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You were sitting in the dark, on the counter of the tiny kitchen you all shared during the camp. It was the middle of the night, and the nerves were starting to get to you, your dreams and hopes for the championship turning into anxiety-ridden dreams that were waking you up night after night.

You were eating ice cream, directly from the bucket, a chocolate and vanilla mix that had your names plastered all over it, just in case someone else was even tempted to grab a spoonful.

“Why are you awake?” a deep and quite annoyed voice of Coach Mike’s whisper filled the room. He crossed his arms, standing in front of you; close, maybe too close.

You heard him coming, heavy steps from the upper floor. You enjoyed your filtration, being Mike’s favourite, but you were craving more, so much more. Just the sight of him standing in front of you, his face in an inquisitive frown, made your pussy ache and clench around nothing. 

“Persistent craving for something sweet,” you replied with a smirk, slowly pulling the spoon between your lips in the most flirtatious way you could. 

Mike’s glance fell from your lips to your top and your already hardened nipples as he stepped half a step closer. You could already feel the heat radiating from his body as he desperately tried to calm his breathing. 

“Would you like some?” you continued in the same manner, flashing a devious smile his way.

“Mhm,” he nodded, stepping completely into your space, his huge hands splayed on the counter around you, one of his thumbs oh-so-accidentally brushing against your thigh. 

He smelled so good, looking so fucking hot in that kit, his nipples peeking through the flimsy material. You tried so hard not to look down at his bulge, the same one you kept sneaking glances at for days on end already. He was so close too, his legs brushing on the insides of your thighs, but not close enough for his cock to press against your skin, not yet.

You brought the spoon all the way to his lips, mostly chocolate because that’s what Mike preferred, trying hard not to blush while looking him in the eyes. 

He took it a little awkwardly, his lips closing around the cold metal, his eyes fixed on you and your face, waiting for what you’d do next.

You licked the spoon slowly and thoroughly, making a point of getting every last taste of Mike’s saliva, dragging the spoon shamelessly over your tongue. Mike’s thumb stilled on your thigh, his eyes focused on your lips, his mouth slightly agape.

And then Mike closed the distance.

His lips crashed into yours, his hand grabbing at your neck to hold you steady. He was quite eager and needy, his teeth tugging at your lips, then swallowing, in a sloppy, wet kiss that made you immediately wetter. Your fingers were playing with the chain around his neck, tugging at his shirt, and tangling in his hair as you pressed yourself harder against his hardened chest and broad shoulder, your legs pulling him closer into you.

You finally felt it, his cock that was already throbbing, begging for the warmth of your pussy. And it was big and fat. Fuck, you needed Mike to fuck you right here and right now.

Mike was whisper-moaning into your mouth, his tongue continually darting into your mouth and licking your lips; he wanted to be so much louder, enjoy this finally, but he was aware of the thin walls of the building, and he didn’t want to ruin this moment by having your teammates or other coaches stumble onto you two.

Suddenly, Mike picked you up by your ass, and you almost shrieked, surprised by his strength. Adjoining the kitchen was a tiny living room space, with a TV, a couple of sofa chairs, and a couch, perfectly shielded from view. 

He dropped you on that couch, crawling over you, his lips dragging over your neck; he was grinding onto your pussy through the fabric, sending a jolt of electricity through you and dragging a loud whimper from your throat. Too loud.

His hand immediately shot up to cover your mouth as he continued to kiss your neck, short exhales warming your skin. Your hips desperately buckled into him.

And then you heard it, a creak of the door and steps coming your way; one of your teammates, for sure.

Mike slowed down, his eyes finding yours in the dark, but he didn’t stop, and neither did you.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” you whispered, desperately and cock hungry, “just put it in for a bit.” You immediately moved both your shorts and panties to the side, pleading with Mike, your whole body trembling under his weight. If you could feel him inside just for a little bit, surely you would feel so much better immediately.

Mike waited for a moment, weighing his options, this whole situation, before hastily pulling down his shorts; his cock was flushed, and already leaking, so ready to bury itself deep inside your warm walls. 

He pushed slowly, his hand clamping harder against your mouth; you closed your eyes, exhaling hard into his fingers, trying so hard not to moan in pleasure. Mike’s cock felt so good, stretching you out, dragging inside your tight walls, his cockhead kissing all the way in, causing even more heat and excitement to pull inside your pussy.

You couldn’t dwell on it too long; those steps now walking around the kitchen, so close to the couch where Mike was literally thrusting into you, unable to stop himself. Your heart was beating so hard, and you tried to still your body, your legs and arms wrapped around Mike, trying to still him too, will him into not moving or making another sound.

On the other hand, you didn’t care that much, wanting him to fuck you hard and fast, make you come around his cock, over and over again. His head was still buried in the crook of your neck, and he was nibbling at your skin to try and stop himself from moaning, his hot breath sending pleasurable waves through you, all the way to your hardened nipples.

You listened as your teammate found your opened ice cream on the counter, and nicely put it back into the freezer, then opened one of the cupboards, surely looking for her stash of some forbidden snacks. You wanted her to leave as soon as possible because you were sure not even Mike’s hand could stop the moan building in you, caused by Mike’s cock impatiently twitching inside you.

“Fuck,” you finally whispered after hearing the doors close, your tense body relaxing somewhat, as Mike’s mouth closed around your nipple, sucking through the fabric.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his hips slowly thrusting into you, making you arch your back, your chest pushing into him. “My good girl,” he continued, enjoying how your pussy responded to his praise, fluttering and clamping on his cock.

He dragged his cock out of you slowly, and kept pushing it back in the same manner, driving you crazy, his mouth now wrapped around your other nipple. You pushed your hands under his shirt, your nails digging into his skin, making his leaky cock twitch even harder, drawing quiet moans out of him.

“Such a good fucking girl,” Mike continued, returning to your throat, the hand clamping onto your mouth now sneaking its way between your bodies to rub at your sensitive clit.

“Fuck, Mike,” you whispered, your whole body squirming, unsure if you could take all this overstimulation; in the past, with other lovers, you would usually tense so hard you couldn’t come at all, and you really, really wanted to come with Mike, so fucking badly.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he instructed, now nibbling at your jaw. “I want you to come around my cock, milk me dry.”

“I want that too,” you whispered, teary-eyed, your jaw tensing. “And I want you to come inside, Mike,” you added, fully aware of how desperate you sounded, begging your coach to fill your pussy up.

“Yeah?” Mike chuckled, speeding up his thrusts, still trying to find the right rhythm of rubbing your clit. “You want me to spill inside this tight pussy, sweetheart?”

You answered with a moan, his fingers finally applying the right pressure in the right tight circles, causing the knot in your stomach to finally start tightening. You couldn’t think anymore, and for the next couple of minutes, you weren’t aware of anything except Mike, and his mouth on yours, and his cock fucking into your rougher, and his fingers rhythmically working at your desperate clit.

Mike kept telling you to breathe and be good, to breathe and relax, and how he would make you feel good if you continued to listen to him, and you just kept nodding, completely unaware of how pussy drunk he was.

“Just a bit more,” he kept repeating, and you thought he was talking to you, but he was talking to himself, trying to prolong this feeling of being balls deep inside you, finally.

You listened to that squelch his cock was making in your pussy, your slick surely dripping all over him and his shorts and the fucking couch, and the sound of his heavy balls hitting your ass - you finally felt it, and you let go, that fucking divine feeling of coming overwhelming you, your vision changing to white, and Mike’s mouth swallowing your whimpers and breaths.

He kept fucking you through it, desperately pressing himself against you, fucking you into the couch, his weight almost completely on your body. It felt so good, not to have a man cum immediately into you, but to continue out of sheer need to feel you this much.

“Just a bit more,” Mike whispered again, his forehead pressed against yours, his hips burning into your spread thighs.

You were too tired to keep your legs wrapped around him, your knees falling to either side of him, your arms tiredly hanging from his neck. You were sweaty and sticky, and yet, you wanted to make Mike feel so good, as good as you felt.

“Mike? Mike, does it feel good for you?” you asked, pressing your lips to his ear.

“Yeah, it fucking does. I just want it for a bit longer,” he muttered, his hips hitting against yours with a bruising strength.

“I promise you can fuck me tomorrow, Mike. And the day after and the day after,” you cooed, bringing him in for another sloppy kiss.

“I want to fuck you anytime I want,” he replied, his hips stuttering. “I want to fuck you and spill my cum inside you any fucking time I want,” he groaned, stilling.

You could feel it, the twitching and the hot stickiness of his spurts, painting your insides, and Mike falling on top of you, pressing sloppy, open-mouth kisses all over your face. 

“I want you, sweetheart,” he muttered, breathing hard and ragged. “I want you all the time.” 

You smiled, feeling a sudden emptiness when Mike pulled his cock out; you quickly pulled your panties higher up, and the shorts too, so his leaking cum could soak them thoroughly. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” you whispered as he helped you stand up, “we do it somewhere more comfortable? I don’t want you to suffer, old man,” you added with a smirk. 

“So funny you think I’m already done with you tonight,” Mike whispered back, grabbing at your ass.

If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-

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You traced them once with your fingers.

“Perfect,” your mother’s voice echoed faintly in your memory, though she is far from here now.

A knock sounds at the door. “My lady wife?” Lyonel’s voice, though softened, still carries that familiar warmth.

You turned to face the door. “Enter husband.”

He does and for once, the Laughing Storm stills. He looks at you as though struck.

“Well,” he breathes, closing the door behind him. “If my lords do not fall in love with you tonight, then they are blind men all.”

You arch a brow, though warmth creeps into your cheeks. “You say that as though it would please you.”

“It would not,” he replies at once, crossing to you. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs brushing the silk as though confirming you are real. “They may admire. They may praise. But they shall know you are mine.”

“And I yours.” You reminded him softly.

He grins, leaning in to press a kiss just below your ear. “A fact I intend to never to forget.”

He offers his arm to you. “Come, my wolf. Let Storm’s End meet its new lady.”

The Great Hall of Storm’s End is alive in a way that feels different from Winterfell. Not quieter or louder, but wilder almost if that was possible.

The doors opened and all eyes turned. You feel it the weight of them, the curiosity, the measuring glances but Lyonel’s arm beneath yours is steady, anchoring you against the possible storm. He does not slow nor does he falter, leading you forward with the easy confidence of a man entirely at home.

He turned to face the crowd below, “My lords!” he called, his voice carrying over the hall. “You have waited long enough for this moment. Allow me to present my lady wife! Lady Y/N Baratheon!”

