched your face, his scarred fingers gliding across your skin with the lightness of someone touching broken glass.

“I don’t miss her when I’m with you now,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. I miss the woman you were before I tried to bury you alive. Please… let me back in. Not as a ghost, but as the man who wants to be the father of the daughters you will still have.”

The despair in his eyes was so real, so raw, that the last barrier of ice in his heart cracked. You saw the man, not the prince, not the widower, but the broken man being consumed by his own mistake.

“ Maekar …” you whispered.

He leaned in, sealing his lips with a kiss that was anything but violent. It was a kiss of supplication, of mourning for what was lost and of hope for what could be built. His body trembled against hers, and for the first time, when he whispered words of desire in her ear, he used her name. He called for her, and only for her. The night was long, marked by a kind of surrender they had never experienced—a surrender made of pain and a dark need to feel alive amidst so many shadows. And as he possessed her under the dim light of the embers, she realized that, although the scars would never disappear, perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for a new story to be written upon the ashes of the old.

Maekar 's heavy breathing . When he finally uttered your name, the sound wasn't an echo or a comparison; it was an invocation. It was the acknowledgment that, in that bed, there was no room for anyone else but the two of you.

He pulled her to the center of the mattress with an urgency that didn't stem from pure lust, but from a desperate need to anchor himself in the reality of his existence. Maekar undressed with abrupt movements, shedding layers of pride and sorrow, until his warm, calloused skin met hers. The contrast was almost painful: his brute strength against her melancholic tenderness.

“ Look at me,” he ordered, but his voice was a broken whisper, a plea. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is here.”

He positioned himself between her legs, the weight of his body a welcome burden that finally chased away the cold. Maekar 's hands , large enough to encircle her wrists, rose to her face, holding her head with a possessiveness that she now understood as a fear that she would disappear.

When he entered you, there was none of the impatient rush of before. There was a sigh. A deep, slow entry that made you arch your back, letting out a trembling sigh against his shoulder. It was an invasion, but also a surrender. With each rhythmic and deliberate movement, Maekar seemed to be trying to fill the void he himself had carved in your chest.

His hands moved down to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with a force that would leave marks—marks that, for the first time, she wanted to bear as proof that she belonged to herself and to him, and not to a dead past.

“You…” he gasped, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat mingling in the warm light of the embers. “It’s just you. The scent of your skin… the warmth of your body…”

The rhythm quickened, becoming more raw, more intense. The pleasure was tinged with a latent anguish, a tension bordering on suffering. Maekar possessed her with the intensity of a man trying to exorcise demons through flesh. He kissed her violently, sucking on her lips as if he could extract the life from her to sustain his own, while their bodies collided in a dull, constant impact.

You felt your nails dig into his broad back, scratching the Prince's skin, leaving red furrows that he received as if they were medals. Pain and pleasure were threads intertwined in a rope that tightened ever more. The desperation of being loved for who you were finally exploded in a climax that left you breathless, your body trembling in spasms of pure emotional and physical exhaustion.

Maekar followed close behind, a muffled roar escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, collapsing onto your chest as if all his strength had drained away in that act of surrender.

For long minutes, the only sound in the room was that of ragged breaths. Maekar did not move; he remained there, heavy and protective, his face hidden in his disheveled hair.

“I will never call you by another name again,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a grim promise. “I will dedicate each night to erasing the shadow I cast upon you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, sensing the vulnerability of the man the entire kingdom feared. Dyanna 's ghost was still there, in some dark corner of memory, but that night, between the sweat and dried tears, you finally felt that your own name was the only one echoing within the walls of the Red Keep.

The silence that followed the first climax was not one of rest, but of a hungry vigil. Maekar did not withdraw; he remained anchored to you, feeling the residual tremors that still coursed through your legs. The light from the dying embers traced the contours of his muscles, transforming him into a creature of shadows and reliefs.

He slowly raised his torso, supporting himself on his elbows to face you. His eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated until they almost extinguished the violet iris. Dyanna 's ghost was no longer between you; there was only an earthly and visceral obsession with the woman who, for the first time, met his gaze.

“I feel you,” he growled, his voice so deep it vibrated against his sternum. “I feel your heart beating against mine. Say it’s real. Say you won’t disappear when the sun rises.”

In response, you slid your hands down his back, feeling the war scars and the furrows your own fingernails had just carved. You pulled him down again, seeking his mouth with a thirst that was no longer for comfort, but for dominance.

The second act began with renewed ferocity. Maekar turned her onto her back with a brusque, possessive movement, pinning her against the silk sheets. He knelt behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a force that compelled her to arch, exposing the vulnerable curve of her spine.

“You are mine,” he hissed close to her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “Not the prince’s, not the Targaryen name . Mine.”

When he penetrated her again, the angle was deeper, more invasive. Each thrust was a dry impact that drew hoarse moans from her throat. Maekar moved with the cadence of a conqueror, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head slightly back so he could bite the soft skin of her shoulder, leaving a purplish mark that would be her secret under her high-necked dresses the next day.

The pleasure was intense, almost painful in its intensity. You felt his heat burning against your cold skin, a contrast that drove you wild. The room seemed to shrink until the entire universe was reduced to that frenetic contact, to the sound of flesh against flesh and the weight of a man's desire, who was trying, through that act, to fuse his soul with yours.

Maekar increased the pace, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his back. He was on edge, his breath turning into short growls. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted your complete surrender. He wanted you to feel that, in that moment, he was the only man in the world, and you, the only woman he had ever desired.

With one last violent thrust, he held her tight, his nails digging into her hips as he surrendered to the climax. You felt the wave of heat wash over you, a spasm of ecstasy that left you powerless, collapsing onto the pillows as he fell on top of you, exhausted but finally present.

He remained there, his face buried in the back of her neck, his heart pounding against his back. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the unspoken promise that, though the past was a scar, the present was a fire neither of them wanted to extinguish.

(...)

The days in the Red Keep lost the gray hue of mourning and gained the dark, dense tone of suppressed desire. Maekar did not become a bard or a knight of light romances; he remained the Prince of Summerhall , a man of few words and a stern temperament. But his "good husband" manifested itself in acts of protective possessiveness.

He began to notice what you enjoyed when you didn't think you were being watched. He noticed that you liked the cool wind on the battlements at dawn, and he started to be there, waiting for you with a heavy fur cloak to wrap around your shoulders before you could shiver. He noticed that you lost yourself in thought in the septum, not out of devotion, but because of the silence, and he started to ensure that no one disturbed you, posting himself like a sentinel at the door.

The reconquest wasn't made of flowers, but of presence. And of a carnal urgency that seemed endless.

On a rainy afternoon, you were in the royal library, searching for a manuscript for Aemon . The smell of old parchment and dust always calmed you. Maekar entered, his armor still damp from combat practice, the sound of metal echoing in the silence of the room.

He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, trapping you between two tall oak shelves. His weight was a promise.

“ Maekar … the servants may come in,” you whispered, your voice faltering as his calloused, warm hand moved up your thigh, lifting the layers of silk from your dress.

“I told everyone to leave,” he hissed against her lips. “This place is mine. You are mine.”

He lifted her, setting her on the solid wood table, scattering scrolls carelessly. There, amidst tales of dead kings, he possessed her with a savage hunger, his kisses muffling her moans as the sound of the rain outside competed with the frenetic rhythm of their bodies. There was no trace of Dyanna there; only the raw heat and sweat of a man rediscovering pleasure through every inch of his skin.

There was a morning in the glass gardens, where the humid heat of the exotic plants made the air feel like honey. You were tending to some herbs when you felt his hands on your waist. Maekar turned you around so your back was to the broad foliage, undoing the laces of your bodice with an impatience that made you gasp.

“You’re different today,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her back as he penetrated her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts with a force that was almost a claim.

“It’s because I can finally breathe, Maekar ,” you replied, throwing your head back, feeling the sun through the glass and the constant impact of his body against yours.

He paused for a second, his face buried in her hair, and whispered her name as if it were a prayer of gratitude. The sex wasn't just physical; it was his way of asking for forgiveness without needing to use words his soldier's throat couldn't pronounce.

Maekar began to integrate himself into your afternoons with the children. He would sit at a distance, watching you play with Aegon or discuss philosophy with Aemon . Sometimes he would intervene to teach Aerion how to hold a dagger more efficiently, but his eyes always returned to you, seeking your approval.

One evening, after a family dinner where Aerion had behaved himself and Aegon had fallen asleep in his arms, Maekar took her to their chambers. He didn't lead her straight to bed. He sat her down before the mirror and, with infinite patience, began to brush her hair.

“You’re getting to know yourself again,” he said, looking at his reflection. “And I’m having the privilege of getting to know this new woman along with you.”

He dropped the brush and began kissing her shoulders, his hands sliding down to the front of her dress. The act began slowly, almost tenderly, on the wolfskin floor before the fireplace. He explored her with his tongue and fingers, mapping each new reaction, each sigh that was uniquely hers. The pleasure became a dense fire, a struggle of bodies where melancholy finally gave way to a dark and absolute passion.

Each time he took her—at the privy council table, in the stables, or in the dead of night in the royal bed— Maekar made it clear that the past was being buried beneath the weight of the present. He wasn't just being a good husband; he was becoming her world, and you, for the first time, didn't feel like a shadow, but the very light guiding him out of the darkness.

(...)

The following weeks were not marked by major events , but by a subtle and persistent change in the very substance of her body. Maekar 's devouring passion , which had previously seemed to be the only fire capable of keeping her warm, began to exact a price she did not understand.

The first sign came on a gray morning, typical of King's Landing. Maekar had already left for training with the sons, and the room still held the scent of his sweat, sex, and musk. When you tried to get out of bed, the world spun violently. A sudden, acidic nausea rose in your throat, forcing you to put your hand to your mouth and sit up abruptly.

In the Great Hall, the smell of fried bacon and warm bread, once your favorite, had become an enemy. You sat between Aegon and Aemon , trying to maintain a regal posture, but each breath of air laden with the odor of food made your stomach churn.

Maekar , seated at the head of the table, noticed immediately. His eyes, now always attentive to every nuance of your face, narrowed. He saw you push away the silver plate with a hint of revulsion, your skin paler than usual.

“You didn’t touch the food,” he observed, his deep voice cutting through the boys’ conversation. “Are you sick?”

“Just a passing dizziness,” you lied, your voice coming out weaker than you intended. “The heat in the glass gardens yesterday must have been excessive.”

He didn't seem convinced. He stood up, walked over to you, and placed his immense hand on your forehead. His touch, which used to set your skin on fire, now brought a comfort that made you want to close your eyes and cry for no apparent reason.

“You’re cold. And trembling,” he murmured, ignoring the curious glances of his children. “ The maester should examine you.”

“It’s not necessary,” you insisted, but the smell of the wine Daeron was serving beside you was the final blow. You stood up hastily, muttering an inaudible excuse, and fled into the hallway before the humiliation of fainting in front of the court could materialize.

You didn't get far. Maekar caught up with her in the chambers, slamming the door shut with a bang that made his head throb. He found her hunched over the porcelain basin, her body trembling with nausea.

He didn't recoil in disgust. On the contrary, Maekar approached and gently brushed her hair back with a delicacy you never imagined a warrior possessed. He waited for the discomfort to pass, wiping her face with a damp cloth before helping her lie down.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression wavering between extreme concern and something deeper, darker.

“Some days…” you admitted, your chest rising and falling with difficulty. “I feel tired. An exhaustion that doesn’t just come from our nights. It’s like my body is being claimed by something… or someone.”

He remained silent for a long moment, his hand resting cautiously on her belly, on the thin fabric of her garment. The touch was possessive, but imbued with a new reverence.

“The blood?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Did it come this month?”

You shook your head. The penny finally dropped, bringing with it a wave of distress and terrifying joy.

“ I am not Dyanna , Maekar, ” you whispered, tears beginning to well up. “The child who grows up here… he will not be a replacement. He cannot be a ghost.”

Maekar closed his eyes for a second, and you saw his jaw tremble. He leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that tasted of desperation and a solemn promise.

“He will be my new beginning,” he declared, his voice hoarse against her lips. “And you will be the mother of my daughters. They will be the fruit of our desire, not of my memory.”

He pulled her to his chest, embracing her with a strength that said he would never let her fall. The unease was still there, the nausea persisted, but under the protection of Maekar 's arms , you began to feel that, for the first time, the future was not a shadow of the past, but a new territory, dangerous and beautiful, that you two would explore together.

The Prince of Summerhall no longer had ghosts to chase; he had a new life pulsing within the woman he had finally learned to love completely.

(...)

The news of the pregnancy, which should have been a balm, became the trigger for a new and profound affliction. While Maekar saw it as the seal of his redemption, you saw only the danger of a repeating cycle. The nausea in your stomach wasn't just physical; it was the viscous fear that this child would be condemned to carry the weight of a legacy that didn't belong to them.

Maekar tried to approach, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction, but you flinched, recoiling from his touch as if his hand might mark the baby with the same shadows that had marked you.

“No…” you whispered, stepping back until the vanity table blocked your movement. “Don’t you dare celebrate this like it’s a trophy, Maekar .”

“It’s life winning, my wife,” he said, his voice vibrant, trying to ignore the distance you were keeping. “It’s our blood.”

“It’s my body being used again to soothe your grief!” You exploded, tears of emotional exhaustion streaming freely. “I won’t allow it, Maekar . I won’t let you do to this baby what you did to me. I won’t let you look at this child’s face and search for traces of children who have already grown up, or of a woman who has already passed away.”

You hugged your own belly, a gesture of instinctive and desperate protection. The anguish in your voice was raw, an open wound bleeding before him.

“And if they are girls…” her voice faltered, becoming a whisper laden with threat and pleading. “If they are the daughters you mention so often, you have no right to be disappointed. You have no right to look at them and sigh because they are not the sons Dyanna gave you. You have no right to demand that they be ghosts of the princesses you once imagined.”

Maekar stopped. The silence that followed wasn't tense like the previous ones, but filled with something unexpected. He didn't growl, didn't defend himself furiously. Instead, a low sound escaped his throat—a short, hoarse laugh, devoid of mockery.

“Disappointed?” He stepped forward, but this time kept his hands down, submitting to his guard. “Sons are a curse of toil and stubbornness, as Daeron and Aerion prove every morning. My sons are my pride, but they are also my eternal battle.”

He moved a little closer, and the candlelight revealed a melancholy gentleness in his features that you rarely saw.

“Girls are all I want,” he confessed, his voice falling into a tone of somber confidence. “I want daughters so I can learn what sweetness is, something that war and duty stole from me long ago.”

Maekar extended his hand, and this time you didn't recoil, allowing him to lightly touch the tips of your fingers.

“I am not a devout man, you know that well. The Gods and I rarely speak,” he continued, with a sad half-smile that broke through what remained of his resistance. “But for them, I will kneel. I will pray to the Seven, every day, that they do not inherit my hardness or the shadow of those who came before. I will pray that they are exactly like you. Sweet, resilient… and entirely themselves.”

The sincerity in his words, the desire for his future daughters to be a reflection of himself and not a mere memory, struck you with the force of a blow. The despair that suffocated you began to give way to a fragile and painful hope. Maekar pulled you close, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the weight of a man who finally understood that the greatest victory was not recovering what was lost, but protecting what had just blossomed.

The months that followed transformed the Red Keep into a stage of contrasts. As your belly grew, rounding out beneath the fine silk, a new, almost ethereal beauty emanated from you. The pallor of suffering had been replaced by a warm glow, a vitality that seemed to defy the cold stones and the whispers of the corridors.

You were radiant, and that was what irritated the "snakes" of the court the most.

Congratulations poured in from all sides, though you received them with cautious courtesy. King Daeron the Good often sought you out in the gardens, gazing at your belly with a tenderness that no longer looked to the past, but to the continuation of your lineage. Your brothers-in-law, Princes Baelor , Aerys, and Rhaegel , brought gifts and kind words, recognizing in you the strength that kept Maekar 's temper in check.

Even her stepchildren seemed to orbit around her. Aegon hardly left her side, fascinated by the baby's movements beneath her skin, while Aerion , in his lucid moments, stood like a personal guard, threatening with his gaze any courtier who dared whisper anything malicious about the prince's "new favorite."

But it was the whispers that still hurt her. The gossip in the dark corners about how you were "just a surrogate womb" or about Maekar 's "sick obsession . "

“We can’t stay here,” you murmured one night, as Maekar undid the braids in your hair. “The walls have ears, and the tongues here are full of poison. I don’t want them to be born in a place where the air is made of lies.”

