Write in progress

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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He pushed the wood open, but did not move from the doorway. Baelor did not look up at first, but he finally did. The polite smile dropped from his face, "Maekar," he greeted.

"I wanted to talk," the younger said gruffly.

"Then talk."

The silver haired man looked around, "Not here."

The chill between the pair could be felt no doubt throughout the whole castle. Baelor stood to his feet. "Then where?"

"Courtyard."

The walk throughout the halls was silence in a way it had not been since Maekar had learned to speak. It had never been like this between them. They were not ones to fight especially with how understanding Baelor had been over the years.

Both stared at the training yard, waiting for the other to make the first move, and finally the younger did. He began to shed his doublet, leaving him in only his tunic underneath. The elder followed his brother's lead.

Maekar handed him a sword, and he took it. Neither looking at the other for too long. Both stared at opposite ends staring, waiting once more.

"You were not suppose to find out the way you did."

Baelor scoffed, "And how I was suppose too?"

He took a step forward, but did not cross the boundary line separating them.

Maekar took a shaky breath trying to compose himself, and now he was wondering if he should have organized his thoughts more before seeking the man out. But he needed to talk to his brother. To explain himself.

"I am not just fucking your wife to get my dick wet. There…There is something that I cannot explain between the pair of us."

That was not the thing to say.

Steel swung finally clashing against steel.

"You have no right! She is my wife! The mother of my children!" he hissed, pushing against his brother's weapon, but he did not give in. He was strong, unmoving. The anvil.

The hammer pulled back crashing down again, but was unsuccessful, and this continued on over and over. The elder trying to get a hit, but the younger simply playing defense.

"Are you trying to tell me that or yourself?"

Baelor scoffed, "And what is that suppose to mean?"

"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."

The Heir paused, staring at the Prince of Summerhall. He was right. Of course he was right. He drove his wife to his brother's arms, but he did not want to hear that. He did not want to acknowledge that.

The sword was discarded as Baelor shot forward fists flying, but there little fight would not last long as soon as word got back to you.

Both brother's were now bruised, knuckles cracked opened from the blows they had delivered to the other. For lack of better words they looked like shit.

Though they would have rather taken a beating ten fold then the anticipation of waiting to see what you would say. You had not spoken yet more then the screaming of their names that had brought them out of their anger filled haze in the courtyard.

You ran a hand through your hair letting out a breath of frustration. Muttering something to yourself that sounded as if you were cursing the entire Targaryen line. It would not suspire either if that is exactly what you were doing.

The two brother's sat cringing slightly as you paced in front of them. "My love…say something," Baelor piratically pleaded, as he seemed he would rather have the yelling then your silence.

Maekar was not sure he agreed due to his pounding ache in his head. He turned looking to his brother, but the elder waved him off.

Finally you paused, turning to face them, stopping in your tracks, "You are man grown and you were pawing at each other like boys!" you screamed, causing them to flinch slightly.

Your anger radiated off you. They felt like children once more, getting lectured about their non-princeling activities. But you were scarier then their mother.

"I should knock your heads together! Mayhaps then the pair of you can share some sense!"

"Can you speak a little quieter?" Maekar then had the courage to ask, cringing as your voice ran through his ear.

You turned to him, eyes wide, twitching slightly at the corner. "You want me to speak quieter, Maekar?" you questioned, your voice rising even louder than before.

Neither responded but you continued nonetheless, "And I want one day of fucking piece without a Targaryen angering me, but that has not happened for a long time!"

You let out a breath staring at them, your jaw locked, "Hug each other," you instructed.

"What?" Baelor asked confused looking from you then to his brother.

"Hug each other. You are going to fight like boys then you will make up the same way ours do when they get into a row."

Maekar went to argue, his mouth open before you glare sharpened holding his violet one. They both stood awkwardly turning to the other patting each others back.

"Like you mean or so help me the Gods will not save you from what is next."

Both brothers looked to the other wondering if you meant good on your word. They heard your weight shift as if you were moving to grab something and Baelor reached out pulling his brother into his embrace.

"Hug him back, Maekar!"

The younger lifted his arms wrapping around the other as they stood holding each other in the quiet of the room, waiting for you to say it was enough. You did not let them release the other until at least two hours had passed.

When the hug had finally turned real, and the hardened edges had softened and they looked like brothers once more.

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