A murmur rises and then claps of approval and delight. Some of the men below you recognize. Faces from Winterfell stepped forward first. The Lords who had traveled north now smiling as though they were greeting an old friend.

“My lady,” Lord Estermont said with a bow, “you grace these halls as you did the North.”

“And with better weather besides,” Lord Wylde added, earning some laughs.

You answer them with calm grace, your voice steady, your smile warm. Already you saw how easily they fall into conversation, how readily they had accepted you.

Lyonel watches it all with quiet pride.

The feast itself was a spectacle to no surprise. Platters overflowed—roasted meats glazed in honey and spice, fruits you have never seen, wines richer and heavier than northern ale. Music swells from somewhere unseen, faster, and brighter.

This is not the North’s steady warmth like you were used to. This itself is a flame and at its center was Lyonel.  You had thought you had seen him in full while at Winterfell laughing and commanding. You had been wrong.

Here, he is something more. He moved through the hall like a storm given form with clasping shoulders, trading jests, his laughter rising above all others. Lords leaned towards him, drawn in; servants move quicker in his wake. He belonged to this place in a way that was undeniable.

And yet his hand found yours again and again. A glance, with a smile only meant for you. A brush of fingers along your back as he passes. Not less himself but more yours.

“Do not think I shall let you hide at the table all night my love,” he murmurs at your ear after a time.

“I would not dream of it,” you replied.

“Good.” He said before he placed a kiss on your cheek.

Before you could make aware of his next move, he pulled you to your feet.

The dance floor was already alive, skirts and cloaks swirling. The music shifted as he led you out, his hand firm at your waist.

“Keep up, my wolf.” He warned.

“I seem to always do.” You said giving him a wink.

He laughed and then you were moving.

The dances of the Stormlands are quicker and bolder. He spins you once, twice, your skirts flaring, laughter escaped you before you could stop it. His steps were sure, guiding without force, his eyes never leaving yours.

“See?” he said, his breath warm, grinning wide. “Not so frightening.”

You answered, “Only because you lead well enough,”  

“High praise from a direwolf.”

“And well earned.”

He dipped you slightly at the end of a turn, just enough to make your heart stutter. When he brings you back upright, his hands lingered at your waist.

“You are radiant this evening,” he said quietly.

“And you,” you replied, “are insufferably charming.”

“So, I am told.” Giving you a chinking wink and sticking his tongue out.

He does not release you at once, though the dance ended. Instead, he brushed his thumb along your knuckles before leading you back to the high table. When you were seated once more, breath still quickened, cheeks flushed, he turned fully toward you. For a moment, the noise of the hall seemed to fade.

“Are you happy?” he asked. Not lightly or not in jest but really asking how you felt. “Truly happy?”

You look at him this man of storms and laughter, who brought wolves into his halls and warmth into your heart.

“Yes,” you said softly. “I truly am.”

Something in him eased at that, something deep as if he needed that last bit of reassurance.

“Good,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips. “Then Storm’s End has done its duty.”

“And you?”  you asked, “Are you happy as well?”

He smiled not his usual broad, boisterous grin of the hall, but something quieter. Something real.  “I have my lady wolf at my side,” he said. “What more could a stag wish for?”

The feast had begun to mellow, though the hall still thrummed with warmth and lingering revelry.

The candles had started to burn low, the wax pooling like melted gold along the tables. The music had softened to something slower, more winding, as if even the musicians felt the pull of the hour. Many of the storm lords had drawn closer to the high table now, cups in their hands, their voices lowered but no less spirited.

You were sitting beside Lyonel once again, your hand resting lightly near his on the table, as he spoke of your journey south to the lords.

“The sea was kinder than expected,” he was saying, one arm slung lazily across the back of your chair. “Though I suspect my lady wife brought the calm with her. The storms feared to challenge her.”

A ripple of chuckles followed.

“You’ll find the storms here less easily cowed,” one lord remarked with a grin.

“I should hope so,” you answered before Lyonel could, lifting your cup. “I would not have come all this way for timid skies.”

That earned you a few approving looks.

Another lord leaned forward, curious etching his features. “And the North, my lady? Is it as grim as they say?”

“Grim?” you echoed lightly. “Only to those who do not understand it.”

“A land of snow and silence,” he pressed. “Hard folk. Harder winters.”

“And yet,” you replied calmly, “we always endure.”

Lyonel’s other hand brushed yours beneath the table.

But not all eyes upon you were warm. One lord older, his hair mostly grey, his expression sharper than the rest had watched you in silence for some time. Lord Swann. When he finally spoke, his tone carried something colder beneath its courtesy.

“Endure, perhaps,” he said. “But endurance is not the same as refinement. The North is…. Shall we say distant. It is removed from the true courtly ways of the realm.”

The table quieted just enough to take notice.

You felt it then, that familiar tightening in your chest. But it was not from fear. No, it was your northern steel.

You turned your gaze at him slowly, deliberately like a wolf who had found her next meal. “And yet here I sit amongst you, my Lord Swann.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Aye.  A curiosity, if nothing else.”

Lyonel shifted beside you, something in him coiling but you were quicker to answer. You set your cup down with quiet care.

“A curiosity?” you repeated, your voice still even but edged now with a cold north bite. “Is it so curious that a daughter of the North might carry herself with dignity? If I remember correctly Lord Swann you did not accept Lyonel’s invitation to join him on his journey north for our wedding like some of the lords here. A pity really.”

“I meant no offense my lady,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “Only that the North is.. less tempered by the grace us southern folk hold dear.”

You smiled then but there was no softness in it. You could say it closely resembled a wolf baring it teeth.

“In the North,” you said, leaning forward just enough to meet his gaze fully, “we are tempered by winter. By hunger. By war. We do not dress our words in silk if still will serve better.”

A few lords shifted, watching now with interest as their new Lady Baratheon held her own.

“I am my father’s daughter,” you continued, your voice steady as stone that holds Winterfell. “Lord Cregan Stark does not raise weak children, nor foolish ones. If you doubt my refinement, I would suggest you measure it not by softness but by strength. Our house words are Winter is Coming and I live by that.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any blade. Then Lyonel laughed. Not mockingly but with fierce, unrestrained pride.

“Gods be good,” he said, shaking his head. “You see, my lords? I warned you. A wolf does not bare her teeth without cause.”

Lord Swann inclined his head again this time with something closer to respect.

“My lady,” he said, quieter now, “it seems I misjudged. You are indeed proving to be the daughter of the Legendary Cregan Stark.”

“A mistake easily corrected.” You replied.

Lyonel’s hand found yours openly now, his thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that spoke far more than words.

If he had been proud before, now he looked as though he might never recover from it.

The conversation shifted after that, lighter, easier. The tension dissolved into laughter and renewed toasts, but you could feel the difference. Not curiosity now, but recognition.

At last, the hall began to empty.

One by one, the lords took their leave, offering bows and finals words. The music faded entirely. Servants moved quietly, cleaning the remnants of the feast.

Soon, only you and Lyonel remained at the high table, the great hall vast and echoing once more.

A final pitcher of wine sat between you. He poured for both, slower now, the energy of the night settling into something quieter.

You lifted your cup, watching the firelight dance within it.

“Thank you,” you said softly before you turned your gaze to him.

He glanced at you, “For what?”

“For everything.” You set the cup down, turning fully toward him. “For coming north. For choosing me. For bringing me here.”

Your fingers traced lightly along the edge of the table.

“If you had not answered Jonnel’s letter or thought he was crazy for offering my hand to you.” You exhaled faintly. “None of this would have been.”

He studied you, something deep and thought in his gaze. “Your brother will always have my thanks for deciding to write to me.”

“He has mine as well,” you said, a small smile touching your lips. “But now he is also your goodbrother. Who would have thought all those years ago when you first became friends with my brother that we would wed years later.”

Lyonel huffed a quiet laugh, “Indeed he is. I will have to remind him if that now him and I are one in the same some days, but If I would have realized then what the Gods had intended, I would have married you a lot sooner.”

“You are right.” You spoke. “You both are entirely too pleased with yourselves when it comes down to it.”

“But only when it is warranted.”

You shook your head, but your expression softened.

“I am lucky,” you said then, quieter still. “To have this. To have a love match. You can not imagine how many times I prayed to the Old Gods to let me have a marriage like my siblings have and my parents. They answered my prayers finally to send me you.”

The words lingered between you. Lyonel’s hand came up, gently cupping your cheek.

“No,” he said softly. “We are both lucky to have each other.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, though no tears had fallen yet.

“I would have ridden a hundred roads and sails a thousand seas to find you.” He added. “Letter or no letter I would have made my way to you.”

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes just for a moment.

“And I,” you murmured, “would have waited a hundred years.”

He smiled at that, not a wide or loud smile but something steady and certain. “Good,” he said. “Because I do not intend to let you go now that I have you. The Stranger himself could not take me from you.”

The hall was quiet now and the fire burned low. And at the high table of Storm’s End, stag and wolf sat side by side—no longer strangers, no longer merely wed. But bound by something far deeper than they could imagine. Love.

Below the stormy skies a Direwolf and a Stag have made a life only written in stories.

Maekar ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Becoming the father of six, Maekar got used to being constantly nervous, and it got worse when Dyanna died. However, when he decided to confess his feelings to you, that nervousness turned into insecurity. Something foreign for the Anvil. He brooded for days, closed up in his chambers, until he decided it was ridiculous and set aside everything to go straight to the point, but failing in the manners. He would express the obvious by almost touching on the insult and taking for granted an eventual union. When you refused his feelings, he became touchy, and you animatedly argued until your love escaped from your lips, calming the waters and recovering from the back-and-forth.

Lyonel ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The joyful and light-hearted nature of Lyonel led him to visit you often, cover you with gifts of every taste but carefully avoiding speaking about his feelings. Wasn’t his practical love language enough to make you realise how he feels? Yes, it was, but you didn’t want to give him the victory without fighting. When you asked him directly if he loved you, he started laughing nervously, making stupid excuses to avoid answering. Teasing him with a fake marriage proposal from another Lord worked to see him on his knee, pouring his heart on a silver tray and begging for your love.

Baelor ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The heir to the throne has been prepared for the role throughout his life, learning to use words appropriately according to the circumstances. No one ever taught him how to express his feelings to a woman, though, and he became restless. He would write down an essay and memorise every single word to repeat it at you with charm and confidence. Too bad he froze in front of you when the time came, and after long moments of absolutely embarrassing silence, he would excuse himself and take leave. You had to subtly reassure him and nudge him until he made a proper love confession with a hand kiss in the end.