Maekar stopped, his large hands resting on his shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.

“ Summerhall, ” he said, the name of the summer residence sounding like a promise of freedom. “We’ll go back home. There, the sun warms the stone and there are no courtiers to measure your worth by the face of a dead woman. There, it will just be us.”

But, while the match was still far away, Maekar seemed unable to keep his hands off you. The advanced state of your pregnancy, instead of pushing him away, seemed to draw him in with a gravitational force. He was obsessed with your form, with the fullness of your body that carried the life he so desired.

The scandal was inevitable. During a formal dinner, attended by the Queen and half the nobility of Westeros , Maekar couldn't hide his hunger. He ignored his plate, preferring to lean towards you, whispering dark, hot words in your ear, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your belly under the table, but sometimes rising boldly to caress the exposed skin of your cleavage.

“ Maekar , everyone is looking,” you whispered, your face flushing, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire you could no longer suppress.

“Let them look,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on her lips with an intensity that made the ladies-in-waiting look away and the Queen cough discreetly behind her fan. “They see a princess. I see my whole world.”

That same night, he didn't wait for them to reach the private chambers. The moment the hallway doors closed behind them, he pressed her against the heavy tapestry. His calloused, urgent hands moved up her thighs, lifting her heavy skirts, ignoring the bulge of her belly that lay between them.

“You ’re so beautiful it hurts,” he hissed, his kisses trailing down her neck as he possessed her right there, standing, in an act of lust and adoration that defied all protocol.

You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, feeling the baby kick amidst the warmth of your bodies. Maekar paused for a second, feeling the small movement against his chest, and the hard expression on his face dissolved into something bordering on religious adoration.

“Feel this…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They are coming. And they will be your reflection, my love. Only yours.”

Maekar 's desire for you had become absolute, a flame that no longer sought to illuminate the past, but to ignite the present you were building, one step at a time. King Daeron the Good rarely lost his temper, but that morning, the walls of the Privy Council trembled with a voice that hid no dissent.

“This is no journey, Maekar , it’s a delusion!” the King exclaimed, slapping his open hand on the map of Westeros . “She’s on the seventh moon. The road to Summerhall is unforgiving, cut by rain and unstable terrain. Do you want to risk her life and my grandson’s out of sheer pride? Out of a lack of the whispers of courtiers?”

Maekar remained motionless, his jaw so clenched it seemed made of iron. His eyes did not waver before his father.

“It’s not pride, Your Majesty. It’s self-preservation,” Maekar retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not allow her to give birth in a viper’s nest that counts her heartbeats, waiting for a mistake. Summerhall is my right. It’s the place where the air doesn’t reek of ulterior motives.”

“You’re a stubborn fool!” Daeron sighed, massaging his temples. “If anything happens to her on that road, no exile or title will protect you from your own conscience. But I see you’ve already decided. Leave, then. But take the boys. If you want your ‘private kingdom,’ take your whole house with you.”

(...)

The entourage set off under a heavy sky. The journey was a military operation. Maekar ordered the carriage to be reinforced with extra springs and lined with twice the amount of furs, but not all the luxury in the world could mask the reality of his body.

Inside the carriage, the space was shared with little Aegon, who wouldn't stop asking questions, and Aemon , who tried to read amidst the jolts. Outside, mounted on their horses, Daeron and Aerion followed the procession. The tension between the brothers was constant; Aerion provoked the guards, and Daeron , in his sober moments, exchanged worried glances with his father.

You felt every mile as punishment. The heartburn was a constant fire in your chest, and the nausea returned with a vengeful force, aggravated by the smell of horse and sweat coming from outside. Sometimes, the world spun so fast that you had to dig your nails into the upholstery to avoid fainting.

"Are you alright?" Aegon asked, touching her hand with his small fingers.

“I’m fine, darling,” you lied, forcing a pale smile as you tasted something bitter in your mouth. “The baby is just eager to see the new house.”

Maekar never left his side. He rode so close to the carriage that you could hear the creaking of his saddle. Whenever the caravan stopped to rest, he was the first to open the door.

"Everyone out!" he ordered his children, his voice not allowing for any delays.

He would enter and find her pale, with cold sweat covering her forehead. Without saying a word, Maekar would pull her into his arms, letting her nestle against his neck. He would bring her water with lemon and pieces of ginger, forcing her to eat it to soothe her stomach.

“I warned you it would be difficult,” he murmured, guilt glistening briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a grim determination.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered against his armor. “Just get me out of here, Maekar .”

Despite his condition, Maekar 's desire for you seemed to have mutated. It was no longer mere lust; it was a hunger for possession, a need to reaffirm that you were still alive and that you belonged to him. During the nightly stops, inside the royal tent, the outside world would cease to exist.

Even with the discomfort, you sought him out. There was something visceral and comforting about his strength. Maekar undressed you with torturous slowness, his eyes devouring the fullness of your belly, the curve of your breasts that now weighed heavily under his touch.

“You drive me crazy,” he hissed one night, kneeling between your legs while you propped yourself up on pillows to ease the pressure on your back. “This body… this life you carry… I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you now.”

He took her with an almost sickly reverence, slow, deep movements that made you forget the nausea and dizziness. The sex was dense, wet, and charged with a shared anguish. He kissed each nascent stretch mark on her skin as if they were scars from a holy battle. With each moan that escaped her lips, Maekar seemed to reclaim a piece of his own soul.

Outside the tent, the sons listened to the whispers and muffled movements. Daeron merely rolled his eyes and drank more wine, while Aerion kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring that no one approached their father's "sanctuary."

(...)

The journey lasted weeks. But when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon, bathed in the golden light of dusk, Maekar looked at you—exhausted, beautiful, and pregnant—and knew that, despite the King's scoldings and the dangers of the road, he had finally brought his queen to the place where shadows were not allowed to enter.

Summerhall was, at last, the balm Maekar had promised. Unlike the oppressive stone and smoke of King's Landing, the summer residence was bathed in a constant golden light, surrounded by fields that smelled of damp grass and wildflowers. But for you, the final stages of pregnancy had transformed that paradise into a gilded prison of weariness and affliction.

Her body seemed to have reached the limit of its endurance. Her belly, now low and heavy, made every movement a Herculean task. Her feet and ankles were so swollen that she could barely fit into her soft suede shoes, and heartburn was a constant companion that prevented her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time.

Maekar , however, had changed. The stern prince whom the kingdom feared had given way to a man whose life revolved entirely around his discomfort. He refused to participate in hunts or long exercises with his sons, preferring to spend the afternoons sitting beside them on the terraces of Summerhall .

“You’re having trouble breathing,” he observed one afternoon, closing a war map he was trying to read. He stood up and stopped behind his armchair, beginning to massage his shoulders with firm, experienced pressure.

“The space is getting too small for her, Maekar ,” you murmured, placing your hand on your belly, which was visibly moving as if an internal storm were raging beneath your skin. “I feel like my lungs have nowhere left to expand.”

He knelt before her, ignoring the dignity of his position. Maekar pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. The silence that followed was thick.

“They are impatient,” he whispered against the thin fabric of her dress. “Like their father. Forgive me for causing you this burden.”

Her stepchildren also seemed to have felt the change of atmosphere. Aegon brought her fresh flowers every day, sitting on the floor beside her to tell stories he heard from the maesters , trying to distract her from her back pain. Aemon brought her herbal infusions to soothe her heartburn, watching her with an academic seriousness that concealed a deep concern.

Even Aerion had become a constant and strangely protective presence. He refused to let any servant get too close with heavy objects or food that gave off strong smells that might trigger his nausea.

“She will be the most beautiful princess Westeros has ever seen,” Aerion once declared, polishing his dagger as he watched the garden entrance. “And I will teach anyone who disagrees the price of offending my father’s blood.”

(...)

Despite his exhaustion and the feeling of being "broken," as you used to say, Maekar continued to look at you with a hunger bordering on the sacred. To him, your stretched skin, your swollen lips, and your difficulty breathing were the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed. It was physical proof that you were building something new, something that belonged only to the two of you.

At night, the heat in Summerhall was stifling. You would often stay in just an open silk robe, trying to find some coolness.

“Don’t look at me now, Maekar, ” you pleaded one night, feeling heavy and awkward as you tried to settle into bed. “I feel like a burden.”

“A burden?” He leaned closer, his voice hoarse with restrained desire. He helped her lie on her side, gently placing pillows under her belly with an almost painful delicacy. “You are the most perfect sight that has ever graced these halls.”

He lay down behind you, his massive, warm body protecting your back. His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, slowly moving up to the side of your stomach. Maekar began kissing the nape of your neck, your shoulders, his trembling fingers sliding up the fabric of your tunic.

Sex, in these last days, was a slow and moist celebration of survival. He didn't penetrate her with the force of before; he explored her with his tongue and fingers, searching for her pleasure points with infinite patience, wanting to relieve the tension in her body through ecstasy. When he finally entered, it was with an almost tearful gentleness, a rhythmic movement that accompanied her whispers of distress and desire.

“You are my life,” he whispered against your ear, while you moaned softly, feeling the pleasure momentarily ease the pressure on your ribs. “My queen of Summerhall .”

In that darkness, with the scent of jasmine wafting through the window and the warmth of Maekar 's body merging with yours, the Red Keep and its cruel whispers seemed to belong to another world. There, you were the center of a universe that Maekar... Targaryen had sworn to protect with every drop of his blood, anxiously awaiting the moment when the cry of a new life would finally silence the echoes of the past.

The afternoon in Summerhall was filled with the sweet scent of hay and the lazy warmth of the autumn sun. You sat on a carved stone bench beneath the wisteria pergola, watching your stepchildren. Your back felt like a mass of red-hot iron, and an uncomfortable pressure in your lower abdomen came and went, like waves of a persistent tide.

You ignored it. It had already been days of discomfort, and you didn't want to interrupt the rare moment of peace between the boys.

Aegon was at her feet, trying to draw a dragon in the dirt with a stick, while Aemon recited passages from an ancient tome about the stars. Daeron , exceptionally sober, polished the hilt of his sword, and Aerion watched the horizon with that restless look that always kept her on edge.

A sharp pain made her gasp for a second. You dug your nails into the edge of the seat, your forehead beaded with cold sweat.

“You’re very quiet,” Aemon observed, raising his eyes with that insight that would one day make him a maester .

“It’s just the weight, my dear…” you began, but the words died in your throat as a sudden, uncontrollable sensation of heat spread between your legs.

The sound of the liquid hitting the stone floor was faint, but in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a crash. Her light silk skirts instantly darkened, soaked through.

Aegon stopped drawing, his violet eyes wide as he pointed to the puddle forming beneath his feet.

"Mommy... did you... did you pee?" the boy asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.

Aerion let out a short, nasal laugh, a sound devoid of empathy that cut through the air like a razor blade.

“It seems the great lady of Summerhall has lost control of her basic faculties,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a scene worthy of a peasant.”

“Shut up, Aerion !” Daeron roared, leaping to his feet and dropping his sword to the ground. He saw his face—the deathly pallor, the trembling lips—and realized what was happening. “It’s not urine, you idiot. It’s life coming.”

A violent contraction hit her, causing her to bend forward with a muffled groan. The agony was profound, a tear that seemed to want to split her hips in two.

" Aemon , help me!" Daeron ordered, putting his arm around her waist to support her.

Aemon slammed the book shut, acting with the precision that study had given him. He gripped his other arm, the two boys forming a cradle of strength for his now heavy and trembling body.

“Breathe, slowly,” Aemon instructed, his voice trying to remain calm as they guided her out of the garden toward the royal chambers. “Aegon, run! Find our father. Tell him the child is coming! NOW!”

Aegon shot like an arrow through the stone corridors.

"And the midwives?" Daeron asked, sweat glistening on his brow as he felt the weight of his body sway.

“I’ll have the maids summon the Maester and the women,” Aemon replied, looking at you with a troubled tenderness. “We’re past the preparation stage. They’ve decided the world has waited long enough.”

You could barely hear the voices. The world had shrunk to rhythmic pain and the terror that the moment had finally arrived. Each step was torture, each breath a battle. As they climbed the stairs, you could only think of one thing: Maekar . You needed him. You needed that toughness, that fire that was now the only thing capable of keeping you whole as your body prepared to break and give way to the future.

(...)

The delivery room at Summerhall was thick with the metallic smell of blood, hot water, and bitter herbs. The autumn sun, which had once seemed so sweet in the garden, now streamed through the gaps in the curtains like a cruel invader. You lay there, your body arched in agony, your hands digging into the linen sheets until your knuckles were white and lifeless.

The midwives moved like frantic shadows around her. The pain was no longer a wave; it was an ocean that was drowning her, pulling her hips in opposite directions. The Maester prepared the ropes and cloths, his face tense under the light of the candles that were beginning to be lit as the day died.

“Breathe, milady! Push with your belly, not your throat!” ordered the oldest midwife, a woman with a wrinkled face who had served House Targaryen for decades.

You let out a scream that tore through the silence of the hallway, a sound of pure despair and exhaustion. Your forehead was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your pale face. In the fog of pain, you heard what you shouldn't have heard.

“So fragile…” the old woman murmured to the assistant, while wiping the blood from between her legs. “With Lady Dyanna it was much easier. She had the wide hips of the women of her lineage, she was strong as a mare. Here she looks like she’s going to break in two.”

Those words, spoken at her most vulnerable moment, were the final blow. The tears, which she had tried to hold back to conserve her strength, overflowed, hot and bitter. Even there, on the threshold of death to give life, the ghost of the other woman was present to humiliate her.

“I am not her…” you sobbed, your voice faltering as a new contraction hit you. “I am not…”

The bang of the door being opened made the silver goblets vibrate on the table. Maekar burst into the room like a furious god of war. He was still wearing his riding tunic, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot from riding like a madman after Aegon's warning.

“Leave, my Prince!” the Maester exclaimed, raising his hands in protest. “The birthing room is a place for women and gods. It is impure for a man of your position!”

“Impure?!” Maekar roared, his voice making the old midwife recoil. “To hell with the gods and to hell with your purity! This is my wife, my blood is in her! I will not leave her side even if the Warrior himself comes to get me!”

He strode across the room heavily and fell to his knees beside his bed. He grabbed his hand, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and brought it to his face.

"I'm here," he hissed, his eyes fixed on hers, an anchor in the midst of her shipwreck.

The old midwife, trying to regain her authority, approached with a basin.

"My lord, the comparison was purely technical; Lady Dyanna had..."

Maekar turned his face to her with an expression of such cruelty that the woman almost dropped the silver. The fury in his eyes was absolute, dark, lethal.

“If I hear the name of my late wife come out of your withered mouth one more time, ” Maekar said, his voice low and deadly, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. “I will cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs. She is not Dyanna . She is my only princess, and you will treat her with the reverence due a queen, or you will leave here dead.”

He turned to you, softening his touch just enough not to break it.

“Forget what she said. Forget the world outside. Look at me. Only at me. Bring our daughter, my love. Bring her to me.”

Inspired by the fire emanating from him, you felt a new strength, a fury born of love and pain. You dug your nails into Maekar 's hand , feeling his blood beneath your claws, and pushed. You pushed with every fragment of your soul, determined to banish the shadows from that room once and for all and bring light to Summerhall .

The room had become a battlefield where time seemed to have stood still. The smell of blood and sweat was suffocating, and the only audible sound was Maekar 's noisy breathing and screams, which were no longer of fear, but of a transformative agony.

“Once more!” the Maester ordered, his face bathed in sweat. “I can already see the crown on your head! Push!”

You felt your body being torn in two, as if a Valyrian steel blade were climbing up your spine. Your hands crushed Maekar 's fingers , and he didn't flinch; he absorbed your pain, his violet eyes fixed on yours, conveying a brutal, almost violent strength that prevented you from collapsing.

“You can do it!” he roared close to her ear, his voice hoarse with desperation and adoration. “Bring them to me, my love! Bring us our future!”

With a scream that seemed to rip the last of your strength from your lungs, you made the final effort. There was a feeling of sudden relief, a damp vacuum, followed immediately by a sharp, crystalline cry that cut through the tension in the air like a lightning bolt.

“A princess!” exclaimed the midwife, her voice trembling, as she wrapped the tiny creature in warm linen. “A perfect little girl, my lord!”