Duncan ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Our pure boy would become strangely quiet and avoid you because his good soul prevented him from hiding or lying about his feelings, but at the same time, he would be terrified to lose you forever. Your journey around the Seven Kingdoms would become weird and filled with tension; something you couldn’t bear. When you asked for clarification about his strange behaviour, he would stutter about a fake nightmare or an argument he had with someone at the market. All little lies that led him to panic until you reached for his hand, reassuring him softly until he would just say the three magic words.

Cregan ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Sarella was born on a day when a heavy sandstorm moved through Dorne. Heavy winds crashed outside as pain wracked through your body. Luckily, Lemonwood was suited and designed to withstand it, keeping the sand from billowing down the halls. Lady Jena pressed a wet cloth to your forehead as two wet nurses helped you into the birthing chair for Maester Deziel to examine you.

"You are progressing nicely, my lady. It shouldn't be much longer," he said, and you leaned into Jena.

"You're doing wonderful, sweet girl," she praised, kissing your forehead.

"Please, I need Baelor. I need you both with me," you whimpered.

"Go and fetch the prince, please," Jena instructed one of the nurses. She soothingly stroked your hair, and you tried not to crumble completely. You had made your choice, and they both journeyed to Lemonwood to be with you during your labors at the expense of King Daeron's ire. There were consequences to actions, and your daughter would never bear the Targaryen name. She would be a Sand, but she would be loved and cherished above all.

Baelor entered your chambers. Your mother had taken a bit of pity on you after unleashing her anger and disappointment like a scorpion's sting, and allowed you to remain in your home. While Lemonwood had passed to your eldest brother, she ruled with an iron fist, and your brother allowed her to. She could not turn her daughter out nor make a babe suffer for the choices of others. Bastard or not, this child was her blood.

"The maester tells me you are progressing well," Baelor smiled warmly, clad in yellow and violet silks, dressed in the Dornish style while in these halls. Jena was draped in orange silks, making her red hair even more vibrant. While your mother might still be cross with you, she was delighted to host the heir to the Iron Throne and his good lady wife and ensured they were kept in comfort.

"So he says," you smiled weakly, and the maester placed a cup in Baelor's hand.

"Give her some more milk of the poppy, Your Grace, she will be thankful for it when she has to push."

Baelor knelt in front of you, pressing the cup to your lips and helping you take a drink before a strong cramp seized your belly. Pressure spread through your back and pelvis, nearly making you fall from the birthing chair, and blood pooled beneath you. Jena and Baelor stayed by your side as the Maester scurried over and guided you through the process. It was unbearable at times, making you feel like you might be torn in two, but by the end, you ended with a daughter in your arms. Your gaze flickered toward Jena first, bracing yourself to find jealousy, but her face only held the look of pure love and adoration. Unshed tears watered in Baelor's mismatched eyes as he took in the sight of his daughter.

They stayed on a month longer, helping to tend to you and bond with the babe.

"Mmm, she is lovely," Jena cooed, pressing her nose against Sarella's head, breathing in the powdery, milky scent.

Baelor gently grasped her small foot before kissing her tiny toes. "Utterly divine."

You couldn't disagree. An overwhelming love for her surged through your body.

"I do not wish for you to go," you murmured.

Their gazes fell on you, and Jena handed Saerella to one of her wet nurses, who went off, leaving the three of you alone. They took a place on either side of you, each holding one of your hands.

"I know, and I am sorry you must suffer the most from all this," Baelor said gently.

"We all knew there would be consequences. They could have been worse, I suppose," you sighed.

"We would have you at court, if it were left to us," Jena said, kissing your temple. King Daeron had been firm in that decree. However, you could not fault him, as his father's bastards had been paraded freely through the Red Keep, only to lead to further complications and bloodshed in the future. He had banished you from King's Landing for a term of three years, and so you returned to Lemonwood with your tail tucked between your legs. You bore your punishment, the child growing inside of you giving you strength, even on the days when all you could do was weep and hide away in your room.

"I know. Have you and your father mended ways at least?" you asked Baelor. This was the aftermath that weighed heaviest on you: the tension between Baelor and Daeron. Between father and eldest son, you had worried that Baelor would have his inheritance stripped away and be removed from the line of succession. Every morning, you gave Mother Rhoyne thanks that it did not happen.

"Things are still…tense at times. My mother mediates, though coming here did not gain any favors with him, but we could not leave you alone," he replied, lifting your hand and kissing each soft pad of your fingers.

"I hate that I caused such strife."

Jena scoffed. "You were not alone in this tryst. We all participated of our free will, little pet."

"I do not regret it. You are more to us than a simple affair. I would take you as a second wife if I could," Baelor said seriously, and you turned your head to face Jena.

"And I would allow him," she smiled, kissing you sweetly. "You are mine just as much as you are his."

It soothed your fears, calming you a bit. Though you suspected the realm could stomach a bastard easier than two women taken to wife.

"Be strong for us, tend to our girl well. We will return soon," Baelor whispered before drawing you into his embrace.

There was a frustration as you were still healing from your labors; otherwise, you would have taken both to your bed before they departed.

"The king has requested an audience," one of the kingsguard informed Baelor shortly after their return to the Keep.

"Best of luck," Jena said, rubbing her husband's chest and pecking his lips.

Baelor followed the guard to his father's chambers, where he was granted entrance. He wasn't surprised to discover his mother there as well and dutifully kissed her cheek. She had been the shield during Daeron's initial anger, though she had exchanged her fair share of stern words with her eldest son, but she knew his heart and nature. He did not lie with another woman out of a simple lustful folly, and when learning of Jena's involvement, she understood. She had grown up in Dorne, where it was more acceptable.

"Your Grace," Baelor said respectfully, giving Daeron a nod.

"I've heard I now have a granddaughter."

"Yes, she and her mother are healthy and well," Baelor replied, and Myriah gently rubbed her son's shoulders.

"What a blessing," she murmured. "What is her name?"

"Sarella," he said with pride in his voice.

"A fine Dornish name." Baelor wondered if perhaps part of her was secretly thrilled he had involved himself with a Dornish woman. While Jena and Myriah were amicable, he knew his mother had always wished for him to marry a Dornish noble.

Daeron stood, balancing on his cane and slowly moving closer. "I do not mean to be cruel, my boy."

"I know."

"I have been conversing with my sister in Dorne. She would accept Lady Dalt into her service, and your daughter would be raised there."

"That is most…generous, Father, thank you."

"I admit that I cannot begin to truly understand, as I have only cared for and loved your mother. The damage my father did still lingers, and I fear what having your daughter here would stir up."

Before your banishment, you were brought before King Daeron and his small council, made to pledge your allegiance to Prince Baelor and acknowledge Valarr as his heir. You had to swear that your child would never lay a claim to the throne, should you give birth to a son. You did it willingly; you had no taste for causing any friction. It had been mildly humiliating, and Baelor held you in his arms as you cried after. It was never easy to admit wrongdoing publicly and then be laid to shame.

The letter with Baelor's seal arrived a week later, and you accepted the terms, moving you and Sarella into Princess Daenerys's service and into Sunspear. Baelor and Jena would visit twice a year, and you cherished every moment. They doted upon Sarella, as did Princess Daenerys, the little one held in high favor and never disparaged for being a Sand nestled safely inside Sunspear.

"I was beginning to worry you would not join us," you teased as Baelor finally entered your quarters, a warm breeze wafting through the open windows and bringing with it the scent of spice and citrus.

"She is very demanding for a two year old," Baelor chuckled, bending down to kiss you and Jena.

Orange silks were draped over your bed. "Oh, I cannot fault her for wanting to keep you in her company," you smiled, head in Jena's lap. Her red hair was loose, as were her breasts, with just a slip of silk hugging her slender waist. Those rosy nipples were swollen from all your suckling, your teeth marks embedded in her creamy flesh.

"She is a darling," Jena smiled, stroking your hair.

Baelor loosened his golden doublet and then removed his boots before getting into bed with his two beloveds.

"One more year, my darling, then you can return to King's Landing."

"Hard to believe such time has passed," you mused as Baelor drew your feet into his lap, his fingers massaging up your calf, then inching toward your upper thigh.

"I wish we had our own oasis, for the four of us to escape to," Jena whispered, reaching down to tug up the hem of your robe to give Baelor easier access.

"If only I weren't the heir," Baelor hummed, his ringed hand dipping between your thighs and stroking your cunt.

"We must manage with the hand we were dealt," you reasoned, biting back a moan. The time in Sunspear allowed you ample reflection and an understanding that the outcome was not as terrible as you once thought. You could have been put to death or imprisoned. You could have never seen them again with your child ripped from your arms, so you were thankful for the fate you had been given. Though the allure to tempt it again made heat swell in your lower belly. "Put another in me."

Baelor's stroking paused, giving you a slow blink of his mismatched eyes as his cock stirred at the request. "Is that wise?"

"I am already tainted, and Sarella and I are well cared for here. I could extend my stay in Doren and put off my return to King's Landing," you reasoned. "Besides, I think you two prefer escaping here to be with our daughter and me.'

"Our daughter," Jena smiled, tracing her thumb over your lip.

"She belongs to all of us," you grinned.

Jena shifted, bracing you against her bare chest and dipping her fingers under your thighs to spread you wide for Baelor. He moved onto his knees, tugging off the ochre tunic before unlacing his breeches. Once he was situated between your splayed legs, he thrust his cock deep inside you and leaned toward Jena to kiss her. Enveloped between them, you closed your eyes and gave your body over to pleasure. It had been too long, and finally, you were finding your spirit again.

Tycella was born within the turn of nine moons, with them by your side again and surrounded by Daenerys's personal attendants. Tycella's eyes were clear as sapphires, reminding you of Jena. There was no logic in it, but you enjoyed the pretense of your fantasies. She adored the girls as much as Baelor did.

"I would like to commission a small palace to be built for you close to Sunspear. My uncle and aunt are in support and will provide guards for your security," Baelor said, holding you and Tycella in his arms. Jena was asleep next to you with Sarella's head tucked under her chin.

"Baelor…that is very generous, but…"

"Would you not enjoy it?"

"I would, I just don't wish to bring the king's ire upon you again."

"I would not be too bold or foolish to do such a thing without discussing it with my father."

"And he agreed?" Tycella squirmed against your chest, in search of your nipple. Baelor rubbed her tiny back to help settle her as she latched onto you.

"He did. He is slowly accepting the importance of you."

"Then I would like it a great deal," you smiled, tears shimmering in your eyes.

He wanted you to have a home, a place for you and the girls to call their own.

Construction began by the Water Gardens, close to the Summer Sea, offering you a private respite and a bit of freedom. It would take a few years to complete, and you'd remain in Sunspear until then. As you grew round with your third child, Baelor wrote to inform you that Valarr and Matarys wished to join him and Jena on their next visit. It took you a bit by surprise, but you agreed. Sarella was five and every inch a proper little lady, having learned much from Princess Daenerys, who was very fond of her. She greeted her half-brothers sweetly, while Tycella, a mere child of two, was only interested in Matarys's long, fiery hair, which resembled Jena's. He was quite patient and let her weave white roses in his hair. His wife, Lady Alerie Tyrell, had accompanied him.

"It seems you have turned the Targaryen dragon into a proper Tyrell flower," she teased Tycella before kissing her cheek.

Baelor and Kiera were with Sarella at the sea's edge while you walked with Jena and Valarr. You counted it as a small victory that Baelor and Jena's sons were here. Another consequence of the fallout was that Valarr had been furious and had secluded himself on Dragonstone with his wife. You'd never forget the cold stare he fixed you with the day King Daeron called you before the small council to swear your allegiance toward the prince as Baelor's heir. It had made your legs and stomach feel like jelly. For some reason, it felt worse than the fire raining down by the usually docile King Daeron. You shook your head, trying to chase away the memories. There was no point in dwelling on the past.

After the children and guests had been settled for the evening, the three of you joined together. You wiggled free from your violet silks, rubbing your swollen belly. You were about five moons progressed.

"Another girl, do you think?" Baelor hummed, dropping down to kiss your stomach.

"The odds are in that favor," you smiled. Not that you minded, having daughters kept you safe. You knew King Daeron would not wish for you to produce a son. "Jena, I have a gift for you."

"For me, sweet pet? That is most thoughtful of you," she smiled, pouring chilled wine.

"It is in the red sandstone box," you smiled. It sat on the desk by the golden ewer of wine. Baelor's mouth and hands on your belly kept you firmly seated.

Jena took a swill of the red wine before opening the box, a smirk spreading over her rosy mouth. "You remembered."

"Mmm, these things are easy to find in Dorne, I am learning."

Baelor's curiosity got the better of him, and he moved to his wife's side, peering into the box. He gently cleared his throat. "And what need do you have for such…things?" He waved his hand toward the box.

"A woman has needs and desires, but I do not wish for a paramour," you replied simply.

"Wise decision," Baelor replied, jealousy thick in his eyes.

"These apparatuses prove useful. I can pretend I'm riding you. They even make one in the shape of a dragon's head."

"You'll have to demonstrate for me," Baelor mused.

"Help me put it on," Jena instructed her husband.

You watched while your fingers skimmed over your inner thighs as Jena rolled the orange silk around her hips and Baelor dropped to his knees to help get her into the contraption. The leather phallus was smooth and packed tightly with cotton to keep it erect, with elegant stitching to keep it intact. The harness was made of buttery-soft leather, with a metal ring for the phallus to slip through. Baelor's skill from dressing in armor made it easy for him to get Jena into it. The leather cock proudly protruded between her thighs, snug against her mound.

"It is very fitting," Baelor smiled, running his fingers over it.

"I thought we could play pretend this evening. We can imagine this babe is yours," you purred.

Baelor slipped a couple of olives between his lips, crunching them beneath his teeth before washing them off at the basin and slipping his hand between your thighs. Those ringed fingers stroked you expertly, gathering your wetness, and once his hand dripped with your arousal, he smoothed it over the leather phallus.

"You'll want it wet," he told Jena. "Our little pet is already well prepared."

You reached for a green silk pillow and shifted onto all fours, using it to cradle your belly, as lying on your back was too uncomfortable at this stage. Jena's mouth watered at the sight, her delicate hands kneading your fleshy arse and soft hips. The bed shifted with the weight of your paramours.

"Line up, then sink in slowly," Baelor whispered in Jena's ear before nuzzling the spot just below her ear.

Jena licked her lips before following his advice, watching your cunt swallow up her cock. "Seven Hells, I understand the appeal," she groaned, wetness gathering between her thighs.

"Get used to the feeling, then set a pace."

Jena slowly rolled her hips, thrusting deeper inside of you and making your moans fill the candlelight room.

"Feels good," you whimpered.

Baelor's hand skimmed down Jena's back, two fingers delving between her arse to dip into her cunny. While she fucked you, he finger fucked her. It was a salacious sight to watch her take you as he would. Her hips would be sore by the morning, but she didn't mind. It was an exhilarating feeling. Her hands moved up your sides, and you pushed up with your hands, allowing her to cup your stomach.

"Our babe grows strong, sweet pet," she murmured.

"Indeed, she does," you panted, clenching around her cock.

Jena's movements grew slower as Baelor's fingers danced her closer and closer to pleasure.

"Can my girls release together?" he hummed, the tip of one finger circling Jena's swollen pearl.

"Anything for you, dearest," Jena purred, rocking her pelvis against your arse and sending you toppling over the edge just as she did.

The three of you curled together in the aftermath, with you between them. You savored the warmth of their skin, the taste of their lips, and the thrum of their heartbeat against your ear, imprinting each sensation deep in your muscle memory.

Obella was born with blue eyes, just a shade darker than Tycella and Jena.

In the span of ten years, you had given birth to four daughters with a fifth growing inside your belly as your palace was completed next to the Water Gardens. Baelor and Jena also became grandparents when Matarys and Alerie welcomed a son this past winter. Sarella held her father's hand, her inky hair spilling down her back as they walked together to inspect the new space. She possessed so many of his features that it would be hard to deny she was his. Tycella skipped ahead, her hair a shade lighter than her older sister's, and dragged Obella behind her. Jena held three-year-old Arella on her hip, bending the small girl down to let her smell the jasmine that filled the vases throughout the palace. A lemon and orange tree had been planted in the gardens, and both were in bloom.

"It needs a proper name," Baelor turned to smile at you before lifting Sarella into his arms and kissing her cheek.

"He's right," Jena smiled, shifting Arella in her arms.

"Hmm," you contemplate, gazing around the pale marbled halls, then landing on your dark-haired daughters before taking in Baelor and Jena. "Sandfire."

"Very fitting, my sweet girl," Baelor said, kissing you softly. A chorus of the little girls' giggles echoed through the halls.

Blankets were spread on the sandstone floors, and an embroidered violet cloth was draped over a small table as you enjoyed a lazy supper as a family. There were olives, stuffed peppers, flatbreads, chickpea spreads, roasted lamb, lemon soup, and plenty of strong wine and Dornish red. There were fresh figs and cream swans for dessert. Your heart fluttered as you watched Baelor loom over the three elder girls, helping them to get their food and eat. Arella was happy to stay attached to Jena, soaking in the attention she lavished on her. Your fifth had not even entered this world, and you were now considering a sixth. You loved having his children. None batted an eye at the last name Sand here in Dorne, for there were many. Even Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys had their paramours. The banishment, lifted nearly seven years ago, no longer seemed a punishment. You were free here, well looked after by Baelor and Jena, and with four amazing daughters, their silky dark hair keeping you company.

The babe growing inside you craved spice, so you nibbled on stuffed dragon peppers, oozing with melted cheese and a dash of snake sauce. This one was truly a dragon; soon, you suspected you might be breathing fire. When you gazed over at Baelor, you observed his brow knitted in contemplation. Something plagued his mind, and you would press later, wishing for him to enjoy the time with his daughters. He was an attentive and loving father. The three of you put the girls to bed, and after the telling of three adventurous tales, they all succumbed to slumber.

"Something is weighing on your mind, dearest. Care to unburden yourself?" you asked him gently. A warm breeze from the fragrant gardens wafted through your open windows.

"My father's health is failing; every day might be his last." Jena rubbed his shoulders.

"I am sorry to hear that." Any bitterness or hatred you felt toward King Daeron faded long ago. "But there is more, I suspect."

"He and my mother wish to meet the girls before he passes."

That made you go as still as the marble statues in the garden. "I see."

"It would mean a great deal to me if you would allow it, sweet girl."

You glanced down at your hands, studying the rings that hugged your fingers. Each one was a gift from Baelor and Jena.

"Our daughters must be protected from the vipers at court."

"Maekar has already promised to cut out tongues." It had surprised you when you discovered Prince Maekar had been so accepting until Baelor informed him that it delighted his youngest brother to discover his brother's imperfections.

You couldn't help but smile. "Then I suppose we should ready to head back with you. I want to be settled in one place before the babe comes."

Baelor stood and held your face in his warm palms. "Thank you, sweet girl." Appreciation and gratitude bloomed through his kiss.

At the end of the week, you boarded the ship, Breakspear, and journeyed to King's Landing. You were not surprised to discover there was no formal greeting when you arrived at the gates, but you did not care. You instructed your daughters to hold their heads high as you were shown to rooms inside the Holdfast, close to Baelor and Jena's. You brushed their dark hair until it gleamed and dressed each in vibrant hues: Sarella in yellow, Tycella in violet, Obella in blue, and Arella in green. Baelor and Ser Roland Crakehall escorted you and the girls to the king's quarters. The five of you curtseyed in respect.

King Daeron had aged a great deal; his hair was a shocking white, and he looked weak. Queen Myriah, bathed in orange silk, circled the girls, cupping their chins with her golden ringed hand. Golden bangles hung from her wrists and chimed with her movements.

"They are beautiful," she whispered.

Each girl politely introduced themself, even Arella, who stumbled over her words, but did not let it deter her. A faint smile crossed Daeron's face.

"I had always hoped for a daughter, but the Gods blessed us with four sons instead," he murmured, covering his mouth to conceal his phlegm laced cough.

"I thank Mother Rhonye every day for my blessings, and pray I receive her mercy when I deliver this babe, Your Grace," you said kindly.

"My son will be king soon."

The room fell eerily silent.

"There is no reason to dance around the subject; it is a simple truth. He will be a good king. Your fate is no longer in my hands, Lady Dalt. Baelor may decide how to handle this situation. You may go." He weakly waved his hand in dismissal.

"Your Grace," you said, bowing before leaving with the girls, with Baelor trailing behind.

"Lady Dalt." Queen Myriah's warm voice echoed behind you, and you turned to face her. "Might the girls be brought to my chambers? I wish to visit with them."

You exchanged a look with Baelor. "I will be with them," he assured you, hand grazing over your lower back. You noted the invitation did not extend to you, but it mattered not. It mattered more that your daughters were treated kindly. You would bear a sling of arrows to keep them protected.