Maekar let out a sigh that sounded like a sob, but there was no time for celebration. The Maester turned to you urgently.

"It still hurts ..." you sighed. "It still hurts a lot!!"

Don't stop now! I see another head, and he's in a hurry!

The second stage of labor was a blur of pain and exhaustion. You felt like you were going to die, that your heart wouldn't withstand the effort, but Maekar 's hand was a shackle that kept you grounded. He kissed your sweaty forehead, whispering your name between curses directed at the gods, demanding that they spare you.

“Just one more… ” he pleaded. “Just one more and it will be over, I promise.”

You gathered the ashes of your will. With one last push, laden with all the suffering of the past months and all the hope that Summerhall represented, the second life was expelled. Another cry, as strong as the first, echoed through the room.

“Another princess!” announced the Maester , his face finally relaxing into a tired smile. “Two girls. Twins, healthy and strong.”

The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic crying of the babies and the sound of their panting breaths. Maekar didn't look at his daughters first. He remained kneeling beside them, burying his face in the crook of their necks, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. For the first time, the Iron Prince was surrendered.

The midwives cleaned the babies and brought them to the bed. When they were placed in their arms—tiny, with tufts of almost white hair and rosy skin—the pain disappeared.

“What names shall we give these beautiful princesses?” you whispered, your voice almost fading. “Decide, my love. You dreamed of them.”

Maekar raised his head, his eyes moist and fierce with pride. He touched his daughters' tiny foreheads with a gentleness that would make any knight of Westeros doubt his own eyes.

“They don’t resemble anyone,” Maekar said, his voice solemn, gazing at you with absolute devotion. “They are only ours. They are you. Beautiful girls, beautiful like their mother. I will name only one, the one who came into the world first. The second, you must name.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from shouting. “I like Rhae for girl. Yes, Rhae . Like in a poem my sweet Aemon once told me in the garden. I don’t remember now. It hurts too much to remember.”

Maekar let out a sound through his boot, something that oscillated between laughter and mockery. It was hard to tell.

“ Daella ,” he said simply, without even bothering to explain the name or where it came from. But you suspected it was a tribute to his father or, perhaps, to his own son, because even though it was a disappointment, Maekar still loved him very much. You accepted it, simply accepted it. You had had two healthy girls in a single birth. Nothing else mattered.

The air in the royal chambers was so thick it seemed to require physical effort to breathe. You stood by the fireplace, your fingers buried in the velvet of your skirt, your knuckles as white as the marble of the statues in the gardens. You were not Dornish , you did not possess the desert fire in your blood; you came from a lineage of silences and duties, raised to be the gentle breeze that would soothe Maekar 's temper. Targaryen .

But the breeze had become a vacuum.

"Where is she?! Where is my wife?"

His scream echoed down the corridor, making your shoulders heave in a spasm of silent agony. You closed your eyes, but the image of that night refused to leave you. The banquet, the wine, the lights... and that excruciating moment when you, seated beside King Daeron the Good, heard the monarch sigh as he looked at you.

"It's a miracle of mercy," the King had said, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Looking at you, my dear, is like seeing my Dyanna return from the grave. Maekar has finally recovered what death stole from him. You are the mirror of his happiness... you are Dyanna herself reborn."

Those words were the knife that finally pierced his armor of caution.

The door was flung open. Maekar entered, the aura of a warrior prince emanating from him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you once called love, but now recognized as possession.

"What was that?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously hoarse tone as he closed the door. "You rose from the royal table without a word. The King was confused. I was... humiliated. What troubled you, wife?"

You didn't answer immediately. You turned your back to him, staring at the mirror. In the reflection, you saw a young, beautiful, and pale face—the face he had handpicked from among so many other noblewomen in the kingdom.

"Your father complimented me today," you said, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the embers. "He said I'm a miracle. That I'm Dyanna 's return ."

Maekar stood motionless. The silence that followed was a silent confession. "My father is an old and sentimental man. He sees what he wants to see."

"And you, Maekar ?" You turned slowly, your eyes filled with a deep sadness that seemed ancient. "What do you see? Because I spent months being the perfect wife. I accepted the jewels that belonged to her. I accepted the rooms she decorated. I even accepted you calling me by nicknames that, now I know, were exclusive to her."

"I gave you my name!" he exclaimed, trying to regain control of the situation, approaching with heavy steps. "I treated you with honor. What more do you want from me?"

"I want to exist!" The word exploded from within you, a cry for help you had kept inside for too long. Caution shattered like glass under the weight of your despair. "I want to be seen! I am not a receptacle for the soul of a dead woman! I am not a painting you can retouch to feel less guilty about her leaving!"

You began frantically tearing the diadem from your head, tears finally overflowing, hot and bitter. "I wondered why you insisted so much on keeping me in the shadows at night. Why your hands seemed to grope my face as if searching for features that aren't there. Today I understand. You don't love me, Maekar . You love the ghost that inhabits my flesh!"

"Shut up!" Maekar lunged forward, his pain transforming into a defensive rage. "You have no right to dig up what I tried to bury so I could live again!"

"But you won't live again!" you screamed, recoiling until your back hit the cold stone wall, your chest rising and falling in spasms of pure suffering. "You're just trying to steal my youth to feed your grief! I'm barely older than your eldest son! I should be your new life, but I'm just your macabre consolation!"

The distress on her face was so raw that Maekar seemed to hesitate for a second. He tried to reach out and touch her face, a gesture that would once have been affectionate, but now seemed like a profanation.

"Don't touch me with the hands that seek her!" You pushed him away, your voice faltering, despair draining your strength. "You destroyed my chance to be loved for who I am. You condemned me to compete with a woman who never makes mistakes because she no longer breathes!"

Maekar lost what little patience he had left. In a sudden movement, he grabbed his arms, pinning them against the wall above his head. The impact was sharp, and his body—massive, hot, and oppressive—crushed his against the rough stone.

"You're my wife," he hissed, his face millimeters from hers, his breath mingling with her sobs. "I chose you. I brought you to my bed. Do you think I could bear to look at you every day if there wasn't something real here?"

"What's real, Maekar ?" you whispered, your eyes locked on his, challenging him through the haze of tears. "Say my name. Now. Without thinking of the mother of your children. Without thinking of the woman Dayne gave you. Say MY name and convince me you know who I am."

His silence was the cruelest answer he could give. The grip on her wrists tightened, not from desire, but from the agony of a man caught in his own lie. He held her there, immobilized, while the weight of the substitution hung over them both, heavier than the walls of the fortress itself.

How do you cope with the fact that, even now, in his rage, you can see the reflection of another person in the depths of his pupils?

His silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving you dizzy, suffocated by the realization that, for the man who held your destiny in his hands, you were a blank page on which he insisted on rewriting an old poem.

Maekar kept his wrists pressed against the cold stone. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the ice of the wall, creating a symphony of sensations that made your stomach churn. You could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest, but you knew, with a bitterness that burned your throat, that this rhythm wasn't for you. It was the gallop of a man chasing a ghost.

“Say it …” you pleaded, your voice faltering, tears tracing hot paths down your pale face. “Please, Maekar … say my name. Just once. Claim the woman who is here, bleeding before you, not the memory you hold in your chest.”

His eyes, as dark as the sea before a storm, scanned every inch of her face. He analyzed her forehead, the curve of her nose, the trembling line of her lips. For a second, you saw the conflict—the agony of a man who wanted to love her, but who was chained by a grief that had become his very skin.

“You don’t understand,” she finally hissed, her voice hoarse, laden with a pain so dense it felt palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who suffers? Every time I look at you, it’s like a wound is reopened. I try to find you, I swear I try … but fate was cruel enough to give you the same light in your eyes, the same tilt of your head…”

“So it’s a punishment?” you interrupted him, your distress exploding into a desperate sob. “Am I your punishment, Maekar ? Am I the torture you chose for yourself so you wouldn’t forget what you lost?”

He released one of her wrists, but only to bring his hand to her neck, not to choke her, but to hold it with a possessiveness bordering on delirium. His thumb caressed her jaw, and for a moment, the touch was almost tender, if it weren't for the shadow of another person lingering between you.

“I wish it were different,” he murmured, drawing his face closer, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “I wanted to walk into this room and see only you. But when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the similarities become chains. I see her movements in you. I hear the echo of her laughter in yours. How can I love you for who you are, if everything about you screams at me what I can no longer have?”

That confession was the final blow. You stopped fighting his grip. Your body felt heavy, the will to resist draining away along with the tears. Despair was now a calm, deep sea, where you were sinking with no intention of surfacing.

“So you admit it…” you whispered, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t see the denial he was still trying to maintain. “I’m just a shadow. An echo of flesh and blood. You brought me to this castle to be a living tomb.”

Maekar released her other wrist and, instead of pulling away, he pulled her into a violent embrace, burying his face in her neck. You felt his body tremble—a tremor that came from the depths of his tormented soul.

“ Don’t leave me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin, sounding less like a prince and more like a man lost at sea. “Even if it’s a lie, even if you’re just a reflection of her… I can’t lose her again. I wouldn’t survive burying that face a second time.”

You felt his hands slide up your back, gripping the thin fabric of your underwear, a mixture of desperate desire and a morbid need for confirmation. In that moment, in the oppressive silence of the royal bedroom, you understood the extent of your tragedy: you loved a man who could only love you through the lens of his own loss.

You were both his cure and his disease. And, as he held you tightly as if his life depended on it, you wondered if there would ever be anything left of you to save, or if you would end up disappearing completely, consumed by the ghost of the woman you never knew, but whom you already hated with all the strength of your broken heart.

Maekar 's hands , once iron claws, now tried to find in you a refuge you no longer had the strength to offer. His embrace was heavy, an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an ocean of melancholy. But, inside you, something had died the moment he confessed that you were merely a reflection of an absence.

You didn't hug him back. His arms hung limply at his sides, useless, like those of a porcelain doll whose strings had been cut.

“Let me go…” you whispered, your voice devoid of any warmth, cold as the crypts where Dyanna lay.

“No,” he growled, squeezing her even tighter, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re my wife. Your place is here, with me, in our bed.”

“This bed was never mine, Maekar, ” you said, and the sound of your own voice, so hollow, startled her. “I’m just an intruder occupying a ghost’s space. I smell her scent on the sheets, I see her trace in your eyes when you look at me… I’m dying here. Every touch of yours takes a piece of my soul.”

With a desperate effort, you broke free. The separation wasn't violent, but it was definitive. You walked to the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight didn't reach, wanting to disappear into the shadows so he could no longer use your face as a source of comfort.

(...)

In the days that followed, the castle became a silent mausoleum. You began to dress only in gray and pale colors, rejecting the vibrant silks he so loved. You stopped wearing her jewelry, let your hair fall straight and unadorned, and avoided parties, banquets, and, above all, his gaze.

You became a ghostly presence in the Red Keep. You ate little, spoke even less, and when Maekar entered a room, you left as if his presence were poison. Maekar , in turn, began to crumble under the weight of your silence.

At first, he tried to act with the arrogance of a prince. He ordered your presence, demanded that you dine with him, but you remained there, an ice statue, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single word or a glance of affection. His desire, which had previously been fueled by resemblance, had transformed into a dark and painful obsession with you—with the woman he was truly losing.

One night, he broke into your private chambers. He smelled of strong wine and a despair that stifled the air around him. You were sitting by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.

“Look at me!” he roared, grabbing his chair and turning it violently. “I’m your husband! I demand you look at me!”

You looked up. But there was no gleam in them. There was no "light" he so desperately sought. There was only a gray emptiness, an abyss of indifference that struck him harder than any sword blow.

“What do you want, sir?” Her voice was a monotonous whisper. “Do you want me to smile? Do you want me to bow my head as she used to? I’ve forgotten how. I’ve forgotten who I was supposed to imitate.”

“I don’t want you to imitate her!” he shouted, falling to his knees before you, his large hands gripping your thighs, squeezing the fabric of your dress with trembling strength. “I miss your voice… your laugh… I miss when you looked at me and I felt there was something alive in this castle.”

“You killed that woman,” you replied, and a single, solitary tear rolled down your cheek, not of anger, but of mourning for yourself. “You suffocated her with the weight of a dead woman. Now, all you have is what’s left. The body you so longed to inhabit. You can use it if you want. I’m no longer inside it.”

Maekar let out a broken sound, a sob he tried to stifle in her skirt. He realized, too late, that in trying to reclaim the past through you, he had destroyed the only future that could have made him happy. He missed your genuine touch, your spontaneous affection, the unique woman you were before he tried to mold you into someone else.

He began kissing her hands, desperate, almost feverish kisses.

“Please…” he pleaded against her cold skin. “Come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll burn the portraits, I’ll move to another castle, I…”

“You can’t burn what’s etched in your mind,” you said, pulling your hand away with cruel slowness. “And you can’t bring me back. I’m not Dyanna , I can’t be resurrected.”

You stood up and walked towards the bed, lying down and turning your back to him, leaving him there, on his knees on the cold floor, a powerful prince reduced to a man begging for a crumb of attention from the woman he himself had broken.

The room was utterly dark, but his suffering was almost visible, a black shadow enveloping him as he realized that he now had two dead women in his life: one buried in the earth and the other lying beside him, alive, but forever out of his reach.

(...)

Night crept like a wounded animal along the walls of the Red Keep. Maekar could no longer bear the silence you had erected between them—an ice wall more insurmountable than any fortification he had ever besieged.

He entered the room, the sound of his boots echoing like the beating of an anxious heart. He found her standing before the fireplace, her eyes lost in the flames, her body enveloped in a white linen nightgown that made her look like a specter. She didn't move. She didn't recognize him.

“My sons asked about you today,” he began, his voice low, trying to find a way through the fog of indifference that surrounded her. “ Daeron is drinking more than he should, Aerion is growing increasingly cruel, and even little Aegon misses you… Aemon tried to explain his sadness to me with maester ’s words , but none of them understand why the light in this house has gone out.”

You remained motionless. The names of his children—the four princes Dyanna had left as his inheritance—hung in the air. You loved them, in a melancholic and distant way, but every time you looked at them, you saw the traces of the one you could never overcome.

“They are her children,” you finally said, your voice devoid of emotion. “They have her blood. They don’t need an echo to comfort them.”

Maekar growled, a sound of pain and frustration, and lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist with an urgency bordering on desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with a hunger that seemed to devour her soul.

“I want children of yours ,” he whispered against her skin, his warm lips tracing the outline of her ear. “I want daughters who have your spirit, not hers. My sons are a disappointment, but my daughters, I know they will be glorious. I saw them in my dreams, beautiful girls. Beautiful like you.”

His hands moved up, bold and possessive, squeezing her breasts through the thin fabric, trying to rekindle the flame that once burned so easily. He turned her forcefully, pressing his body against hers, his muscular thighs trapping hers. His desire was evident, a rhythmic and dark pulse that demanded surrender.

He kissed her with desperate violence, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands feverishly exploring her curves. He wanted to possess her, he wanted pleasure to make her forget, he wanted her moans to drown out the screams of his own conscience.

But you remained rigid. Your arms lay limp at your sides. Your lips didn't move beneath his. Your eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, cold and empty like those of a corpse. You were marble beneath his fire.

Maekar stopped. He stepped back only a few inches, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps, his face flushed with lust and growing anger.

“React!” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Scratch me, hit me, hate me if you have to, but be here !”

“You wanted a dead woman, my prince,” you replied, your voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Here I am. You may use my body. It is yours by right, by law, and by conquest. But do not ask me to participate in your fantasy. Do not ask me to pretend you are looking at me.”

He let her go as if he had been burned. The humiliation of being rejected not in body, but in soul, was a wound that the pride of a Targaryen could not bear.

“You’re torturing me!” he yelled, kicking a chair that flew against the wall. “I’m trying! I’m begging for a fresh start! I talk about future daughters, about our legacy, and you treat me like a rapist in my own bed!”

“Because you don’t want a fresh start!” you exploded, the first sign of life in days being a bitter rage that lit up your eyes. “You want redemption! You want to put children in my womb to prove to yourself that life has conquered death, but you still wear her wedding ring! You still sleep on her side of the bed! You want my daughters so they can grow up and become part of your fantasy!”

"That's not true!" he roared, moving closer with his finger pointed, his face inches from hers.

“It’s the purest truth that exists in this castle of lies!” you retorted, your chest rising and falling with a vibrant agony. “You miss her, Maekar . You miss her so much that the scent of my skin punishes you because it’s not the scent you memorized. You hate me for not being her, and you hate yourself even more for desiring my body while thinking of her soul.”