"Of course, Your Grace." You instructed your daughters to be on their best behavior before letting the ladies take them, as you were eager for a rest. The sea's waves had made your stomach queasy.

You were rather quiet as you supped with Baelor and Jena that evening in the Tower.

"Are you alright?" Jena inquired.

You nodded with a soft smile. "I'm just tired."

"You worry," Baelor noted.

"That, too," you admitted.

"I would bring you to Dragonstone," Baelor offered.

"No. When you are king, that seat is Valarr's. I swore never to cause tension, and I will not take what is his," you replied sharply.

"My desire, my wish, is to have you and our daughters close."

"Sandfire is the safest place for us to be. Kept away from court, please," you insisted.

Jena gently rested her hand on top of yours, her gaze falling on Baelor. "I want them close as well, but this might be the best arrangement for all. You will be scrutinized even more once you take the Iron Throne."

"I made my bed long ago, and know the consequences could have been far worse. I see no need to rock the boat when you are king," you reasoned.

Disappointment hung heavy in his eyes as he considered yours and Jena's words. "I am lucky to be surrounded by two such wise women," he smiled. "However, I would ask you and our daughters to visit at court from time to time, do not hide forever in Dorne."

"I can agree to that," you grinned, sipping on your wine. "The food is bland here; this one craves spice."

"Is she to be our headache?" Baelor teased.

Jena laughed. "I will have them bring up some dragon peppers from the kitchen." She kissed your temple before fetching a servant.

Darella was born in King's Landing the night before King Daeron succumbed to his illness. Baelor wished to honor his father by choosing her name. You and the girls remained in King's Landing for the coronation, as you would not miss the crowns placed upon Baelor's and Jena's heads. They were a perfect vision of a king and queen. Nearly a year and a half passed as you remained at court before you grew restless and wished to return home, though your girls had thrived here with their tutors and lessons.

"We will come in six months' time," Baelor promised, his mouth leaving searing kisses all over your skin.

"You best, or I will hunt you down," you teased, trailing your nails down his chest, sprinkled with the dark and gray hair.

"Is that any way to speak to your king?" he scolded.

"Mayhaps our pet has grown too brazen and forgotten her place," Jena purred.

"The insolence still lingers; you did not beat it all out of me."

"Well, let us rectify that."

You squirmed over his knee as his palm blazed a fire across your vulnerable backside. Each strong, precise slap sent a throb to your pearl and made heat lick in your lower belly.

"Please, might my king show mercy?" you whimpered, tossing a pathetic look over your shoulder.

"He might," Baelor murmured, stroking your abused flesh marked with his fingertips and ring imprints.

"Mayhaps he'd like to fill me with his seed once more so I might bear him one more," you pleaded.

"Is that what you desire?"

"More than anything."

"'Tis your desire as well, husband. You enjoy watching her grow with your seed. Well, both of us do," Jena hummed, squeezing Baelor's thigh.

"One more, to keep you company until we join you in Sandfire," he smiled.

You rode him, sweat dripping down your back and your breasts bouncing with him spread naked beneath you.

"Jena," you whispered, needing her against you as well. It never felt right when it wasn't the three of you. She crawled over, kissing your sweat slicked shoulders before cupping your breasts and toying with your nipples. Then she pressed you down against Baelor's chest, drinking in the sight of his cock nestled deep in your cunt, heavy stones full and flush against your skin. She rubbed against you, cheek pressed against your shoulder, the three of you melding together and toppling into pleasure simultaneously.

You returned to Sandfire, full of Baelor's seed and with your five daughters in tow. When they came to visit in six months' time, you were pleasantly round, belly partially exposed by the red silk draped over your skin. The girls fluttered around their father, eager to tell him all they had been up to. He never minded as they grasped his hands and clothing, pulling him off to keep them for themselves, leaving you with Jena.

"You are glowing as usual," she smiled, a few more lines around her sapphire hued eyes and just a touch of white around her temples.

"Simply enjoying this pregnancy for it will be my last. I will have my hands full," you grinned, looping your arm through hers.

"Our daughters have brought Baelor great joy; he thinks about them often."

"I'm glad you both love them so."

"Just as we love you," she reminded.

You walked with her through the gardens, feeling the babe shift in your belly while Baelor doted upon the girls inside. Darella, just barely two, wiggled herself close into his arms. A lock of her chestnut hair pressed against his bearded cheek. Sarella and Tycella danced together after supper as you all gathered in the main hall. Though your eyes were on Baelor, wearing the loose tunic and breeches preferred in Dorne, swathed in cream, gold, and sand with a long golden chain dangling from his neck and nestled against his chest hair. Obella played her harp, a lilting song filling the air.

"Hard to believe how much they've grown," Baelor sighed, chin resting against his palm. "Sarella will be a young lady in just a few years."

"If you wish, you can bring her to court to have her closer by. She will be old enough to handle it," you said.

"Kiera would gladly take her as one of her ladies," Jena said.

"She would have to be acknowledged then," Baelor reasoned.

"Enough time has passed; you are king now. That decision is yours. I do not think people would fear your daughters trying to claim the throne," Jena said. "This is not another Blackfyre rebellion in the making."

"We still have a few more years to prepare for the situation, but if you wish to acknowledge our daughters publicly, then I will not stand in your way. Nor would you be the first Targaryen king to have bastards."

The girls finished their dancing and playing and were met with applause.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" Baelor cheered.

The once golden sky faded into violet before turning an inky, velvety black as night settled over Sandfire with the girls nestled safely in their beds apart from Darella, who was bundled against Jena's chest. The two fast asleep with Jena's fiery hair spread across the orange pillow, making her whole head appear to be engulfed by flame. You rested between Baelor's strong thighs, his hands roaming over your stomach. His touch calmed the restless babe, soothing her to sleep.

"Maerella for this one, if you approve," he whispered in your ear.

You nodded before wrapping his arms tighter around you. In this moment, all was well. Despite the rocky waves of the past, you managed to create a smooth foundation, and your life blossomed in unexpected ways.

You could not help, but constantly compare Dragonstone to Maekar. You did not know mean too. You did not even always notice that was what you were doing, and yet your mind constantly made the connections.

This was suppose to be a fresh start, a way to mend your marriage to Baelor, and yet it felt anything, but that.

You had wondered if it would be easier to go into the sea and to float away, mayhaps the boys could come with you and you could live your life in peace. Away from the heavy burden of the crown pressing down into you.

"Mum, did you hear me?" your eldest asked causing you to turn from the crashing washes you hoped would eat you hole to him.

Valarr, six and ten stared at you, blinking awaiting your answer to whatever he had just asked.

"What?" you asked.

"When can we go home?"

You could feel your shoulders tense. Home. Valarr wanted to go back to the only home he had ever truly known, having lived in the capital since his father was named Hand of the King when he was only seven.

You moved toward him cupping his cheek, and he allowed you. Despite almost being a man grown himself he was still your son, and he knew that. You smiled at him though it did not quite reach your eyes, "I will talk to your father."

It was never hard to find Baelor throughout the day. He would always be in his chambers, perched over a desk reading through the ravens and different accounts he had been sent that day.

He looked tired. He looked as tired as you felt, and were sure that his emotions mirrored your own.

Dragonstone had not been in at all what you were expecting. There was conversation, but that often led to harsh words being exchanged. That the wounds inside you kept feeling as if they were being pressed on deeper rather than healing like they should have started to at this time.

The true problem was the Hand of the King never truly get a day off. Even being in an entire different castle. Even if he had promised his wife once more to allow them time to work on themselves.

"Valarr wishes to go home," you told him, finally causing him to look up from his work.

His face did something you could not name or mayhaps you just did not wish too tired of the same constant look. He pushed his lips together as his gaze trailed over you searching you for a lie that he would not find.

"Valarr or you?" he countered leaning back in his chair arms crossing over his chest.

You let out a scoff before you could stop yourself, "If I wished to go home I would tell you I wished to go home," you made your moved to leave thinking the conversation was over. That it would not progress any further from that point.

You were wrong.

"Maekar said it was more than sex."

You paused, slowly turning from the exit to your husband, "We're having this conversation again."

"It has been a month and you still will not give me a real answer."

It was the same thing over and over again. Beating the dead horse, despite how it never made a move to rise. You were suppose to be working past this, but instead it felt like you continued to go in circles.

Talking about Maekar ended no where, but a screaming match with doors slamming and sleeping in a cold bed alone for another night.

You swallowed. You did not want to lie. You would not lie to him, and instead you said, "Think about going back home…For your sons at least."

You left him with his thoughts, and that was not the smartest move, but you could not have known that then. Though you would figure it out soon enough.

The bruises on Baelor's face had begun to heal, but the ones deeper inside had not faded in the slightest.

He had conjured a story in his head. One that he would have been able to look past. That you sought Maekar out for company, that he was a warm body to fill the place of himself. That Maekar used you to numb some of the pain of being alone after Dyanna.

It was more than just fucking. It was more than any excuse he had made in his mind, and his brother had sent that idea crumbling straight into the ground with what he had told him that day in the courtyard.

'There…There is something that I cannot explain between the pair of us.'

He was not sure why he could del with the fact that you had slept with his brother, but not the fact you had feelings for him.

It felt different. More intimate. It hurt more this way.

And he knew. He knew, he knew, he knew that he was the one that had out the thought there. That he had give his blessing, but he was wrong. He was so very wrong, and thought you knew that.

You did know that, but you had also made your promise. You were a woman of your word, but he thought for once you were bluffing. And maybe you were at least at first.

He could put the pieces together. He could picture his brother slowly slipping into his place with you and even his sons. Even now they stull looked as if there were waiting for the boot to drop.

Maekar was for once what he was not.

Matarys and Valarr wanted their uncle.

You preferred his brother. Now every time he looked at you he wondered if you were thinking of him. If you stared out at the moon wishing he was by your side. If you ate meals missing Maekar's dry since of humor.

He was driving insane.

Baelor wanted you to feel something close to what he had. What he still felt. He wanted the pain inside him to stop. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.

He was not truly sure what he wanted.

For the first time in his life he felt like he was at a loss. That he was not the perfect prince and Heir he was depicted as.

'That you have neglected your wife for moons and she finally had enough of it…came running to me and it kills you for once that someone choose me over you! The perfect prince wasn't fucking perfect for once.'

"Do you need something, m'lord?"

Baelor's eyes lifted up to the maid standing in front of him. She was younger, with big brown eyes and a bright smile. She was pretty. She was very, very pretty.

"Come here," he beckoned her forward. She did so with an eager grin moving across the floor quickly, "What is your name?"

You were tired, night after night with little sleep and you thought it had finally gotten to you.

Neither had turned to notice you and the irony in the situation was almost to funny. Two moons ago Baelor had walked in on his brother and yourself. Now you had walked in on him balls deep in a woman you could not identify even if you tried.

Whether it was the sleep deprivation or the simple fact you did not know how to react you laughed, loudly, finally catching their attention, "This really appears to be working on our marriage."

Within a flash Baelor was on his feet, the evidence of his hard cock staring at you. The unknown woman scrambled fixing her dress as they both gawked at you.

She opened her mouth, now realizing just who had caught them. Not just some random woman, but his o

"I do not want to hear your excuses. Leave before I change my mind," you told her, not sparing her a glance keeping your eyes on your husband.

The door shut and neither of you acknowledged it staring at the other. Despite laughing only a moment ago your face lacked at humor. Your eyes bore into him it was a wonder he had not dropped to the ground.

"Are you going to put pants on or should we fight with your cock out…because if it stares at me a moment longer I cannot promise I won't attempt to cut it off."

He blinked at you once before collecting his trousers from the floor pulling them to cover himself. "Was she all you imagined?"

"Was Maekar?"

"You want to know about how your brother is in bed, because I will tell you if that's what you want to hear."

You moved forward slowly, and it caused a chill to crawl up his spine. He awaited your next move in terror, "You want to hear about how nice his cock feels moving in and out of me or about how I scream his name?"

His jaw locked as you circled him. He felt like he was being hunted. He did not feel like the strong warrior, but instead as if he was mouth awaiting the trap you were setting for him."Did you picture me?" you asked, your nail dragging against his back muscles pain following your trail as you moved to now stand in front of him.

"Did you?" he countered.

"No," you replied honestly.

You watched his face do the thing from earlier, the same thing it had been doing for the last month. He shook his head, looking away from you, but you moved gripping his beard chin forcing his mismatched eyes on you, "You spent months neglecting me and I went to your brother for companionship. Can you really blame me?" you questioned.

You let go of him stepping backward, putting the distance between you as if it would dull the anger, but it did the opposite."Call it what it is," his voice was rising by the minute, the calm demeanor he typically wore back in King's Landing waiting for its prince.

"And what is it, oh wise, Baelor?" you asked, your arms crossing over you chest. Your voice remained even but your began to shake with the pent up rage.

"You love him!"

You stared at him for a second, the realization settling deep in your bones like a dull ache that never quite faded. He had spoken it into the world. Something that you had been ignoring for weeks, because it was more than sex.

But if you ignored it would go away

Baelor apparently did not share that same thought, "So you thought sticking your cock into some random maid would dull that? If anything you made it worse you idiot!"

"You slept with my brother!"

"And now I am going to do it again as soon as we get back to King's Landing," you declared.

He opened his mouth to say something, but there was nothing more you wanted to hear, "We are returning to King's Landing. I expect you to make the preparation on the morrow or I will write to your brother to handle, because I can aat least trust him to make good on his word."

Spinning on your heels the door feeling as it had rattled the castle. The waves crashing outside, angry and violet felt dull in comparison to the rage of storm he had just created.

"Oh, fuck," Baelor cried out crumbling to his knees just like his marriage just had.

Maekar Targaryen had seen battle. He was the Anvil for Sevens sake, and here he was staring at your letter as if he was four and ten trying to court a woman for the first time.

You made his heart race. You made a warmth spread through him that he thought had been buried alongside his wife.

"This is so fucking stupid," he muttered staring at the letter, and yet he still did not open it.

He moved toward the widow staring out at the night sky. He on several occasions had debated taking his children back to Summerhall. To his proper seat, but some deep part of him still held out hope you would return soon. For his children of course, and definitely not because he missed you.

He closed his eyes and let your face filled his sight instead of the back of his eyelids, and if he focused hard enough he could hear your laugh,"This is ridiculous," he muttered once more, but his voice was already softer.

His eyes opened slowly as he looked to the moon, wondering if you were staring out at it like you did when sleep evaded you. Or perhaps you were already deep asleep in his elder brother's arms.

Finally with shaky hands and one last glance at the moon he opened the letter. He treated the parchment with such delicacy you would swear this was not the same man who had earned the title of the Anvil.

Dearest Maekar, On the morrow my boys and I will set out making our way back to Dragonstone. With or without your brother's permission. I will see you soon.

His fingers ran over every word, tracing the letters that you had written with him in mind, "She's coming home," he breathed out, and there was too much emotion threaded through his words for a man who was suppose to be treating you like only a good-sister.

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John was a good sport about everything, although he avoided conversations as if you were threatening him with a plague. 

The first time he got ready to accompany you to the club, you had to fight not to laugh.

“Not a chance,” you shook your head at him, smiling, and then invited yourself into his closet.

Not that he looked bad, far from it, but he was either visiting much different clubs or just didn’t care that much. You managed to find two long-sleeved button-up shirts, asking him to put on the one in the deep, rich purple colour. 

He immediately complied, showing off pale skin full of little speckles and occasional red splotches. You could feel your cheeks flushing slightly at the sight of his abs and pecs, the way skin pulled over his muscles, and those fingers playing with buttons were making you feel hot in all the wrong places.

“Here,” you shakily unbuttoned one extra button, showing a little bit more of his chest.

John nodded once.

That was weeks ago, and since then, you also got him more clothes - on your uncle’s credit card, of course.

It didn’t take long for John to decide you were a brat used to getting everything you wanted, even if your uncle did make you bat your eyelashes some extra times. John was also growing impatient with your attempts to flirt with him, and hated the club music with all his heart. Luckily, even with your miniskirts and bikinis, you were not attracting too much attention, making his job a little easier.

You liked John, a lot. He was polite with your friends, expertly avoiding all the teasing and flirting, and he always let you drink and dance your heart out, on the condition that you hang out close to the bar or table where he was. He always insisted on having eyes on you, and although you thought him clearing the restroom every time was ridiculous, you cut him some slack.

“So typical of George to get paranoid,” one of your friends commented, referring to your uncle hiring John. “Is he snorting again?” she continued, in a much quieter tone.

“I’m not sure it’s just paranoia this time,” you answered, fixing your eyeshadow, but you tried not to think too much about it. “At least I got a driver out of it,” you giggled, although you knew that wasn’t fair to John, even if he couldn’t hear you.

“Babe, your boytoy looks like he’s dying of boredom,” another friend teased, entering the club’s already crowded restroom.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” admittedly, you were becoming a little touchy on the topic, despite telling yourself over and over again that you were not in love with John. Still, you were getting a little jealous, maybe even possessive, mostly because he was so resistant to your flirting.

You caught him looking at you, just once, and to your surprise, he wasn’t checking you out at all. You were whipping up breakfast for both of you after another night out, and you caught a glance in a reflection. His face was all relaxed, calm, eyes heavy-lidded; he looked at you almost lovingly, confusing you in an instant. In any case, despite ascribing it to a long and loud, sleepless night, you wanted him to look at you like that again, even if you were unsure if you wanted it just to prove a point (to whom, yourself?) or because you actually wanted him.

In any case, you went back to dancing, and it didn’t take long before some guy glued himself to you. You never minded dancing with them, and although they were always initially touchy, they would get a hint rather quickly. Not this guy, though. You kept moving his hands away from your body, but he was taking it as a challenge, grabbing harder at you, even pushing his hand under your minidress. 

Squeezing your way through the sweaty bodies, your eyes were panickily searching for John, but it was almost impossible with the throbbing lights. And with the music, your voice calling out to him was getting lost almost as it escaped your throat. You couldn’t tell anymore if that guy kept following you or if the touches you were feeling were accidental.

Feeling your throat already swelling up and tears pooling in the corners of your eyes, you felt a wave of panic crash over you; how was the bar where John would linger around the whole night suddenly so far away? And where the fuck was John?

Behind you.

Beating that guy to a pulp.

You heard the voices around you, gasping and murmuring, just as you reached the bar. Turning around, you had a clear sight of John and his fist colliding with the guy’s face, and then his abdomen, over and over again. You watched, mesmerised, only snapping out of it when John’s hands grabbed your shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he sounded a little worried, but definitely not as winded up as you expected.

You blinked away the tears, your shoulders dropping under John’s long fingers, his touch searing into your sweaty skin.

“I wanna go home, please.”

You knocked on his door almost the moment you heard the shower stop.

The AC in his room was softly blowing on your wet hair, and, you noticed embarrassingly, making your nipples pebble up under the tank top. Ignoring it, you kneeled next to John, who was holding onto his towel for dear life.

Carefully inspecting his bloodied and bruised knuckles, you blew softly on them before gently applying an ointment, trying so hard not to look up at John through your lashes. Instead, your fingers were brushing over his knuckles for a little too long, but he didn’t seem to mind. It didn’t make sense to put any sort of bandages on them; they would fall off soon anyway, so this was the best you could do.

“Thank you,” John’s voice broke the silence, but it was all wrong. He sounded hoarse, swallowing hard, and even his accent was different, like it slipped.

You shook your head.

“I should be thanking you for saving me from that creep,” you finally looked up, tenderly smiling.

“I was just doing my job.”

His voice bounced back; deep, practised, curt.

You nodded, feeling a harsh drop in your stomach, a dull, treacherous ache spreading through you.

Chapter One

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A calm day. Wind stirs up slow. The sky arrives trying its best to be birds egg blue. You’d taken the golden, gorse-tangled coastal path right the other side of the bay.

A well trampled route, that’s tickled with the bright yellow scent of the hardy shrub flowers that overhang it. Melding with the fierce knife cut and the mineral kiss of of the salty winds. Gulls wheeling overhead in high arcs with their cries. Fishing boats and merchant vessels bob on the horizon. Pale square sails stark against the gradient blue-grey. Today the sea fell heavy and dark as blue ink.

You walk to where the jagged corner rounds, smooths, and there a cove hides. A rocky incline down the headland that slopes. Gathered into the land, lays flat the salty stretch of sand that the ocean, for once, isn’t hugging. Gently huddling itself away from the mighty headland rock like the shore had peeled itself away, and was proudly showing you it’s naked beige secret.

The Stormlands are not well known for their gentleness. You should know; you’ve been the Lady of it, near going on twenty years now.

You sit back on the blanket you’d spread on the dry sands. Watching the stagling’s roam, cause trouble, and grow. Shooting off in different directions. You marvel at the variety.

Spying how Jorys runs as fast as his strong, long legs will take him. A kite in his hands. Prompting the wind to try and take it and soar it high above. A golden diamond of a Baratheon flag ready to swoop far up to the pushed back clouds.