Maekar remained silent, his breathing erratic. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had just tried to seduce her, and saw the trembling in them. His despair was so intense it seemed he would collapse right there.

“I miss who I was when I was with her,” he confessed, his voice almost a broken whisper. “But I miss who I thought you would be…”

“ I could have been everything,” you said, sadness returning to extinguish your fury. “But you turned me into nothing.”

You walked to the bed and lay down, covering yourself up to your neck, leaving him alone before the ashes of the fireplace. Maekar remained there, a prince without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, realizing that the "love" he had tried to force was the very rope that was strangling what remained of both your hearts.

(...)

The weeks that followed were marked by a Herculean effort on Maekar 's part. He was not a man of delicate gestures or poetic words, but the silence you maintained was a punishment he could no longer bear. He began to act with desperate caution, as if he were trying to tame a wounded creature that could vanish at the slightest rough touch.

The room, once a battlefield, had become a sanctuary of silent offerings. In the morning, you would find flowers that were not Dyanna 's favorites , but wildflowers that grew on his own family's lands, brought by knights he had hastily sent. On his dressing table, the jewels of the deceased were no longer there, but new pieces, recently forged, with designs that he himself tried to describe to the blacksmiths—something that would be uniquely his.

But her soul only found rest away from him, in the gardens or in the library, surrounded by his children.

“Look, Mommy!” Little Aegon, with his tousled silver curls, ran toward her, holding out a stone dragon egg that he swore he could feel warming.

You smiled—a real smile, the first in a long time—and pulled him onto your lap, sitting on the stone bench. Aemon sat beside you, a heavy book on his lap, reading passages about the history of Westeros in his young, serious voice.

“The egg isn’t hot, Egg, ” Aemon corrected, though his eyes shone with affection for his younger brother. “But the sun is. You should be careful not to burn your skin.”

You stroked Aegon's face, feeling the purity of that child who, unlike his father, loved you unconditionally. Daeron , the eldest, lay on the nearby grass, a jug of water (which you insisted replace the wine) within his reach. He watched you with a look of melancholy understanding; of them all, he was the one who best understood the shadow that hung over his father's marriage.

Even Aerion , whose cruel tendencies were beginning to blossom and frighten the court, became docile in her presence. He approached with an almost predatory beauty, but knelt at her feet to show her a dragonbone dagger he had acquired.

“ If anyone in this castle dares to make her cry again,” Aerion hissed, his violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, “I will make them forget how to breathe.”

Aerion 's hair , a gesture of affection that seemed to ease the tension in the young prince's shoulders.

"No one will make me cry, Aerion . We are at peace here."

It was in this scene that Maekar found her. He stopped under the stone arch in the garden, observing the scene in silence. His chest ached at the sight of the smile you so generously bestowed upon his children, but which you categorically denied him. He felt a pang of envy for his own children, but also a profound admiration. You were what held that broken family together, even though it was shattered inside.

That night, he didn't enter the room with the weight of authority. He entered slowly, carrying a small tray with tea and honey.

“I saw you with them today,” he said, his voice hoarse, keeping a safe distance. “You have a patience I never possessed. They love you… and I’m beginning to realize they love you for who you are, not for who you represent.”

You turned around, the moonlight framing your melancholy silhouette.

"They are pure. They don't look back. They look to the present."

Maekar set the tray down on the table and took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of surrender.

“I want to learn to do the same,” he whispered, distress etched into every line of his stern face. “I know what I did… the way I tried to mold you… was a crime. I was lost in my own hell and dragged you there with me. But today, seeing you with Aegon and Aerion , I realized it’s not the past I want to reclaim. I want to conquer your present.”

He knelt down, not to demand, but to beg.

“Let me try again. Not like a man chasing a ghost, but like a man desperately in love with a woman who hates him for good reason. Give me a chance to prove that I know your name, that I know who you are in the dark and in the light.”

You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders eased an inch. The pain was still there, deep and dense, but the sight of Maekar Targaryen — the Prince of Summerhall , the relentless warrior — knelt and vulnerable, and began to pierce the ice around his heart.

“Words are easy, Maekar, ” you said, your voice still trembling with sorrow. “Time will be my judge.”

“Then give me all the time in the world,” he replied, taking her hand with a tenderness you never imagined he possessed, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that seemed like a blood oath. “I will spend the rest of my life in your shadow, if it means that one day you will smile at me again as you smiled at Aegon today.”

(...)

Time was no longer measured by the beating of the stars, but by the cautious rhythm of Maekar 's breaths . He kept his word. In the following months, he became a silent observer of his own life, a man who seemed to be relearning the alphabet through his gestures.

He no longer forced her into bed. In fact, he began sleeping on a small divan in the corner of the room, or often spent sleepless nights in his office, just so she could have the vastness of the real bed to herself, free from the weight of his body and the suffocation of his memories.

However, his true healing came not from his apologies, but from the boys' laughter.

One autumn afternoon, the wind was blowing strongly from the Bay, and you were sitting in the inner courtyard with Aegon and Aemon . Little " Egg " was desperately trying to balance himself atop a low wall, while Aemon read aloud passages about dragons of old.

“If I had a dragon,” Egg exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with an innocence that almost made her cry, “I would take her flying far away from here, to where the sun never sets!”

You laughed, pulling the boy to the ground before he fell.

"And what would I do in a place where the sun never sets, Egg ? I wouldn't be able to sleep."

"You don't need to sleep to dream, Mom," he replied, hugging her neck tightly.

The word "mommy" still vibrated in her chest with a bittersweetness. You felt a pair of eyes on you and looked up. Aerion was leaning against a nearby column, watching the scene. He didn't join in the games, but his posture was less aggressive when you were around. He approached and, with a rarely gentle gesture, placed a perfect red apple in your lap.

“For you, ma’am,” he said, with a half-smile that hid the darkness everyone said inhabited his soul. “It’s the sweetest in the orchard.”

"Thank you, Aerion, " you whispered, touching his hand briefly.

Maekar watched from the upper balcony. He saw how you flourished among his children, how you were the glue that held those distinct and difficult personalities together in harmony. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a mixture of gratitude and a heart-wrenching loneliness. He desired you, but that desire was now purged of any trace of Dyanna ; he desired the woman who knew how to soothe Aerion 's fury and nurture Aegon's dreams.

That night, the cold intensified. You were in bed, almost asleep, when you heard his hesitant footsteps. Maekar didn't go to the divan. He stopped beside the bed, his imposing silhouette cutting through the light of the fireplace.

“ They’re growing up so fast,” he said, his voice muffled by weariness and melancholy. “ Daeron challenged me today. He said I don’t deserve his silence, that I should be grateful you still breathe the same air as me.”

You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets up to your chest.

" Daeron is too observant for his own good."

Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, but his eyes were fixed on his with a desperate hunger for connection.

"He's right. I don't deserve this. But today, seeing you in the courtyard... I realized I can no longer live in this self-imposed exile."

He reached out, pausing mid-way, waiting for your permission. You didn't recoil. He touched your face, his scarred fingers gliding across your skin with the lightness of someone touching broken glass.

“I don’t miss her when I’m with you now,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. I miss the woman you were before I tried to bury you alive. Please… let me back in. Not as a ghost, but as the man who wants to be the father of the daughters you will still have.”

The despair in his eyes was so real, so raw, that the last barrier of ice in his heart cracked. You saw the man, not the prince, not the widower, but the broken man being consumed by his own mistake.

“ Maekar …” you whispered.

He leaned in, sealing his lips with a kiss that was anything but violent. It was a kiss of supplication, of mourning for what was lost and of hope for what could be built. His body trembled against hers, and for the first time, when he whispered words of desire in her ear, he used her name. He called for her, and only for her. The night was long, marked by a kind of surrender they had never experienced—a surrender made of pain and a dark need to feel alive amidst so many shadows. And as he possessed her under the dim light of the embers, she realized that, although the scars would never disappear, perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for a new story to be written upon the ashes of the old.

Maekar 's heavy breathing . When he finally uttered your name, the sound wasn't an echo or a comparison; it was an invocation. It was the acknowledgment that, in that bed, there was no room for anyone else but the two of you.

He pulled her to the center of the mattress with an urgency that didn't stem from pure lust, but from a desperate need to anchor himself in the reality of his existence. Maekar undressed with abrupt movements, shedding layers of pride and sorrow, until his warm, calloused skin met hers. The contrast was almost painful: his brute strength against her melancholic tenderness.

“ Look at me,” he ordered, but his voice was a broken whisper, a plea. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is here.”

He positioned himself between her legs, the weight of his body a welcome burden that finally chased away the cold. Maekar 's hands , large enough to encircle her wrists, rose to her face, holding her head with a possessiveness that she now understood as a fear that she would disappear.

When he entered you, there was none of the impatient rush of before. There was a sigh. A deep, slow entry that made you arch your back, letting out a trembling sigh against his shoulder. It was an invasion, but also a surrender. With each rhythmic and deliberate movement, Maekar seemed to be trying to fill the void he himself had carved in your chest.

His hands moved down to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with a force that would leave marks—marks that, for the first time, she wanted to bear as proof that she belonged to herself and to him, and not to a dead past.

“You…” he gasped, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat mingling in the warm light of the embers. “It’s just you. The scent of your skin… the warmth of your body…”

The rhythm quickened, becoming more raw, more intense. The pleasure was tinged with a latent anguish, a tension bordering on suffering. Maekar possessed her with the intensity of a man trying to exorcise demons through flesh. He kissed her violently, sucking on her lips as if he could extract the life from her to sustain his own, while their bodies collided in a dull, constant impact.

You felt your nails dig into his broad back, scratching the Prince's skin, leaving red furrows that he received as if they were medals. Pain and pleasure were threads intertwined in a rope that tightened ever more. The desperation of being loved for who you were finally exploded in a climax that left you breathless, your body trembling in spasms of pure emotional and physical exhaustion.

Maekar followed close behind, a muffled roar escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, collapsing onto your chest as if all his strength had drained away in that act of surrender.

For long minutes, the only sound in the room was that of ragged breaths. Maekar did not move; he remained there, heavy and protective, his face hidden in his disheveled hair.

“I will never call you by another name again,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a grim promise. “I will dedicate each night to erasing the shadow I cast upon you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, sensing the vulnerability of the man the entire kingdom feared. Dyanna 's ghost was still there, in some dark corner of memory, but that night, between the sweat and dried tears, you finally felt that your own name was the only one echoing within the walls of the Red Keep.

The silence that followed the first climax was not one of rest, but of a hungry vigil. Maekar did not withdraw; he remained anchored to you, feeling the residual tremors that still coursed through your legs. The light from the dying embers traced the contours of his muscles, transforming him into a creature of shadows and reliefs.

He slowly raised his torso, supporting himself on his elbows to face you. His eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated until they almost extinguished the violet iris. Dyanna 's ghost was no longer between you; there was only an earthly and visceral obsession with the woman who, for the first time, met his gaze.

“I feel you,” he growled, his voice so deep it vibrated against his sternum. “I feel your heart beating against mine. Say it’s real. Say you won’t disappear when the sun rises.”

In response, you slid your hands down his back, feeling the war scars and the furrows your own fingernails had just carved. You pulled him down again, seeking his mouth with a thirst that was no longer for comfort, but for dominance.

The second act began with renewed ferocity. Maekar turned her onto her back with a brusque, possessive movement, pinning her against the silk sheets. He knelt behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a force that compelled her to arch, exposing the vulnerable curve of her spine.

“You are mine,” he hissed close to her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “Not the prince’s, not the Targaryen name . Mine.”

When he penetrated her again, the angle was deeper, more invasive. Each thrust was a dry impact that drew hoarse moans from her throat. Maekar moved with the cadence of a conqueror, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head slightly back so he could bite the soft skin of her shoulder, leaving a purplish mark that would be her secret under her high-necked dresses the next day.

The pleasure was intense, almost painful in its intensity. You felt his heat burning against your cold skin, a contrast that drove you wild. The room seemed to shrink until the entire universe was reduced to that frenetic contact, to the sound of flesh against flesh and the weight of a man's desire, who was trying, through that act, to fuse his soul with yours.

Maekar increased the pace, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his back. He was on edge, his breath turning into short growls. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted your complete surrender. He wanted you to feel that, in that moment, he was the only man in the world, and you, the only woman he had ever desired.

With one last violent thrust, he held her tight, his nails digging into her hips as he surrendered to the climax. You felt the wave of heat wash over you, a spasm of ecstasy that left you powerless, collapsing onto the pillows as he fell on top of you, exhausted but finally present.

He remained there, his face buried in the back of her neck, his heart pounding against his back. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the unspoken promise that, though the past was a scar, the present was a fire neither of them wanted to extinguish.

(...)

The days in the Red Keep lost the gray hue of mourning and gained the dark, dense tone of suppressed desire. Maekar did not become a bard or a knight of light romances; he remained the Prince of Summerhall , a man of few words and a stern temperament. But his "good husband" manifested itself in acts of protective possessiveness.

He began to notice what you enjoyed when you didn't think you were being watched. He noticed that you liked the cool wind on the battlements at dawn, and he started to be there, waiting for you with a heavy fur cloak to wrap around your shoulders before you could shiver. He noticed that you lost yourself in thought in the septum, not out of devotion, but because of the silence, and he started to ensure that no one disturbed you, posting himself like a sentinel at the door.

The reconquest wasn't made of flowers, but of presence. And of a carnal urgency that seemed endless.

On a rainy afternoon, you were in the royal library, searching for a manuscript for Aemon . The smell of old parchment and dust always calmed you. Maekar entered, his armor still damp from combat practice, the sound of metal echoing in the silence of the room.

He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, trapping you between two tall oak shelves. His weight was a promise.

“ Maekar … the servants may come in,” you whispered, your voice faltering as his calloused, warm hand moved up your thigh, lifting the layers of silk from your dress.

“I told everyone to leave,” he hissed against her lips. “This place is mine. You are mine.”

He lifted her, setting her on the solid wood table, scattering scrolls carelessly. There, amidst tales of dead kings, he possessed her with a savage hunger, his kisses muffling her moans as the sound of the rain outside competed with the frenetic rhythm of their bodies. There was no trace of Dyanna there; only the raw heat and sweat of a man rediscovering pleasure through every inch of his skin.

There was a morning in the glass gardens, where the humid heat of the exotic plants made the air feel like honey. You were tending to some herbs when you felt his hands on your waist. Maekar turned you around so your back was to the broad foliage, undoing the laces of your bodice with an impatience that made you gasp.

“You’re different today,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her back as he penetrated her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts with a force that was almost a claim.

“It’s because I can finally breathe, Maekar ,” you replied, throwing your head back, feeling the sun through the glass and the constant impact of his body against yours.

He paused for a second, his face buried in her hair, and whispered her name as if it were a prayer of gratitude. The sex wasn't just physical; it was his way of asking for forgiveness without needing to use words his soldier's throat couldn't pronounce.

Maekar began to integrate himself into your afternoons with the children. He would sit at a distance, watching you play with Aegon or discuss philosophy with Aemon . Sometimes he would intervene to teach Aerion how to hold a dagger more efficiently, but his eyes always returned to you, seeking your approval.

One evening, after a family dinner where Aerion had behaved himself and Aegon had fallen asleep in his arms, Maekar took her to their chambers. He didn't lead her straight to bed. He sat her down before the mirror and, with infinite patience, began to brush her hair.

“You’re getting to know yourself again,” he said, looking at his reflection. “And I’m having the privilege of getting to know this new woman along with you.”

He dropped the brush and began kissing her shoulders, his hands sliding down to the front of her dress. The act began slowly, almost tenderly, on the wolfskin floor before the fireplace. He explored her with his tongue and fingers, mapping each new reaction, each sigh that was uniquely hers. The pleasure became a dense fire, a struggle of bodies where melancholy finally gave way to a dark and absolute passion.

Each time he took her—at the privy council table, in the stables, or in the dead of night in the royal bed— Maekar made it clear that the past was being buried beneath the weight of the present. He wasn't just being a good husband; he was becoming her world, and you, for the first time, didn't feel like a shadow, but the very light guiding him out of the darkness.

(...)

The following weeks were not marked by major events , but by a subtle and persistent change in the very substance of her body. Maekar 's devouring passion , which had previously seemed to be the only fire capable of keeping her warm, began to exact a price she did not understand.