He’s no boy anymore; your oldest, soaring well into adulthood. You can’t believe how time has swallowed away your toddling little boy and brought out a grown man. Jawline as carved as his fathers. Hair a wild sweep, and black as night. Grin equally as devastating. His height nearly towers over Lyonel’s.

He inherited your husbands love for wilderness. For sailing. Hunting. Hawking. Gathering up as much of the world as he could in his hands. Every scar and lesson he earned with hard grit and determination. He ran untamed to Tarth and Lys and had already sailed much of the rest beyond the Stepsones and Tyrosh. Itching to discover more of Bloodstone and the Grey Gallows.

He’s more drawn back than his father. Less of a tempest, more of a sly lightning bolt that lays in wait to strike. Lyonel always tells you with a proud grin that he spies your hand in that side to him. He’s diplomatic, but not weak. Learned how to read a room before he enters. Weights and tests his words with clever strength before he speaks them.

Just like you do, Lady Storm. You’ve taught our stag well. He beams.

Lyonel boasted that his Jory was not far off discovering the joys of wine and women. And then you’d all be sorry; he was like to be the bold devastation of many a noble girl. And the root cause of desolation to many hearts. With a grin as bright as the one Lyonel won you over with; you don’t doubt it. A little part of you dreads it. That soon he will flee the safety of the keep.

He will make his mark in time. He’s been guided wisely. Lyonel was careful to weed out of all his own shortcomings when they cropped up, and made themselves known in his son.

There were many years yet before he’s come to take the Storm Lords seat. He used his every second wisely. He trained with every weapon there was in the armoury.

Had sailed and broken many a mast on some of your ships. He read up on so many topics the master damn near ran out of books to ply him with. He learned his way through languages like running water, Valyrian, the old tongue, and was an avid student of histories like he was training to be shipped off to the citadel. Always studious. Seeking. Laughing and smiling as much as his fathers old namesake.

Durran is Jorys shadow. Running along, always at his ankles like an inky haired burr; had done since the day he was born. He looked upwards to his big brother in every regard. Now Jory was trying to show him how to fly the kite they’d painted together. A messily limbed stag stamped on the yellow. Antlers wonky, legs fat and misshapen like it was club footed. But the special thing about it was the fact they’d been waiting for two moons to come fly it together.

Only just nudging four, Durran was your second youngest. Born during a storm that near deafened the keep alongside your pained cries. Lighting struck the sea, green as wildfire, and flashing powerful.

When the midwife told you it was a boy; You and Lyonel took one look at each other, knowing instantly his name needed to be a devotion to the man who raised those very walls. The ones that were used to the sea throwing themselves at, hard enough to try and knock it back into the land.

Ceres is spinning off wild somewhere. As per her usual stride. If there’s nature to explore, she’d find it. Possibly she had headed up towards the headlands with little Ormund, your youngest, propped like a lumpy, warm weight on her hip.

She scooped him up from where he stood patting and mushing his little hands in the wet sand, making piles of it, and told the little tot they were off to look for smugglers caves, and pirate gold, rum or treasure, hiding in salt flecked caves in the rocks. Bare feet squishing in the sand.

“Please be careful. No rock climbing. Stay where we can see you both.” You call over. Voice dancing and rippling on the wind.

She calls her assent over her shoulder. Hoiking her brother up her hip to hear him laugh. Fingers clutching at a chunk of her hair. She’s looking skywards. Pointing out the path of the swallows that dipped ahead. Letting his little eyes follow her slim finger. “Look at the birdies. Durran. Look-“

She truly was your adventuress. Your ray of utter sunshine - never dimming. Long, perpetually waving, untamed hair that exactly mirrored your own. Always wrestled back off her face, but never behaving. Forever with pencils or sagging ribbons lost in it. Her face was dotted with a spray of dark freckles. Like sharpened stars scattered across her skin. Eyes silver as the sea. Lightning Dondarrion grey.

She’s combed through every biological book in Storm’s End. Knew everything there was to be known about this natural world. Of animals and nature. Sea creatures. Dragons. Birds. Every walk of wildlife. You’ve never seen a girl so taken with a love of animals and the like.

She had a way with all your stable stock that was almost otherworldly. The only slip of a girl you knew you could stare down and calm a warhorse ten times her size. More comfortable on horseback in boiled leathers and boots, than she ever had been in a dress.

From her first stubby rounded pony to her current fine speckled grey palfrey. Forever riding off on her own to the woods in search of a hedgehog, deer, or a fox to study. She was not a lover of hunts. Oft going off to hide so she didn’t have to witness the bloody slaughter of a deer or boar.

Her love of eating meat had declined over the years. She didn’t warm to the cruelty of a hunt. Though she still did have a soft spot for cheese, and any wounded animal she came across.

She has gathered up quite the menagerie back at the keep over the years. A nest of baby starlings in the rookery eaves to watch over. A new clutch of kittens from the kitchen cat. She fed and named the rats in the dungeons. Took in any bird with a poor leg or an undeveloped wing. Orphaned underfed piglets. Chickens. Old mules with missing teeth. A shaggy rust coloured steer with one horn. Strays and runts of litters of all kinds.

You’d no doubt they’ll come back with their hands clutching dried starfish or the broken curl of mussel shells. Cockle and limpet shells too. Dune grass sticking out their hair and sand damp and cloying on their clothes. Smiles bright as any sun.

Ceres told you she wants to gather as many whole shells as she can, to make a twinkling seashell chime to hang over Ormund’s cot. Let it sparkle in the meagre sun with butter yellow periwinkles, the iridescent mottled blue and green of mussel shells, the white and brown of cockles. A starfish or two if they’re lucky enough to reach the tide pools.

Ormund with his wide dark two year old eyes that sparkled in awe at everything new. Wide smiley cheeks kissed with the salty breeze of his home. A taste he was born too and will come to know better than his own name. He was such a smiley baby already. Everything posed to him met with laughter in his milk teethed mouth.

Your eyes scan to find them. Which you do. Dipping in and out of a cave. Ceres letting him feel the wet rock with his little fingers. Sand dusting his soft skin.

You have no fear for their safety. The tide is well out and you have time. Besides which, your dogged old knight, Ser Seldan, lays in wait up on the headland, dark cloak swathing his wide shoulders, with three soldiers.

Your loyal direwolf never lurked far away. Silvered and grey as he was now; hair bolted silver like a dragonseed, but as stocky and resolute as the wall. Age had not wearied him. Only made the old wolf sharper. Especially now he has this rowdy clutch of little stags to oversee.

You sweep your gaze across the beach. Coming past where Jorys and Durran are still running wild. Kite swirling and tugging on the air. Jerking and dropping. Jorys laughter swells and falls, along with Durrans.

You sit on the dryer sand, shoes off, skirt draped to your calves, feet curled into the dry sugar soft grain of the sand. Wind whipped and trickling some of it back across to the ocean.

The waves crawl slow to the shore rather than the usual thrashing it gets. You’d spread a rug out. Woolen and thick under your hands where you sit back. Watching your family bolt to all corners of the cove.

Mostly they gather at the mouth of the rocks ahead where you can see them. A picnic basket lays unopened beside you. A simple fare, soft bread, milk and honey for the little ones, carved thick slabs of ham, some cheeses, hard and soft and blue. Apples and pears to cut with a knife and some berry cordial for the children. A wine skin of red for you and Lyonel.

Your eyes go to your husband. Who is walking along, cutting a dark figure into the white crush of the waves, Olira walks beside him. Skirts held up out the stand so they don’t stain.

He’s got her arm crooked in his elbow. His Doe, he calls her. Soft and sweet as one. Lyonel has promised her, when the day does come, he will solicit ravens from all over the seven, far and wide, for a good suitor for her. They will invite him to Storms End and vet him thoroughly.

They are probably discussing poetry if you had to guess. Or stories. Maybe histories. She liked the nicer ones. Tales of love, duty. The unfailing honour of man.

Your oldest girl, in similar respects to Jory, wouldn’t bear her girlhood much longer. She’s nearly a woman now too. Tall and willowly as you’d been at that age. Seemingly sprouting long legs out of nowhere. Hair long and often worn unbound to her waist. A vision of unquestionably feminine beauty. Brushed and attended carefully.

Her clothes a careful representation of her vanity. She had raised herself to know of every court courtesy and every fashion there was. Demure and quietly respectful. Her head rampant with stories of great loves and famous songs of chivalry. She vowed when she was seven, that one day she’d find a great a love as you and Lyonel had.

She took more kindly to the Septa’s teachings than Ceres. She embroidered beautifully. She sang as sweet as a peeping songbird. She could play a good handful of instruments that she’d taken care to learn over the years. Chided herself if any aspect wasn’t perfect. A little to unfair with herself, you feel, sometimes. And you like that there is a sillier, softer side that being around her brothers and especially her sister, draws out.

You like the duality. One daughter who would never be caught dead at court, let alone in a dress. And another who sees it as her undeniable birthright to be the perfect lady. You love them both unequivocally. You do often wonder what adulthood will make of the both of them.

You watch with a smile. Hand shading your eyes as Durran sprints alongside his brother, but them his path veers out towards his father. Toddling too fast on little legs. Arms outstretched. “This way Durry.”Jory calls. “The sea will get you.”

Lyonel turns and a huge grin takes his mouth. Curls flying out in the sea flecked breeze. He launches down, arms wide. Scoops up his boy, sweeping his feet right off the ground. “Never mind the sea boy. A big bold stag has got you instead. Aha.” He booms.

Cups him up to his chest, torn off the sand, roaring laughter, legs sticking out sideways as Lyonel dips his head low and pretends to eat and kiss his ears. Whirling him around. The sound of his delighted shrieking breaking upon the waves. It makes you smile. Sea splashing out under his boots.

Olira smiles at the sight. Fiddling with a birds feather Ormund gave her. Going to Jorys side to watch the kite spin. Lyonel twirls him round and round enough to make him lose his breakfast nearly. Tickling his ribs til he cries so hard he can scarce breathe.

He hefts the boy up into his arms. Holding him sideways still like a plank of wood and not a boy. Strong arms cupping as he spins him to hear the laughter grow. Taking him up the beach and back toward you. “Go find your mother. Go get her. Pup. She looks lonely. Go go go. Run.”

Lyonel spins him one last time. Before setting him down. Crouching and whispering in his ear with a grin. Letting him loose like a spinning top. One that reels straight for you.

You brace for him. Waiting for the pounce. The bowling of little antlers.