The first sign came on a gray morning, typical of King's Landing. Maekar had already left for training with the sons, and the room still held the scent of his sweat, sex, and musk. When you tried to get out of bed, the world spun violently. A sudden, acidic nausea rose in your throat, forcing you to put your hand to your mouth and sit up abruptly.

In the Great Hall, the smell of fried bacon and warm bread, once your favorite, had become an enemy. You sat between Aegon and Aemon , trying to maintain a regal posture, but each breath of air laden with the odor of food made your stomach churn.

Maekar , seated at the head of the table, noticed immediately. His eyes, now always attentive to every nuance of your face, narrowed. He saw you push away the silver plate with a hint of revulsion, your skin paler than usual.

“You didn’t touch the food,” he observed, his deep voice cutting through the boys’ conversation. “Are you sick?”

“Just a passing dizziness,” you lied, your voice coming out weaker than you intended. “The heat in the glass gardens yesterday must have been excessive.”

He didn't seem convinced. He stood up, walked over to you, and placed his immense hand on your forehead. His touch, which used to set your skin on fire, now brought a comfort that made you want to close your eyes and cry for no apparent reason.

“You’re cold. And trembling,” he murmured, ignoring the curious glances of his children. “ The maester should examine you.”

“It’s not necessary,” you insisted, but the smell of the wine Daeron was serving beside you was the final blow. You stood up hastily, muttering an inaudible excuse, and fled into the hallway before the humiliation of fainting in front of the court could materialize.

You didn't get far. Maekar caught up with her in the chambers, slamming the door shut with a bang that made his head throb. He found her hunched over the porcelain basin, her body trembling with nausea.

He didn't recoil in disgust. On the contrary, Maekar approached and gently brushed her hair back with a delicacy you never imagined a warrior possessed. He waited for the discomfort to pass, wiping her face with a damp cloth before helping her lie down.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression wavering between extreme concern and something deeper, darker.

“Some days…” you admitted, your chest rising and falling with difficulty. “I feel tired. An exhaustion that doesn’t just come from our nights. It’s like my body is being claimed by something… or someone.”

He remained silent for a long moment, his hand resting cautiously on her belly, on the thin fabric of her garment. The touch was possessive, but imbued with a new reverence.

“The blood?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Did it come this month?”

You shook your head. The penny finally dropped, bringing with it a wave of distress and terrifying joy.

“ I am not Dyanna , Maekar, ” you whispered, tears beginning to well up. “The child who grows up here… he will not be a replacement. He cannot be a ghost.”

Maekar closed his eyes for a second, and you saw his jaw tremble. He leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that tasted of desperation and a solemn promise.

“He will be my new beginning,” he declared, his voice hoarse against her lips. “And you will be the mother of my daughters. They will be the fruit of our desire, not of my memory.”

He pulled her to his chest, embracing her with a strength that said he would never let her fall. The unease was still there, the nausea persisted, but under the protection of Maekar 's arms , you began to feel that, for the first time, the future was not a shadow of the past, but a new territory, dangerous and beautiful, that you two would explore together.

The Prince of Summerhall no longer had ghosts to chase; he had a new life pulsing within the woman he had finally learned to love completely.

(...)

The news of the pregnancy, which should have been a balm, became the trigger for a new and profound affliction. While Maekar saw it as the seal of his redemption, you saw only the danger of a repeating cycle. The nausea in your stomach wasn't just physical; it was the viscous fear that this child would be condemned to carry the weight of a legacy that didn't belong to them.

Maekar tried to approach, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction, but you flinched, recoiling from his touch as if his hand might mark the baby with the same shadows that had marked you.

“No…” you whispered, stepping back until the vanity table blocked your movement. “Don’t you dare celebrate this like it’s a trophy, Maekar .”

“It’s life winning, my wife,” he said, his voice vibrant, trying to ignore the distance you were keeping. “It’s our blood.”

“It’s my body being used again to soothe your grief!” You exploded, tears of emotional exhaustion streaming freely. “I won’t allow it, Maekar . I won’t let you do to this baby what you did to me. I won’t let you look at this child’s face and search for traces of children who have already grown up, or of a woman who has already passed away.”

You hugged your own belly, a gesture of instinctive and desperate protection. The anguish in your voice was raw, an open wound bleeding before him.

“And if they are girls…” her voice faltered, becoming a whisper laden with threat and pleading. “If they are the daughters you mention so often, you have no right to be disappointed. You have no right to look at them and sigh because they are not the sons Dyanna gave you. You have no right to demand that they be ghosts of the princesses you once imagined.”

Maekar stopped. The silence that followed wasn't tense like the previous ones, but filled with something unexpected. He didn't growl, didn't defend himself furiously. Instead, a low sound escaped his throat—a short, hoarse laugh, devoid of mockery.

“Disappointed?” He stepped forward, but this time kept his hands down, submitting to his guard. “Sons are a curse of toil and stubbornness, as Daeron and Aerion prove every morning. My sons are my pride, but they are also my eternal battle.”

He moved a little closer, and the candlelight revealed a melancholy gentleness in his features that you rarely saw.

“Girls are all I want,” he confessed, his voice falling into a tone of somber confidence. “I want daughters so I can learn what sweetness is, something that war and duty stole from me long ago.”

Maekar extended his hand, and this time you didn't recoil, allowing him to lightly touch the tips of your fingers.

“I am not a devout man, you know that well. The Gods and I rarely speak,” he continued, with a sad half-smile that broke through what remained of his resistance. “But for them, I will kneel. I will pray to the Seven, every day, that they do not inherit my hardness or the shadow of those who came before. I will pray that they are exactly like you. Sweet, resilient… and entirely themselves.”

The sincerity in his words, the desire for his future daughters to be a reflection of himself and not a mere memory, struck you with the force of a blow. The despair that suffocated you began to give way to a fragile and painful hope. Maekar pulled you close, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the weight of a man who finally understood that the greatest victory was not recovering what was lost, but protecting what had just blossomed.

The months that followed transformed the Red Keep into a stage of contrasts. As your belly grew, rounding out beneath the fine silk, a new, almost ethereal beauty emanated from you. The pallor of suffering had been replaced by a warm glow, a vitality that seemed to defy the cold stones and the whispers of the corridors.

You were radiant, and that was what irritated the "snakes" of the court the most.

Congratulations poured in from all sides, though you received them with cautious courtesy. King Daeron the Good often sought you out in the gardens, gazing at your belly with a tenderness that no longer looked to the past, but to the continuation of your lineage. Your brothers-in-law, Princes Baelor , Aerys, and Rhaegel , brought gifts and kind words, recognizing in you the strength that kept Maekar 's temper in check.

Even her stepchildren seemed to orbit around her. Aegon hardly left her side, fascinated by the baby's movements beneath her skin, while Aerion , in his lucid moments, stood like a personal guard, threatening with his gaze any courtier who dared whisper anything malicious about the prince's "new favorite."

But it was the whispers that still hurt her. The gossip in the dark corners about how you were "just a surrogate womb" or about Maekar 's "sick obsession . "

“We can’t stay here,” you murmured one night, as Maekar undid the braids in your hair. “The walls have ears, and the tongues here are full of poison. I don’t want them to be born in a place where the air is made of lies.”

Maekar stopped, his large hands resting on his shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.

“ Summerhall, ” he said, the name of the summer residence sounding like a promise of freedom. “We’ll go back home. There, the sun warms the stone and there are no courtiers to measure your worth by the face of a dead woman. There, it will just be us.”

But, while the match was still far away, Maekar seemed unable to keep his hands off you. The advanced state of your pregnancy, instead of pushing him away, seemed to draw him in with a gravitational force. He was obsessed with your form, with the fullness of your body that carried the life he so desired.

The scandal was inevitable. During a formal dinner, attended by the Queen and half the nobility of Westeros , Maekar couldn't hide his hunger. He ignored his plate, preferring to lean towards you, whispering dark, hot words in your ear, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your belly under the table, but sometimes rising boldly to caress the exposed skin of your cleavage.

“ Maekar , everyone is looking,” you whispered, your face flushing, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire you could no longer suppress.

“Let them look,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on her lips with an intensity that made the ladies-in-waiting look away and the Queen cough discreetly behind her fan. “They see a princess. I see my whole world.”

That same night, he didn't wait for them to reach the private chambers. The moment the hallway doors closed behind them, he pressed her against the heavy tapestry. His calloused, urgent hands moved up her thighs, lifting her heavy skirts, ignoring the bulge of her belly that lay between them.

“You ’re so beautiful it hurts,” he hissed, his kisses trailing down her neck as he possessed her right there, standing, in an act of lust and adoration that defied all protocol.

You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, feeling the baby kick amidst the warmth of your bodies. Maekar paused for a second, feeling the small movement against his chest, and the hard expression on his face dissolved into something bordering on religious adoration.

“Feel this…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They are coming. And they will be your reflection, my love. Only yours.”

Maekar 's desire for you had become absolute, a flame that no longer sought to illuminate the past, but to ignite the present you were building, one step at a time. King Daeron the Good rarely lost his temper, but that morning, the walls of the Privy Council trembled with a voice that hid no dissent.

“This is no journey, Maekar , it’s a delusion!” the King exclaimed, slapping his open hand on the map of Westeros . “She’s on the seventh moon. The road to Summerhall is unforgiving, cut by rain and unstable terrain. Do you want to risk her life and my grandson’s out of sheer pride? Out of a lack of the whispers of courtiers?”

Maekar remained motionless, his jaw so clenched it seemed made of iron. His eyes did not waver before his father.

“It’s not pride, Your Majesty. It’s self-preservation,” Maekar retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not allow her to give birth in a viper’s nest that counts her heartbeats, waiting for a mistake. Summerhall is my right. It’s the place where the air doesn’t reek of ulterior motives.”

“You’re a stubborn fool!” Daeron sighed, massaging his temples. “If anything happens to her on that road, no exile or title will protect you from your own conscience. But I see you’ve already decided. Leave, then. But take the boys. If you want your ‘private kingdom,’ take your whole house with you.”

(...)

The entourage set off under a heavy sky. The journey was a military operation. Maekar ordered the carriage to be reinforced with extra springs and lined with twice the amount of furs, but not all the luxury in the world could mask the reality of his body.

Inside the carriage, the space was shared with little Aegon, who wouldn't stop asking questions, and Aemon , who tried to read amidst the jolts. Outside, mounted on their horses, Daeron and Aerion followed the procession. The tension between the brothers was constant; Aerion provoked the guards, and Daeron , in his sober moments, exchanged worried glances with his father.

You felt every mile as punishment. The heartburn was a constant fire in your chest, and the nausea returned with a vengeful force, aggravated by the smell of horse and sweat coming from outside. Sometimes, the world spun so fast that you had to dig your nails into the upholstery to avoid fainting.

"Are you alright?" Aegon asked, touching her hand with his small fingers.

“I’m fine, darling,” you lied, forcing a pale smile as you tasted something bitter in your mouth. “The baby is just eager to see the new house.”

Maekar never left his side. He rode so close to the carriage that you could hear the creaking of his saddle. Whenever the caravan stopped to rest, he was the first to open the door.

"Everyone out!" he ordered his children, his voice not allowing for any delays.

He would enter and find her pale, with cold sweat covering her forehead. Without saying a word, Maekar would pull her into his arms, letting her nestle against his neck. He would bring her water with lemon and pieces of ginger, forcing her to eat it to soothe her stomach.

“I warned you it would be difficult,” he murmured, guilt glistening briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a grim determination.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered against his armor. “Just get me out of here, Maekar .”

Despite his condition, Maekar 's desire for you seemed to have mutated. It was no longer mere lust; it was a hunger for possession, a need to reaffirm that you were still alive and that you belonged to him. During the nightly stops, inside the royal tent, the outside world would cease to exist.

Even with the discomfort, you sought him out. There was something visceral and comforting about his strength. Maekar undressed you with torturous slowness, his eyes devouring the fullness of your belly, the curve of your breasts that now weighed heavily under his touch.

“You drive me crazy,” he hissed one night, kneeling between your legs while you propped yourself up on pillows to ease the pressure on your back. “This body… this life you carry… I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you now.”

He took her with an almost sickly reverence, slow, deep movements that made you forget the nausea and dizziness. The sex was dense, wet, and charged with a shared anguish. He kissed each nascent stretch mark on her skin as if they were scars from a holy battle. With each moan that escaped her lips, Maekar seemed to reclaim a piece of his own soul.

Outside the tent, the sons listened to the whispers and muffled movements. Daeron merely rolled his eyes and drank more wine, while Aerion kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring that no one approached their father's "sanctuary."

(...)

The journey lasted weeks. But when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon, bathed in the golden light of dusk, Maekar looked at you—exhausted, beautiful, and pregnant—and knew that, despite the King's scoldings and the dangers of the road, he had finally brought his queen to the place where shadows were not allowed to enter.

Summerhall was, at last, the balm Maekar had promised. Unlike the oppressive stone and smoke of King's Landing, the summer residence was bathed in a constant golden light, surrounded by fields that smelled of damp grass and wildflowers. But for you, the final stages of pregnancy had transformed that paradise into a gilded prison of weariness and affliction.

Her body seemed to have reached the limit of its endurance. Her belly, now low and heavy, made every movement a Herculean task. Her feet and ankles were so swollen that she could barely fit into her soft suede shoes, and heartburn was a constant companion that prevented her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time.

Maekar , however, had changed. The stern prince whom the kingdom feared had given way to a man whose life revolved entirely around his discomfort. He refused to participate in hunts or long exercises with his sons, preferring to spend the afternoons sitting beside them on the terraces of Summerhall .

“You’re having trouble breathing,” he observed one afternoon, closing a war map he was trying to read. He stood up and stopped behind his armchair, beginning to massage his shoulders with firm, experienced pressure.

“The space is getting too small for her, Maekar ,” you murmured, placing your hand on your belly, which was visibly moving as if an internal storm were raging beneath your skin. “I feel like my lungs have nowhere left to expand.”

He knelt before her, ignoring the dignity of his position. Maekar pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. The silence that followed was thick.

“They are impatient,” he whispered against the thin fabric of her dress. “Like their father. Forgive me for causing you this burden.”

Her stepchildren also seemed to have felt the change of atmosphere. Aegon brought her fresh flowers every day, sitting on the floor beside her to tell stories he heard from the maesters , trying to distract her from her back pain. Aemon brought her herbal infusions to soothe her heartburn, watching her with an academic seriousness that concealed a deep concern.

Even Aerion had become a constant and strangely protective presence. He refused to let any servant get too close with heavy objects or food that gave off strong smells that might trigger his nausea.

“She will be the most beautiful princess Westeros has ever seen,” Aerion once declared, polishing his dagger as he watched the garden entrance. “And I will teach anyone who disagrees the price of offending my father’s blood.”

(...)

Despite his exhaustion and the feeling of being "broken," as you used to say, Maekar continued to look at you with a hunger bordering on the sacred. To him, your stretched skin, your swollen lips, and your difficulty breathing were the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed. It was physical proof that you were building something new, something that belonged only to the two of you.

At night, the heat in Summerhall was stifling. You would often stay in just an open silk robe, trying to find some coolness.

“Don’t look at me now, Maekar, ” you pleaded one night, feeling heavy and awkward as you tried to settle into bed. “I feel like a burden.”

“A burden?” He leaned closer, his voice hoarse with restrained desire. He helped her lie on her side, gently placing pillows under her belly with an almost painful delicacy. “You are the most perfect sight that has ever graced these halls.”

He lay down behind you, his massive, warm body protecting your back. His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, slowly moving up to the side of your stomach. Maekar began kissing the nape of your neck, your shoulders, his trembling fingers sliding up the fabric of your tunic.

Sex, in these last days, was a slow and moist celebration of survival. He didn't penetrate her with the force of before; he explored her with his tongue and fingers, searching for her pleasure points with infinite patience, wanting to relieve the tension in her body through ecstasy. When he finally entered, it was with an almost tearful gentleness, a rhythmic movement that accompanied her whispers of distress and desire.

“You are my life,” he whispered against your ear, while you moaned softly, feeling the pleasure momentarily ease the pressure on your ribs. “My queen of Summerhall .”

In that darkness, with the scent of jasmine wafting through the window and the warmth of Maekar 's body merging with yours, the Red Keep and its cruel whispers seemed to belong to another world. There, you were the center of a universe that Maekar... Targaryen had sworn to protect with every drop of his blood, anxiously awaiting the moment when the cry of a new life would finally silence the echoes of the past.

The afternoon in Summerhall was filled with the sweet scent of hay and the lazy warmth of the autumn sun. You sat on a carved stone bench beneath the wisteria pergola, watching your stepchildren. Your back felt like a mass of red-hot iron, and an uncomfortable pressure in your lower abdomen came and went, like waves of a persistent tide.

You ignored it. It had already been days of discomfort, and you didn't want to interrupt the rare moment of peace between the boys.

Aegon was at her feet, trying to draw a dragon in the dirt with a stick, while Aemon recited passages from an ancient tome about the stars. Daeron , exceptionally sober, polished the hilt of his sword, and Aerion watched the horizon with that restless look that always kept her on edge.

A sharp pain made her gasp for a second. You dug your nails into the edge of the seat, your forehead beaded with cold sweat.

“You’re very quiet,” Aemon observed, raising his eyes with that insight that would one day make him a maester .

“It’s just the weight, my dear…” you began, but the words died in your throat as a sudden, uncontrollable sensation of heat spread between your legs.

The sound of the liquid hitting the stone floor was faint, but in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a crash. Her light silk skirts instantly darkened, soaked through.

Aegon stopped drawing, his violet eyes wide as he pointed to the puddle forming beneath his feet.

"Mommy... did you... did you pee?" the boy asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.

Aerion let out a short, nasal laugh, a sound devoid of empathy that cut through the air like a razor blade.

“It seems the great lady of Summerhall has lost control of her basic faculties,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a scene worthy of a peasant.”

“Shut up, Aerion !” Daeron roared, leaping to his feet and dropping his sword to the ground. He saw his face—the deathly pallor, the trembling lips—and realized what was happening. “It’s not urine, you idiot. It’s life coming.”

A violent contraction hit her, causing her to bend forward with a muffled groan. The agony was profound, a tear that seemed to want to split her hips in two.

" Aemon , help me!" Daeron ordered, putting his arm around her waist to support her.

Aemon slammed the book shut, acting with the precision that study had given him. He gripped his other arm, the two boys forming a cradle of strength for his now heavy and trembling body.

“Breathe, slowly,” Aemon instructed, his voice trying to remain calm as they guided her out of the garden toward the royal chambers. “Aegon, run! Find our father. Tell him the child is coming! NOW!”

Aegon shot like an arrow through the stone corridors.

"And the midwives?" Daeron asked, sweat glistening on his brow as he felt the weight of his body sway.

“I’ll have the maids summon the Maester and the women,” Aemon replied, looking at you with a troubled tenderness. “We’re past the preparation stage. They’ve decided the world has waited long enough.”

You could barely hear the voices. The world had shrunk to rhythmic pain and the terror that the moment had finally arrived. Each step was torture, each breath a battle. As they climbed the stairs, you could only think of one thing: Maekar . You needed him. You needed that toughness, that fire that was now the only thing capable of keeping you whole as your body prepared to break and give way to the future.

(...)

The delivery room at Summerhall was thick with the metallic smell of blood, hot water, and bitter herbs. The autumn sun, which had once seemed so sweet in the garden, now streamed through the gaps in the curtains like a cruel invader. You lay there, your body arched in agony, your hands digging into the linen sheets until your knuckles were white and lifeless.

The midwives moved like frantic shadows around her. The pain was no longer a wave; it was an ocean that was drowning her, pulling her hips in opposite directions. The Maester prepared the ropes and cloths, his face tense under the light of the candles that were beginning to be lit as the day died.

“Breathe, milady! Push with your belly, not your throat!” ordered the oldest midwife, a woman with a wrinkled face who had served House Targaryen for decades.

You let out a scream that tore through the silence of the hallway, a sound of pure despair and exhaustion. Your forehead was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your pale face. In the fog of pain, you heard what you shouldn't have heard.

“So fragile…” the old woman murmured to the assistant, while wiping the blood from between her legs. “With Lady Dyanna it was much easier. She had the wide hips of the women of her lineage, she was strong as a mare. Here she looks like she’s going to break in two.”

Those words, spoken at her most vulnerable moment, were the final blow. The tears, which she had tried to hold back to conserve her strength, overflowed, hot and bitter. Even there, on the threshold of death to give life, the ghost of the other woman was present to humiliate her.

“I am not her…” you sobbed, your voice faltering as a new contraction hit you. “I am not…”

The bang of the door being opened made the silver goblets vibrate on the table. Maekar burst into the room like a furious god of war. He was still wearing his riding tunic, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot from riding like a madman after Aegon's warning.

“Leave, my Prince!” the Maester exclaimed, raising his hands in protest. “The birthing room is a place for women and gods. It is impure for a man of your position!”

“Impure?!” Maekar roared, his voice making the old midwife recoil. “To hell with the gods and to hell with your purity! This is my wife, my blood is in her! I will not leave her side even if the Warrior himself comes to get me!”

He strode across the room heavily and fell to his knees beside his bed. He grabbed his hand, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and brought it to his face.

"I'm here," he hissed, his eyes fixed on hers, an anchor in the midst of her shipwreck.

The old midwife, trying to regain her authority, approached with a basin.

"My lord, the comparison was purely technical; Lady Dyanna had..."

Maekar turned his face to her with an expression of such cruelty that the woman almost dropped the silver. The fury in his eyes was absolute, dark, lethal.

“If I hear the name of my late wife come out of your withered mouth one more time, ” Maekar said, his voice low and deadly, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. “I will cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs. She is not Dyanna . She is my only princess, and you will treat her with the reverence due a queen, or you will leave here dead.”

He turned to you, softening his touch just enough not to break it.

“Forget what she said. Forget the world outside. Look at me. Only at me. Bring our daughter, my love. Bring her to me.”

Inspired by the fire emanating from him, you felt a new strength, a fury born of love and pain. You dug your nails into Maekar 's hand , feeling his blood beneath your claws, and pushed. You pushed with every fragment of your soul, determined to banish the shadows from that room once and for all and bring light to Summerhall .

The room had become a battlefield where time seemed to have stood still. The smell of blood and sweat was suffocating, and the only audible sound was Maekar 's noisy breathing and screams, which were no longer of fear, but of a transformative agony.

“Once more!” the Maester ordered, his face bathed in sweat. “I can already see the crown on your head! Push!”

You felt your body being torn in two, as if a Valyrian steel blade were climbing up your spine. Your hands crushed Maekar 's fingers , and he didn't flinch; he absorbed your pain, his violet eyes fixed on yours, conveying a brutal, almost violent strength that prevented you from collapsing.

“You can do it!” he roared close to her ear, his voice hoarse with desperation and adoration. “Bring them to me, my love! Bring us our future!”

With a scream that seemed to rip the last of your strength from your lungs, you made the final effort. There was a feeling of sudden relief, a damp vacuum, followed immediately by a sharp, crystalline cry that cut through the tension in the air like a lightning bolt.

“A princess!” exclaimed the midwife, her voice trembling, as she wrapped the tiny creature in warm linen. “A perfect little girl, my lord!”

Maekar let out a sigh that sounded like a sob, but there was no time for celebration. The Maester turned to you urgently.

"It still hurts ..." you sighed. "It still hurts a lot!!"

Don't stop now! I see another head, and he's in a hurry!

The second stage of labor was a blur of pain and exhaustion. You felt like you were going to die, that your heart wouldn't withstand the effort, but Maekar 's hand was a shackle that kept you grounded. He kissed your sweaty forehead, whispering your name between curses directed at the gods, demanding that they spare you.

“Just one more… ” he pleaded. “Just one more and it will be over, I promise.”

You gathered the ashes of your will. With one last push, laden with all the suffering of the past months and all the hope that Summerhall represented, the second life was expelled. Another cry, as strong as the first, echoed through the room.

“Another princess!” announced the Maester , his face finally relaxing into a tired smile. “Two girls. Twins, healthy and strong.”

The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic crying of the babies and the sound of their panting breaths. Maekar didn't look at his daughters first. He remained kneeling beside them, burying his face in the crook of their necks, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. For the first time, the Iron Prince was surrendered.

The midwives cleaned the babies and brought them to the bed. When they were placed in their arms—tiny, with tufts of almost white hair and rosy skin—the pain disappeared.

“What names shall we give these beautiful princesses?” you whispered, your voice almost fading. “Decide, my love. You dreamed of them.”

Maekar raised his head, his eyes moist and fierce with pride. He touched his daughters' tiny foreheads with a gentleness that would make any knight of Westeros doubt his own eyes.

“They don’t resemble anyone,” Maekar said, his voice solemn, gazing at you with absolute devotion. “They are only ours. They are you. Beautiful girls, beautiful like their mother. I will name only one, the one who came into the world first. The second, you must name.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from shouting. “I like Rhae for girl. Yes, Rhae . Like in a poem my sweet Aemon once told me in the garden. I don’t remember now. It hurts too much to remember.”

Maekar let out a sound through his boot, something that oscillated between laughter and mockery. It was hard to tell.

“ Daella ,” he said simply, without even bothering to explain the name or where it came from. But you suspected it was a tribute to his father or, perhaps, to his own son, because even though it was a disappointment, Maekar still loved him very much. You accepted it, simply accepted it. You had had two healthy girls in a single birth. Nothing else mattered.

For a heartbeat, the world was silent save for a choked curse from Maekar beside you. Your hands flew to your bodice, fingers clumsy and numb as they fumbled with the laces. The silk felt rough against your skin. You could feel the heat of shame crawling up your neck. It had nothing to do with the act itself and everything to do with the look on your father's face.

Beside you, Maekar was already fastening his breeches, his movements economical and swift. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes, usually so full of a molten warmth for you, were now wide with panic you had never seen before. He took a step toward the door.

"Maekar, no," You grabbed his arm, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his bicep. "Do not."

"I must," He tried to pull away, but you held on. "I must explain this to him."

"Explain?" A harsh, broken laugh escaped your lips. "He will kill you. He will run you through and not think twice on it. Did you not see his face?"

A sob tore from your throat, your shoulders shook, as you pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if you could physically hold the grief inside. Maekar reached for you, trying to pull you into an embrace. "My love," 

You slapped his hand away. The hurt that flashed across his face made you feel guilty, but you could not bear to be touched. "Do not," you choked out, turning your back to him, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Just… do not."

You could feel his gaze on the back of your neck. "I am sorry," he said finally. "I am sorry it happened thus. Yet he was always going to learn of it. I did not wish to keep you a secret."

You hated the words. In that moment, his declaration sounded almost like relief. As if this terrible, earth-shattering confrontation was a necessary step he was glad to have taken. You knew it was not fair, you knew it was your own pain twisting his meaning, but you could not help it. You turned back to him, face streaked with tears, and stepped into the circle of his arms.

He held you tightly, one hand stroking your hair, the other pressed firm against the small of your back, anchoring you. He rested his chin on the top of your head. "He will be angry," Maekar said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "But he cannot stay angry with you for long."

He could not have been more wrong.

The week that followed was an exercise in silent torture. Baelor did not speak to either of you, refusing to so much as look at either of you or be in the same room longer than necessary.

Where you had always stood at his side you found your place now occupied by your brother Valarr. He looked deeply uncomfortable to be in the middle of a squabble he did not understand. His pleading, apologetic gaze meeting yours. You felt like an exile in your own home.

You tried to bridge the chasm. Each morning, Baelor would break his fast with you, yet when you went to his solar, the place where you had always been welcomed without announcement, you were stopped by the guard. "My apologies, Princess. The Prince has asked not to be disturbed."

"Disturbed by me?"

"By anyone, Princess," he replied unconvincingly.

But the cruelest cut of all, the one that truly shattered you, was the tea. Since you were a small girl, you and your father had shared a private tea every seventh day in a small, sun-drenched room in the gardens. It was the one place in the world where titles and duty fell away. You would talk, he would listen, give you counsel, make you laugh as he sipped his tea, his eyes soft with affection. Here, he was just your papa.

You went to the sun room, fussing over the servants' work until it was just as you wanted. The tea was brewed, the little lemon cakes you both loved were on a plate, and the sun was high in the sky. You waited until the room grew cold, until the tea was undrinkable. He did not come.

You were utterly alone.

What you did not know was that Baelor had come. He had stood by the door only a few steps away, close enough to hear you singing a little tune. He had pictured you inside, waiting for him, your face bright with anticipation, and the weight of what he had seen, what he had lost, crushed him. He could not bring himself to walk through the door and retreated to the silent, cold comfort of the library, where he worked through the night. The ink from his quill blurring with tears he would not allow himself to shed.

That evening, you poured all of it out to Maekar. You sobbed against his chest, your hands fisted in his tunic as he held you, his body rigid with fury on your behalf. This could not continue.

You were in your language lesson the next afternoon when a steward arrived for you. "Princess," he said with a formal bow. "His Grace, the King, requests your presence."

Your heart seized as you walked the familiar path to Daeron's chambers, your stomach a knot of dread.

The room was exactly as you remembered it. Walls lined with books from floor to ceiling. Massive windows overlooking the city, and there, standing as far apart as possible, were your father and Maekar. The air between them crackled with tension and volatile energy.

Your grandfather, Daeron, sat behind his desk. He saw you immediately, his gaze softening as he took in your defeated face and the tremor in your hands.

"Oh, my child." He rose from his chair and came to you, his hands reaching out to take yours. "The days have not been kind to you, have they?"

You simply shook your head, the gesture releasing a fresh wave of tears you had not realized were still trapped inside.

Daeron tutted softly, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbing at your face. "There, there, we cannot have you weeping over this."

He released your hands and turned, addressing the room, his statement for everyone and no one. "Maekar has asked for your hand in marriage," he announced. "I have decided to agree to the match."

"Father?" Baelor snarled, his mismatched eyes blazing. "How could you? Without even consulting me?"

"Someone must think of her," Maekar said, his voice laced with contempt. "Since her own father cannot be troubled to—"

That was it. Baelor flew across the room, his face a thundercloud, lunging for his brother, his fist connecting cleanly with Maekar's cheek. "Stop! I beg you," you shouted, but they continued grappling, a mess of furious muscle and royal silks.

"Boys, please," Daeron said, his voice weary from a lifetime of mediating squabbles. "Stop this, you are men grown."

Baelor shoved Maekar away, his chest heaving. "I have always given you everything that was mine," his voice trembling with pain. "Freely! Without complaint! Yet it is not enough. You would steal my daughter?"

You moved to Maekar's side, your hand finding his, fingers lacing through. "I am a woman grown," you said. "Free to make my own choices, as you have always claimed."

Your father looked at you for the first time in a week. The anger in his eyes seemed to fracture, replaced by hurt. He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I do not understand this," he whispered, the words meant only for himself.

Daeron sighed. "Children will astound you," he said, turning to glare at his youngest son as he spoke. "They do not always behave as you would wish them to." He sighed again. "Come, Maekar. Let us leave them to speak."

He placed a hand on Maekar's shoulder and guided him toward an adjoining room, the door closing softly behind them, leaving you alone with Baelor in silence.

You turned slowly to face your father. He was staring at the spot where Maekar had been, his profile sharp and unreadable.

"Papa. Look at me."

He would not.

Tears pricked at your eyes again, a fresh well of sorrow. "I am so sorry," you choked out. "I am sorry I have shamed you. You are right to hate me, and I shall understand it if you do. But I need my father, please."

That finally turned him. His eyes searched your face, and the hard mask of anger crumbled. He saw his girl, weeping and broken, because of him.

"Petal," he breathed, crossing the space between you, his hands coming up to cup your face and gently wipe away your tears. "I could never hate you."

You blinked up at him, confused.

"It was never about you being with him. Not truly." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "Since you were small, you have told me everything, from the ladybug that landed on your finger to the quarrels amongst you and your friends. You never once kept a secret from me, even when you feared you were in the wrong. I cannot understand why you would keep this from me. It makes me feel as though… the trust, the closeness, was never real."

His voice broke on the last word, and the sight of it, your strong, unshakeable father brought to the brink of tears, was more than you could bear. "The act wounds me," he continued, his voice a whisper. "But the lie… the secret is what has broken my heart."

Then you pulled him into a hug, and he held you so tightly you could barely breathe, his face buried in your hair. "I am sorry," he murmured. "For how I have behaved. For the silence. No amount of apologies can undo it, but I am sorry, petal."

You clung to him, the week's worth of ice and fear finally thawing in the warmth of his embrace.

He held you for a long time, just rocking you gently, until the tension had finally drained from both of you. Then he pulled back, his hands on your shoulders, and a faint, wry smile touched his lips.