When he gets there, he flattens you with all his four year old barreling weight and might. Hands seeking up for your hair. Giggling as he gets you on your back. Arms around his little body. You clutch him tight. Rolling in the sand. Hair flying out. Cushioned back behind you.

Lyonel laughs at the sight of you. Quite literally bowled over.

Durran presses a slobbery kiss to your cheek. “Got you.” He laughs. Breathless and grinning.

“So you have. What will you do with me now Durry Baratheon?” You check.

“Hug.” He snuggles into you as his answer. Arms over you. He’d just learnt the word.

“Oh no. A veritable blood bath.” Lyonel announces. Walking to your rug and taking to a knee to splay himself out beside you. The sand sighing out under him.

He rests on his side. Up on an elbow. Watching your son fling himself to your chest and rest his head there. Possibly in an attempt at a respite from all the running around. Lungs rattling about in his ribs.

“Come on. Pup. I said cuddle mama. Can’t let her be lonely. Big squeeze.” Lyonel urges.

They attack you from both sides. Pincer movement. Lyonel from the right. You feel him press an army of kisses into your silvery hair. Strong arm coming over your stomach to band you in place. Durry finds it great fun. Cuddling the breath out of you from the left side.

You sit up. Smiling. Watching as Durry shuffles up to better watch Jory twirl the kite around the sky. Over the sand and then jerkily flying out to the sea.

“Was it fun?” You ask him. Eyes on his curious grin. Looking up. “Watching it fly so high.” Swiping a hand through his hair. Dark curls flopping back into place after you brush through them.

He nods quickly. Bobbling his little head. Grin barely contained.

You reach for the food. Amazed this hamper had lasted unmolested so long. Usually the boys attack food like starved orphans and eat twice their body weight. Appetites like gannets. You tear off some of the soft loaf, dip it in a bit of honey. And wedge cheese into it. Durry gratefully curls it into his fingers. Mashes it into his mouth.

He takes off at a run again. Kite in his sight. Yelling for Jory. But the way he said his name hasn’t quite come out right yet. He’s not got a hold of his letters. Sounds more like ‘Gory.’

“Durry! Not with your mouth full. You’ll choke. Slow down.” You call after him. Brushing your hands of crumbs and sand. He only just listens.

“Mercy me.” You mutter.

“A whirlwind that one.”

Lyonel grins like a proud mother hen. Or like a strutting stag. Chest puffed up. Antlers high.

“That’s what happens when you’re a stormborn babe. The maester did warn us.” You grin.

Lyonel smirks. Lip curling on one side. “Good thing we didn’t fucking listen. All his doddery portends and omens.”

Staying by your side. He tilts on a hip. His breath slinks hot and muggy across your ear. “Get over here. Lady Storm.” He smiles like sin.

“Not here with the children belting around.” You sigh back. But you’re moving anyway.

“We’ve fucked in this cove before. On our honeymoon, if my memory serves.”

He gets you between his spread legs. Back to his chest. Chin resting itself. “Didn’t we manage to dodge out of the rain in that little cave just a way down the beach.”

“That was an age ago. My stag.”

You remember. A sun bleached spectre of a memory. Cold hands. Hot lips. Biting his lip to keep from moaning too loud. Just enough warmth to the air to lift your skirts over your waist so he could shift your smalls aside. Fucked you standing, with your back pressing into jagged, cold wet rock. You’d been too needy to ride all the way back to the keep.

“Aye. Nearly drowned too. Like stupid horny fools we were.” You supplied. “It started much like this. Picnicking on a blanket. Kissing. Then more than kissing…” you tilt your head. His nose runs along the back of your neck. Breathes in the mineral rich sea. The smell of strong stone from the keep. Your perfume living on your hair.

He recalls that blissful interlude; He’d kissed your lips numb. Stuffed one hand up your skirts and made you cum like that. Legs spread to his body. Arching to his hand as he strummed your clit with his thumb and drank in your choking moans. Had you gasping and crying in his arms. Fisting his clothes.

“Did the tide nearly come in before we were done?” He checks.

“Your memory does serve. Yes. We waded out when we were done. You carried me much of the way. I was picking seaweed out my hair and brushing sand out my shifts for weeks.” You explain. Patting your hand on his kneecap. Smoothing it afterwards.

He chuckles. It’s filthy. The sound muffles into your scalp. “Reckon we conceived Jory in that cave…” He simpers.

You tutt to that. Bat at his knee.

“I’d not given it much thought. I think Jorys may have been conceived in several places.” Comes your chuckled answer. You had been voracious at the beginning. And really, you hadn’t entirely stopped all throughout the marriage.

“Don’t let him overhear that. He’s scarred enough already by our apparent amour for each other.” He smiles.

You twist back. Plonking a stern kiss to the side of his bearded chin.

His arm is still banded steady around your waist. Holding over your belly like it was precious and sacred to him. Of course it was, you’d given him five little stags from this body. If you ever wobbled, confidence sinking low, and looking too hard with a pinched face in the mirror, he’d get on his knees and treat you like his altar. Lips pressing to every holy scar or stretch mark. He’d put his face between your legs and then fuck you with such devotion until you yielded.

Whilst the importance of your rowdy family remained steadfastly valuable. You both relished the opportunity sometimes to escape the keep and sail for somewhere warm and exotic, to break up the tiring monopoly of responsibilities as Lord and Lady.

You disappear for a handful of days on a ship, across the narrow seas. Slink quietly to a mansion in Tyrosh or Dorne. For time to yourselves as man and wife.

To soak up the sun like lounging sleepy tigers. Eat nothing but fruit bursting with juice. Sun ripened. Lay in bed all day and do nothing but read books. Wander hand in hand around an unfamiliar city on a warm purple, jasmine scented midnight under a yellow moon. Stock up on Tyroshi pear brandy and come home with a new suntan, and a wide never-ceasing smile that makes the children grimace.

You adore the freedom and the quiet. Drinking nothing but strong gold wine and laying around, humid skin sticky, garbed in thin cottons and silks all day - sometimes not even that if you feel so inclined. Oftentimes you’d been mostly alone, just you two, on a mad rare occasion, there’s still some who would join you in bed outright, if asked.

“Don’t let him overhear that. He’s scarred enough already by our apparent amour for each other. They all are. You must have noticed how they all make pinched faces when we kiss.” You twist back. Plonking another stern kiss to the side of his chin.

“Apparently from Jorys visits to other castles or keeps. That’s not how other Lords and ladies behave…” You parrot his words.

Warm laughter moves through him. His arm is still banded steady around your waist. Holding over your belly like it was precious and sacred to him.

Of course it was, you’d given him five little stags from this body. If you ever wobbled, confidence sinking low, and looking too hard with a pinched face in the mirror, he’d get on his knees and treat you like his altar. Lips pressing to every holy scar or stretch mark. He’d put his face between your legs and make you cry with devotion until you yielded.

“Those poor unlucky fucks.” He decides. He can’t imagine not having a wife you’d be head over heels in love with and still horny for. It makes his chest swell in lucky pride. Knowing not every marriage is like yours. More fool them.

“We have the best of it. There’s no denying.” You point out. Sand under your bare feet. Your beloved man at your back. Watching the children grow as you get older and more grey.

It melted away all pithy titles and claims. You could have been just a woman. Small folk. A fisherman watching over the tides and the place he works. Admiring yet another sunset even if it was the thousandth one you’d seen. Still cause for joy-

“Please tell me Ceres has Ormund.” He wonders suddenly. Worry ebbing on his voice. Head tilted as you watch the waves bloat, and shudder, shrinking back. Foam kissing their tips. Wind carving through both your hair, combing it back like the Touch of a calm lover.

“She does. Rest easy.” You calm him. Hand over his. “They’re in the caves looking for pirate gold.”

“Thank fuck. Thought a seagull had carried him off to nest.”

“Not with the wolf’s eyes on us. Trust me. Naught gets past Seldan.” You assure. You n know he’s as bulky as a rock on the headland. Eyes on every one of you.

“Either that or she’s gone full tilt and escaped on a private vessel herself to sail the seas of Myr.” Lyonel proposes.

“Hmm.” You consider. “Maybe after her 14th nameday she can take the foray into piracy.”

“Seems a solid choice. What’s the betting we get down the aisle at any point in her lifetime?”

You shift back and shoot him a look. “Ceres? Marriage? Lyonel. When you and I are withered old crones, she’ll still be an old maid at Storms End with a never ending passel of cats and birds.”

“No chance in hell?” He asks. Brow buoyed.

“Zero chance.” Ceres calls across. Walking back. Ormund babbling happily away. She took care to pluck a cockle shell from his hold before he tried to eat it. Everything went to his mouth first-

“No. Ormund. You have three teeth. You can’t eat shell.” She frowns at the babe.

“Now. Dearest. Even you may find someone you wish to marry.” Lyonel persuades.

“I won’t.” She assures you both. A grimace on her face. Pulling a shell further away from Ormunds seeking hands.

“You have Jory and Olira to wed off. They’re the pretty, talented ones. Leave me out of it.” She scowls.

“I think you’ll change your mind. One blessed day.” You say to her. Leaning forwards.

Lyonel holds his arms open, wordless, she hands off Ormund to her in a crouch. He lays a kiss into his sons hair with a solid smack. Brushes the sand off his little fingers. Ormund happily gets bounced in his fathers hold. Tries to stuff his fathers pendant necklace in his mouth. Sucking on the gold chain of it.

Lyonel makes a harsh “ah” disapproving sound. Bats it out his gummy mouth. Lets him play with the huge chunky ring on his finger instead. He gums on that too.

She claps her hand of sand. Shells bulging and clinking in her pockets. “Why is that-“

“Because I pledged exactly the same at your age.” You smile easily. “And look at me now—“

“I’m not like you, mother.” She impresses. Firm. Little face so devout in her belief.

“Alright. Ceres. You’re not like me. I yield. I won’t force you into anything. I’d sooner die than see you unhappy. But. Your father and I reserve the right to smile very, very smug if one day, you do decide against those stout wishes.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

You grin. “Thank you-“

Lyonel catches your eye when you turn around. “Nicely handled. My storm.” He winks. Hand reaching down to pat your hip

Ceres is back to grimacing. “If you’re going to be all kissing and lovey, I’m going back to live in that cave-“

Lyonel’s smile grows. “Funnily enough. We have a story about that very cave… it involves your brother….” He waggles his dark brows.

“Oh don’t you dare-“ you laugh. Chucking a handful of sand at his lap. Let him try and get that out of his clothes for three weeks.

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