"You know," he said, his tone lighter. "I might yet find you a better match."

You pushed lightly against his chest, a laugh bubbling up, startling you both with its sound. "Stop it," you said, swatting at his arm. "I love him."

He eyed you, his head tilted. "Are you certain? He is a dark cloud, and you my sunshine. I cannot imagine what the two of you could possibly speak of."

"Father!" you said, indignant, pushing away from him more firmly this time, a smile gracing your face.

He relented, his hands held up in surrender. "Very well, very well," he chuckled. "I accept it. You have my blessing." His expression then sobered slightly, a glint of the old, protective fire returning to his eyes. He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.

"But if he ever misbehaves," he said, his gaze hard and deadly serious, "if he ever causes you a single moment of unhappiness, I will run him through."

You looked at your father, at the fierce, unwavering love in his eyes, and smiled. "Do not fret," you said softly. "Maekar is well aware of it. You ought to beg his forgiveness for striking him."

"Must I? He struck as well as he received."

"Yes. The septons say we must love our brothers."

“That’s ridiculous,” you said, body halting as the staircase began to shift beneath you, “and completely untrue.”

“Oh come on, you never do anything interesting! For your sake, it has to be true,” Sirius teased.

You turned to him, mouth open in offense. “I’m plenty interesting.”

“But not interesting enough to lose your virginity to Meadowes in the library during fourth year?” Remus raised an eyebrow.

“No! It didn’t happen!” you protested, “now please, let it go.”

“How would a rumor like that even get out if it isn’t true?” James asked genuinely.

“Probably because everyone knows Meadowes has the hots for her. Bet you he started it himself,” Remus answered, distaste evident in his voice.

“Are you three done now?” you asked, whispering the common room password and letting the boys in.

“So if it isn’t true, how did you lose it?” Sirius pressed.

You looked at him stunned, eyes wide in disbelief that he would ask you something like that out of the blue.

“Absolutely not,” you said, raising a finger toward him, “I’m not playing that game.”

“Oh come on!” Sirius raised his hands and smiled, “you’re no fun.”

“Yeah, now I’m curious,” James continued on, “if not Dorcas, who?”

You sighed, placing your books down and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, turning toward them exasperated. “Why does it matter?”

“You know seventeen of the girls I’ve slept with by heart,” Sirius replied, “I’d say it’s only fair.”

“Sirius, you told me about seventeen of the girls you’ve slept with. Willingly. Without me asking. Ever,” you said, earning a laugh from James at your disgust.

They followed you up the stairs to your dorm, empty from everyone sneaking off to a party in the Ravenclaw common room that you were supposed to be getting ready for, but alas, you were late and distracted.

You sat down in front of your vanity mirror, ready to start applying makeup, when Remus placed a hand on the desk in front of you, leaning his face in close to you, his hair falling slightly in front of his face. He was completely in your personal space.

“Come on, Y/N, tell us who got to fuck you first.”

Remus’ voice was low, and his breath fanned your face as he spoke. You locked eyes with him, a sigh leaving your chest that you weren’t aware you were holding in. You were nervous to have him this close.

“No one has. Sorry to disappoint. Now drop it, will you?”

Remus didn’t move. You continued to look up into his eyes, your voice a little shaky, and you didn’t know what to do. You moved to get up, but Remus caught your chin between his fingers, pulling your attention back to him. “Meaning what?”

“Did you not hear me? Cus you’re like 6 inches away from me, so if you didn’t, you need to get your hearing checked,” you said, annoyed at your current predicament, just wanting to make the embarrassing conversation end. Remus finally let you stand, but Sirius and James were right behind you, stopping you from leaving the room. You opted to sit on your bed.

“You guys are insufferable.”

Sirius cleared his throat. “So you’re-“ he trailed off.

“A virgin, yes, wow, how crazy of me. You know, it’s not that weird, you all just have a personal body count higher than everyone at this school combined. And everyone else’s body count includes you. Can we please just forget about this?” you begged.

“Such attitude,” James teased, “from such a good girl.”

“Oh, so I’m a goodie two-shoes now that you’ve all discovered I’ve never had sex?”

“Kinda, yeah,” James giggled.

“Fuck you guys,” you sighed, partially lighthearted and partially annoyed, “it was my choice. You think I couldn’t have screwed Dorcas Meadowes in the library if I wanted to?”

No one had a response. Sirius’ nostrils flared, and Remus sighed. They almost seemed… jealous? at the thought of you and someone else.

You four were ridiculously close, anyone could see that, and you would be lying if you said you haven’t thought about them in that way, but you were best friends, and you didn’t want to risk ruining that.

“You ever think about, like, just doing it?” Sirius asked.

“What?” you replied.

“Do you ever think about just saying fuck it and asking someone, like, I don’t know, one of us, to just take your virginity?”

Your breathing caught in your chest. You stared at Sirius, a million thoughts coming to your head but you couldn’t articulate any of them. You had no idea what to say.

“I mean, I’ve thought about losing my virginity, yeah, that’s normal,” you explained.

“To one of us?” Remus asked.

You could lie. You could act disgusted at the question and walk away now, or, you could tell the truth, and risk ruining your entire friendship. You could also tell the truth and potentially gain everything you wanted.

Your voice became small, your eyes watching your hands fidget in your lap, “maybe.”

The boys all exchanged a look between one another.

James was the only one who was able to pull himself together. “W-who?”

You titled your head up at him. “What?”

James sat down on the bed next to you. “Which one of us?”

You could physically see all the boys tense up, ready to be filled with either pride or jealousy. Sirius and Remus were staring daggers at you, anxiously awaiting your answer. James kept his eyes on you as well, trying to make you feel less intimidated and tense than Sirius and Remus were.

Your eyes darted between all of them, “I-“

You were evidently nervous, and Remus felt bad. He knelt on the ground in front of you, taking your hands in his own. It was the most intimate gesture you’d received from him yet. He kept his voice soft. “Angel, you don’t have to tell us, but we really want to know. I promise none of us will be too hurt. Please,” he almost begged.

You sighed. You weren’t worried because you only thought about one of them, you were worried because you were embarrassed to tell them the truth. You took a deep breath. It was now or never. “All of you.”

They were not prepared for that answer.

Remus and James stared at you and tried to process your words. Sirius was more of an “act on impulse” and “speak without thinking” kind of guy.

“Fuck off,” he said, “all of us?”

“Mhm.”

“Like at the same time?” he pushed.

“Sirius-“ Remus warned.

“No, no, I wanna hear you say it,” he said, attention back on you, “I wanna hear you say that you’ve thought about losing your virginity to all three of us. At the same time. I wanna hear you say that you’ve thought about us fucking you.” He was standing dangerously close to you now.

“I- I have,” you said, blush evident in your cheeks.

Sirius growled. “Remus, move.”

“Excuse me?” Remus snapped back.

“Move.”

Remus sighed and moved out of the way so that Sirius was standing directly in front of you. “You stop us if there’s anything you don’t like. Understood?”

You nodded your head, but that wasn’t enough.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you retried.

Sirius gave you a small smile before grabbing your face in his hands, tilting your head up and leaning down to give you a long, intimate kiss. Once you had settled in, he deepened the kiss, his carnal desires taking over. He slowly leaned you back on the bed, your legs still hanging off the mattress, as he placed one knee next to your waist, holding himself up as he continued kissing you. When your back hit the mattress, you held the back of Sirius’s head to keep him in place.

You felt one of the boys behind Sirius, pulling your pants off and leaving your lower half nearly exposed.

Sirius flopped down on the bed next to you, still kissing you as you ran your fingers through his hair.

James slowly kissed up your thigh, throwing both of your legs over his shoulders as he kissed your underwear right above your heat. You gasped, but Sirius didn’t let you break the kiss.

“Sirius, come on, give her a break,” James pleaded, “I wanna hear her.”

Sirius groaned into the kiss before breaking it, looking down to James in between your legs. “Well, go on then.”

Sirius was still feral and needy, pulling your shirt over your head and ripping off your bra, immediately going to grab and kiss at your breasts. You were embarrassed at the exposure, but everyone was moving on your body so fast that you didn’t have time to think about your body being on display.

James pushed your underwear to the side and kissed your folds, causing you to squeal. This was an unfamiliar feeling, but you were growing wetter and wetter by the minute. He pushed your folds open with his tongue, licking and flicking at your clit. You whined and threw your head back. He continued his actions, peeking up at you from between your legs, watching you come apart as he ate you out like a man starved.

“Take it easy,” you heard Remus say from behind your head, “you gotta remember she’s never done this.”

James moaned into your cunt as a response, sending a shiver up your body, causing your legs to shake slightly. He kept sucking and licking circles around your bud, and you couldn’t help but grab the hair at the back of his head, pushing him closer into you.

“Good girl,” Sirius cooed from beside you, touching every exposed part of your body that he could.

As James’ tongue quickened, your whines grew louder, but you tried to tame them and save yourself further embarrassment. Remus noticed and was not happy. He grabbed your face and forced your neck to look backward at him. “Are you holding back?”

“N-no,” you said anxiously, not sure if it was the truth.

“Ah, but I think you are,” he started, “and we don’t accept that. Let us hear you.”

“But I’m emb-“

“I don’t care if you’re embarrassed. Stop holding back. Now.”

Remus’s demanding and controlling demeanor only added at the pleasure James was giving you with his mouth. You did as he said. James continued to quicken his pace, whines and moans falling from your lips.

“Does that feel good?” Remus asked.

“Yes, Rem, I-“

“No fair!” Sirius suddenly exclaimed, “if you ask her all the questions, you get to hear her moan your name. Selfish prick.”

“Are you gonna let this be about her or what?” Remus retorted.

“I am! I should be asking you the same thing, why do you always get to be in control of everything?”

They bickered back and forth for a few minutes, but the entire time, James remained focused on you. He watched from between your legs as his tongue made you squirm and moan, and he had you nearly seeing stars.

You desperately tried to tell him you were going to come, but Remus and Sirius were too busy bickering for James to hear you. You tapped at his head to signal him, and he got the message, sucking at your bud until you finally came. Your chest rapidly rose and fell as James continued to lick you until he had tasted every last drop of cum from your hole, standing up and placing a wet kiss on your lips.

“What, did you just give up?” Sirius asked when he saw James standing.

“No, idiot, she came,” James replied, “you two dickheads were too busy arguing to notice.”

Remus’s nostrils flared. “You just let us keep arguing?”

“She tried to say something!” James defended you, and partly himself.

“Baby, you ok?” Remus checked in.

“Mhm,” you nodded.

“You got a little more in you?”

“Mhm.”

“You want me?”

“Mhm.”

Remus pulled his pants and boxers down and climbed on top of you, pulling your underwear completely off of you as he placed his knees on either side of your waist.

“You sure?” he asked, wanting to confirm your consent.

“Yes,” you responded.

“And you’re sure you’re okay with it being me?”

Instead of responding with words, you tilted your head up and kissed Remus, assuring him that you wanted it to be him. You would have been okay with any of the boys, but Remus was always so in control, it made sense that he would be your first. Your relationship with him was always a little less silly, and a little more intimate, than your relationship with the other two.

“Are you ready?” he checked, lining up his already hard cock at your entrance.

“Yeah,” you replied, “just- please be nice, okay?”

Remus smiled, “of course, baby.”

You nodded at him and locked eyes as he slowly pushed into you, a long gasp leaving your lips as he filled you up. His cock was bigger than you thought it would be, and it was taking you a while to adjust to his size.

“Shit, Rem,” you breathed out, “you should have warned me that you’re that fucking big.”

Sirius growled next to you, your words driving him crazy. He couldn’t help but pull out his cock, stroking it slowly as he watched you.

Remus gave you plenty of time to adjust before you nodded at him, signaling that he could move. He started slowly, pushing in and out of you as an excruciatingly slow pace. It burned, and you almost told Remus to stop, but after a few minutes, the pain subsided, and the pleasure took over.

A particularly filthy moan left your lips, and Sirius cursed under his breath. James appeared behind your head, stroking your hair as Remus’s head dropped to your shoulder as he began to pick up the pace.

“Shit, baby,” he moaned, “you feel so fucking good.”

“You look so fucking good,” Sirius breathed.

“Thank you, Siri,” you cried out, causing Sirius to cum in his hand, the nickname making him lose all control.

“What a good girl,” Remus spoke, his thrusts quickening until he was causing your body to jolt upward with each hit from the force, “you’re doing so well.”

James placed a kiss on your forehead and you reached up to grab his hand for leverage. You squeezed his hand, the pleasure between your legs becoming almost too much.

“Relax, baby, you’re being such a good girl,” James said.

Remus’ breathing quickened. “You’re so tight, angel, if you keep squeezing my cock like that I’m not gonna last,” he warned.

“I c-can’t help it,” you told him.

“I know baby,” he replied.

“I d- don’t know how to m- make it stop,” you said.

Remus giggled, “you don’t have to make it stop. It feels good for me.”

“Oh,” you whimpered, “that’s good.”

Remus giggled again. You were so cute, even in the middle of losing your virginity. Remus leaned down and kissed you, your lips moving in harmony as he began to pound into you. Any sense of kindness and mercy he had for this being your first time went out the window when you kissed.

Your moans grew louder and louder, and you tried to cover your mouth with your hand to quiet yourself down.

“Ah ah ah,” Sirius tsked, pulling your hand away, “none of that.”

“Rem- Rem- I-“

“I know angel, let go.”

Your high crashed over you again, your hips bucking upward to meet Remus’ final few thrusts before he came inside of you, the feeling of you squeezing him becoming too much for him to hold on. Remus stayed inside of you for a moment, watching your face as you calmed down from your high, a slight shake in your legs.

“What a good girl,” James praised, kissing your forehead.

“You okay?” Remus checked in, pulling out of you and standing in front of you.

“Mhm,” you hummed, “‘m okay.”

Sirius leaned down to kiss you again. “Everything you imagined?”

“Mhm.” You were too tired to formulate complete words or sentences.

“You wanna skip the party?” Sirius continued.

“Mhm.”

“You wanna cuddle and watch a movie?”

“Mhm.” You shifted so your head was resting on Sirius’ lap as he began to stroke your hair.

“I wanna talk about having sex.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, running his hands across his thighs. Remus stayed leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and James ran his fingers through his hair, attention trained on you.

“Okay,” Remus sighed, “have you been thinking about it?”

You took a deep breath. “Yeah, and, I mean, I know that last week I said I wasn’t ready yet, but-“

“We didn’t pressure you, did we? We were just asking to check in and make sure you know your options, we didn’t mean-“

“You didn’t pressure me,” you cut Remus off, “I promise. I just-“ you sighed as the sentence died in your throat.

As you dipped your head, eyes trained on your fidgeting hands in your lap, the boys all exchanged looks. Sirius raised his eyebrows at James, who nodded toward Remus, signaling to Remus that he should say something. Remus, seated in the middle, turned his head to the right to look to Sirius, pushing the responsibility of breaking the silence back onto him.

“I saw-“ you could barely get the words out, and the boys’ attention focused back to you, “I saw something, and it helped me feel differently. It helped me realize that I want this.”

The boys all exchanged a quick look again.

“What did you see?” James asked.

Your cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson. You couldn’t look any of them in the eyes. You swallowed hard and dropped your gaze again, evidently nervous.

“Baby, I say this with love and as gently as I can: if you can’t talk to us about sex, there’s no way to be sure you’re ready to have it,” James said, his voice soft.

He was right.

Huffing out your nerves in a short, quick breath, you forced out, “I saw Sirius a few days ago,” deep breath deep breath deep breath, “touching himself.”

Sirius’s eyes widened, his arms crossed against his chest, his leg still shaking as his casually slouched form paid close attention to every breath you took. “Yeah? When?” he asked, nodding his head upward with each word, almost in challenge.

“A few days ago, I got my usual potions timeblock free, and I knew you had that time free too, so I came to the dorms to say hi, and- you were, you know.”

Sirius ran his fingers through his hair, his arms crossing on his chest as one hand rested in front of his mouth.

“So you saw Sirius masturbating,” Remus took over, “and that made you want to have sex? How?”

“Well, he was-“ deep breath, you can say it, “moaning my name.”

Sirius, only moving his leg up and down, otherwise stagnant, barely blinked as he stared at you, his eyes darkening with each passing moment. He could barely breathe.

“Baby, please connect the dots for us,” James pleaded.

“I thought I wasn’t ready,” you started, “but when I saw and heard you,” you said, gesturing to Sirius momentarily before refocusing on the whole trio, “it made me feel really… really… I don’t know, the same way I feel when you kiss me.”

Sirius nearly lept out of the chair, but this wasn’t about him. He could control himself, even if only momentarily.

James kept looking to Remus and Sirius, a silent plea that they keep you talking. James was about as awkward with conversation as you.

“You mean horny?” Remus asked like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I guess?”

“Seeing Sirius masturbating made you so horny that you’re ready to lose your virginity?” Remus asked.

“Remus,” Sirius warned, fighting to keep his composure, but slowly losing.

“I mean, yeah. I think-“ you paused for a moment, “I think I wanted to do something, but I got nervous. So I just left. I wasn’t really sure how to tell you, since I had just said I wasn’t ready yet.”

“Define do something.”

Sirius wasn’t asking.

“What?”

Through gritted teeth, and a mouth still covered partially by his hand, he repeated, “define do something.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. You looked to Remus and James, who knew better than to disregard Sirius’s requests or intentions when he was this worked up.

Sirius’s dark eyes were transfixed on you, refusing to let up until you spoke.

“I don’t really know what to say,” you admitted.

“Did you want to touch him? Is that what you mean?” Remus asked.

“I guess. I think it made me want him to touch me. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Sirius didn’t move, apart from the shaking leg.

“We know you’re a virgin, Y/N, but have you ever been touched?”

You thought you’d already had this conversation, but in hindsight, it had stopped the moment you said you hadn’t had sex, and weren’t ready yet. The boys never pried further, but always allowed you to go to them when you were ready for something. They didn’t know the true extent of your inexperience.

“No.”

Sirius jolted off of his chair and began to pace back and forth behind the other two boys.

“Sirius, relax,” James said.

Sirius just growled at him in return.

“Keep it together, this isn’t about you,” James continued.

“What does it look like I’m fucking trying to do?” Sirius snapped.

“Don’t you think we’re all fucking losing it right now? Damn,” Remus said, turning back to look at Sirius is annoyance.

Sirius paused his pacing to say, “At least I’m trying to walk it off, you’re just sitting there with your dick pressed up against your jeans like it’s gonna explode.”

“Guys, for fucks sake,” James ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, “please don’t be mad at me.”

“No, no, no, baby, we’re not mad,” James said, pulling you out of your own head, “you did nothing wrong. You know we’re idiots.”

“See? Look what you fucking did,” Remus shot at Sirius, gesturing toward you.

Sirius begrudgingly slumped back down into his chair. “Fuck off, she knows I could never be mad at her.” He then turned his attention to you and said, “sorry, babydoll.”

“Did I upset you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you acting upset?”

“Because it’s taking everything in me not to come over there and fuck you right now.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

“Baby, do you want to have sex?” James asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Do you want to have sex right now?” James continued.

“Does- is that okay with everyone?”

“Is that okay with everyone?” Sirius repeated, “fucking hell.”

“Would you keep your fucking innocence kink in check for at least the next 20 minutes?” Remus glared at Sirius.

“I’ll do my best mom.”

“Can I come over there?” James asked you, ignoring the boys’ bickering.

You nodded your head yes.

James approached your seated frame on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you so that you were nearly eye level. “We’re gonna take such good care of you, angel.”

You leaned down slightly and captured James’s lips in a kiss, nothing you hadn’t done before.

Only this time, James wrapped his fingers through your hair to keep you in place as he stood, leaning over you until your back was against the mattress.

As the kiss heated up, James pressed his hips against yours, and you let out a small whimper. James pulled away from you, a smile growing on his face. “What, you like that?” he teased, grinding down harder on you.

You made another little noise, and James began to fully grind onto your hips, the friction of cloth between your bodies becoming an unbearably annoying barrier.

“You wanna be touched, huh?” James whispered into your ear, moving a hand between your bodies, “you ready?”

“Please,” you whispered back, the word for James and James alone, as he pulled your underwear and skirt down your legs.

Remus, from behind James, took them fully off of you and discarded them to the side.

James ran a finger slowly between your folds. “You’re already so wet, baby, shit,” he said, his voice almost more surprised than sensual.

“Sorry,” you said, your heart rate increasing and your breath shaky.

“Not a bad thing, honey,” he assured you, “usually means you like it.”

“It feels-“ you fought through the embarrassment, “really good.”

“Yeah? You want me to go faster? You want more?”

Remus sat beside you, watching the scene unfold as he stroked your hair for an added sense of comfort.

“Yes,” you said.

“Good girl,” James praised, circling your clit, and progressively moving his fingers quicker and quicker.

“Fuck,” you moaned at the sudden sensation.

Sirius remained seated, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, silently watching you come undone.

Remus leaned down and kissed you, swallowing your whines and whimpers as James slowly lifted himself off of you, sinking back down to the floor and throwing your legs over his shoulders.

You squealed and pulled away from Remus, looking between your legs. “What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna taste you, hun, that okay?”

“I mean, sure, but what does that mean-“

You went silent immediately when James ran his tongue between your folds, collecting your wetness and sucking on your clit, causing you to throw your head back.

You squirmed nonstop underneath his tongue, the sensation new and overwhelming.

“Easy,” Remus said, partially to you and partially to James, reminding him to go slow since you’d never done this before.

“Sorry baby,” James said, “you just taste so good.”

With James between your legs, looking down your body gave you a clear view of not only him, but of Sirius, who was seated directly behind him.

When you saw Sirius, you couldn’t look away. The way he was looking at you was something you’d never seen or experienced. All three of the boys looked at you in different ways, but you’d never seen Sirius with this look in his eyes.

You couldn’t help but maintain eye contact as you moaned and gasped, James’s expert tongue knowing exactly how to work you up. You decided he had his reputation for a reason.

Watching you come undone with James between your legs, and your eyes locked on his, Sirius shifted in his chair, refusing to give up control but becoming very, very close to losing it.

You threw your head back when James hit a particularly sweet spot with his tongue, and your sight landed back to Remus next to you.

You grabbed at his hair, a smile on his face as you needily pulled him down into a kiss.

“You want James to prep you?” Remus asked.

“Mhm,” you moaned.

You weren’t entirely sure what he meant, but you knew you should say yes to any preparation for what would inevitably be a painful virginity loss.

James kept his mouth on you, but very slowly slid one finger into you.

Your eyes widened at the sudden intrusion, and Remus pulled away, his face still close to yours. He gently gripped your chin in his hands, keeping you in place to look at him.

James began to move his finger in and out, curling the digit every once in a while to add to the pleasure.

You could barely breathe. You just laid there, gazing up at Remus, helplessly squirming your hips, to either stop the pleasure or add to it, you didn’t know.

“Fucking hell,” you moaned.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Remus cooed, “does that feel good?”

“More,” was all you could get out.

Remus nodded to James, who clocked it, and added another finger into you.

Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, three pairs of eyes on you. James’s glasses were lightly fogging up as he tasted you, his eyes peering up at you through the still-clear zones of glass, focusing completely on how you reacted to each movement of his hand and his mouth.

James, ever the awkward, goofy, muscular idiot, loved knowing that he was the one making you writhe. He griped your thighs as they instinctively closed around his head, but not to stop them, only to hold you close enough to him that you didn’t squirm away. James would happily let your legs crush him.

He began to scissor his fingers inside of you, and you let out the filthiest moan yet, your back arching as you ground yourself against James.

Remus leaned down to unbutton your blouse. You decided not to wear a bra today, despite it bothering your back, because you had hoped you would end up here. Remus attached his mouth to one of your nipples, a hand squeezing the unattended breast, adding to your pleasure.

“Shit, shit, please,” you whimpered.

“James, get up,” Sirius said, the first words since the sex started.

James turned around, his fingers still inside of you, “what?”

“She’s never had sex, coming twice is gonna be too much for her right off the bat. Get up.”

James knew Sirius was right, and he reluctantly pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you feeling empty as James stood up.

Remus didn’t move, but instead kissed you to help ease the sudden stopping.

“Who do you want, baby?” Remus asked, his hand on the side of your face.

You swallowed your nerves, suddenly worried that naming one of the boys would hurt the others. However, given the situation, there was really only one answer.

You looked down to Sirius, and when you caught his eyes, he immediately stood up and walked toward the bed, positioning himself over you with his knees between your legs.

“You want me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You remember seeing me touching myself and moaning your name?”

“Yes.”

“I was imagining this,” he said, slowly running his cock between your folds. You didn’t know when he stripped his clothes off, but there he was, naked above you.

You didn’t notice James and Remus strip either.

You let out a breathy moan at the feeling of Sirius rubbing himself against you.

Sirius leaned down to kiss your neck, holding his cock against you as he bucked his hips. “I was thinking about how fucking pretty you’d look and sound underneath me, and how fucking good you’d feel around me.”

“Sirius, please-“

“Sh, baby, I got you,” he said, “I’m gonna treat you so fucking good, baby, you’re gonna come so fucking hard.”

You whined as Sirius continued to kiss your neck, his cock lubricated from all of your wetness.

“Need you,” you said, so quiet he nearly didn’t hear it.

“Yeah? You need me?” he taunted, lining himself up with your entrance.

You reached around to find either Remus or James’s hand, but instead found James’s cock. You gripped it anyway, looking to pleasure him, but he pulled your wrist away.

“This is about you, angel, relax,” James said, “Rem and I can take care of each other.”

You nodded your head in understanding, and focused back on Sirius.

Looking up at him, you couldn’t help but admire his beauty. You reached up and tucked a piece of fallen hair behind his ear. That seemed to break him, as his intense demeanor completely folded as he gave you the sweetest smile you’d ever seen. He could have cried right then and there, the gesture was so sweet and intimate.

Sirius leaned down and kissed you softly as he pushed his tip into you. Your body tensed up, and you gasped in your throat.

“Sh,” Sirius told you, pulling away and looking intensely into your eyes, pushing himself into you at a torturously slow pace until he bottomed out inside of you.

“Fuck, you’re big,” you said, not to be seductive, but out of the feeling of how-the-fuck-did-you-fit-that-in-me-and-why-didn’t-you-warn-me.

Sirius dropped his head. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“I’m sor-“

Sirius kissed you briefly to silence you. “It’s a good thing. Relax, baby.”

Your eyebrows were furrowed and Sirius watched you closely, waiting until your muscles relaxed and your breathing calmed before he began to move.

Your moans were much louder than you thought they would be, considering how slowly he was fucking you. Sirius slammed a fist down into the sheets next to your head, fighting with himself to go easy on you.

Remus, who was being sucked off by James, placed a supportive hand on Sirius’s back. “Hold it together, Pads, you got it.”

Anyone who looked at Sirius, even anyone who didn’t know him, could take one look at Sirius and know he was holding back. You felt bad, but you needed it, especially when it felt like your entire lower body was bursting into flames.

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes, and you focused on your breathing. You fought opening your mouth to tell Sirius to stop.

“Sirius, she’s hurting,” Remus warned.

You shook your head no. “Don’t stop, please, it’ll only make it last longer,” you cried.

“Oh, bunny, you shouldn’t feel like-“

“The pain’ll go away, just please,” you choked, “I gotta get there.”

Sirius understood. He leaned down and licked a tear off of your cheek, straining even more to be gentle and move slowly.

“Breathe,” Sirius reminded you, “are you okay?”

“Just burns,” you said, voice strained as you tried to keep your tears at bay.

“I know, I know,” he said kissing you to help distract you.

As he continued his steady pace, the burning began to subside, and quickly turned to pleasure. As it did, you moaned into the kiss, and Sirius pulled away, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Can you- fuck- can you please go faster?” you whined.

“You sure?” Sirius spoke through gritted teeth.

“Please, Siri.”

The nickname was enough for him. He began to move quicker, his head falling into the crook of your neck as one hand gripped your shoulder, partially holding himself up and partially holding you in place.

“Fuck,” Sirius moaned.

Your moans got higher as Sirius picked up the pace, and you grabbed at his back. You didn’t know what you needed, you just needed more.

“What’s up, baby?” Sirius said as you heard Remus groan, his cum squirting down James’s throat.

“More,” you whispered.

“You want more?”

“More,” you repeated.

Sirius shifted his knees, pushing your legs up higher and hitting deeper inside of you.

You nearly screamed, and Sirius wrapped an arm around your head, helping push you against him as he thrust up into you.

“Siri-“

“Fuck, you sound so pretty,” he praised.

You tilted your head to see James touching himself sat beside you, and you grabbed for his face, kissing him when he leaned down toward you.

You combed your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.

When James pulled away, he turned to Sirius, and Sirius lifted his head, hungrily kissing James as he thrust up into you, your body jolting with each hit.

Watching Sirius and James make out as Sirius fucked you, and as James fucked his fist even harder as they kissed, made you wetter and wetter.

James was decently big, but his hands were so fucking large that it didn’t take much movement to cover the length of his cock. You watched his arm muscles contract as his hand moved faster and faster. You didn’t even notice him come, or that the kissing stopped.

“Somethin’ catch your attention?” Sirius teased.

James smirked and kissed you one more time before getting up to clean himself up.

You squeezed Sirius’s cock involuntarily, approaching your climax quicker than you anticipated that you would.

“Shit, baby, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” Sirius moaned.

“More,” is still all you could say.

“Fuck, you still want more? Tell me what you want,” Sirius said, his eyes locked on yours.

You whined, “I want- shit- I want you to fuck me like I’m not a virgin.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” you heard Remus say from somewhere in the room.

Sirius dropped his head, still restraining himself as he tried to collect his thoughts. “Baby, I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

“Please don’t hold back, Siri. I want you,” you said, desperate to feel any semblance of what it’s really like to fuck him.

Sirius searched your eyes for any doubt or regret, but he found none. He tilted his head and said, “okay then.”

Sirius grabbed your thighs and hooked his arms beneath them, pushing them upwards until you were nearly folded in half. You weren’t super flexible, but Sirius was strong. Despite your protestations, he wouldn’t fully let loose with you. Not right now. You had time.

Your legs rested on Sirius’s chest and shoulders, and as he leaned down to kiss you, he began to buck his hips again. The new angle had you moaning desperately into the kiss, his cock hitting deeper and deeper with every vicious thrust of his hips.

You held onto his hair as you kissed him harder, using him to swallow your uncontrollable moans.

Grunting and breathing heavy, Sirius kissed down your jaw and stopped at your neck, sucking at a sweet spot.

You moved your hand to cover your mouth, and James grabbed your wrist, gently moving it away and holding your hand. “Let us hear you, hun.”

You couldn’t protest or agree; all you could do was lay there, writhing, moaning, and swirling your hips to give yourself even more friction. With your movements and the new angle, your core ground against Sirius with each thrust, causing your back to arch and your head to push into the pillow.

Sirius noticed.

He placed a sweet kiss on your cheek as his hand slid around one of your thighs to your core, and he began to rub somewhat gentle circles onto your clit as he breathed you in.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted.

You could feel your walls squeezing Sirius, and he growled animalistic-ally in your ear at the feeling.

“Shit, baby, you gonna come?” he asked through shaky breaths.

“I think,” you said. Sure, you’d made yourself come, but you’d never come from penetration before.

“You don’t know?” Remus asked, watching you intensely.

“I- fuck, fuck, Siri- I think I’m gonna c- shit, gonna come,” you gasped out.

Sirius pounded into you harder, gripping your waist to keep you positioned slightly upward as he pulled you onto him to meet his harsh thrusts.

You squeezed James’s hand desperately as you came, your eyes also squeezing shut as your body slowly relaxed back down to the mattress.

Sirius stilled his hips, despite being close to his own high, and allowed you to catch your breath before he pulled out of you.

Remus quickly sunk to his knees on the floor next to the bed, and Sirius turned toward him, heavy breathing as he stood and tilted his head back, his fingers running through his sweat-slicked hair as he came down Remus’s throat. The sight was so pretty.

Remus rose from the ground and lightly kissed Sirius, moments before Sirius collapsed next to you in the bed.

James was already on you, scooping your frame up into his arms. You protested, thinking he couldn’t hold all of your weight, but James was ridiculously strong, somehow lifting someone your size effortlessly.

“Let’s clean you up, eh?” James asked.

You just rested your head against his shoulder, and James kissed the top of your head before walking you toward the bathroom.

Once you were out of earshot, Sirius turned to Remus, smirking as cocky as ever, “I hope you guys always remember that that was because I’m just too hot to resist.”