Sj_thefan

Lyonel goes still. The lord beside him continues speaking—something about yields or ships or coin—but the words fade into nothing. He does not hear them because he is watching you.

Really watching you.

As you move from one tapestry to the next, your hand lifting slightly as you gesture—not rigidly, not with that same careful precision—but with something looser. Something…natural.

You lean in when one of the women speaks. Your head tilts slightly when you listen. Your voice—though he cannot hear the words—moves in a way that suggests you are not reciting.

You are answering, and the smile—it comes again. Quieter this time, but very real. Something in his chest shifts.

Slow.

Deep.

He had not realized how much he had been waiting to see it. How much of you had been held so tightly behind something else—something taught, something forced—that this…this small, uncertain thing feels like witnessing something rare—something hard-won.

His gaze lingers and as he watches you guide the women toward another tapestry, something clicks into place in a way it had not before.

He remembers you asking about them.

The fabrics.

The colors.

The placement.

He had not understood then, not really. To him, they had been decoration. Fine work, aye—but nothing more than that. Byt as he’s watching you stand before them, your posture softer, your expression alive in a way he has not seen—he understands.

This is not about decoration. This is about belonging. About placing something of yourself into these walls. About making this place home.

His mouth curves faintly at the realization and he does not look away.

Across the hall, you do not feel his gaze, not fully, because something else has taken hold of you.

Something light.

Something unfamiliar.

Something that feels dangerously close to…joy.

You stand with the ladies before another tapestry, your fingers brushing just along the edge of the woven thread—not touching fully, but close enough to feel its presence.

“It was your idea to include the storm at sea?” Lady Estermont asks, her voice bright with interest. You nod, a small breath of something almost like laughter escaping you before you can stop it.

“Yes,” you say. “It felt…fitting.”

“For Storm’s End,” Lady Wylde adds with a knowing smile. You glance at her and you find yourself smiling again. Easier this time.

“Yes,” you agree.

They ask you more—not about duties, not about expectations—but about you.

“What do you enjoy, my lady?” Lady Estermont asks, tilting her head slightly. “Surely it is not all ledgers and order.” The question startles you because no one, aside from Lyonel, has ever asked you that before.

Not truly—not with expectation of an answer that belongs to you. Your mind stumbles, searches, reaches for something structured, but nothing comes.

Only feeling.

“I…” You hesitate, your fingers curling faintly in your skirts. “I enjoy reading.” It sounds small when you say it. But they brighten immediately.

“As do I,” Lady Wylde says. “What sort?”

“Histories,” you answer, a little more certain now. “And…stories.”

“Stories?” Lady Estermont echoes, smiling. “Of knights and ladies?” You nod faintly, almost reluctantly.

“And I enjoy traveling players,” you add before you can stop yourself. The memory comes unbidden. The puppets. The voices. The music. The way it had made you feel—light, captivated, something close to wonder.

A flicker of that same feeling stirs now.

“That sounds delightful,” Lady Wylde says. “We had a troupe pass through last winter—” And the conversation continues, easily flowing in a way you do not recognize.

You answer.

Not perfectly.

Not precisely.

But honestly.

Because you want to. Because you want to be part of this. Because you want to belong  And the feeling that settles in your chest is not sharp.

Not overwhelming.

It is light.

Almost…giddy.

It startles you, but you do not push it away. Not this time.

You let it sit, you let it grow, and across the hall—Lyonel watches it happen..

He lets you have this.

You move with them still, but not in the rigid path you would have taken before. You are not shifting from task to task, not guided solely by duty, but drifting almost, letting them guide both the conversation and their steps. They pause at a carving, a banner, a detail in the stonework you have passed a dozen times without ever truly seeing. One points out the age in the mortar, the other remarks on the way the light catches along the iron sconces in the late afternoon.

It is not important. None of it is.

And yet, it feels like it is.

Because they speak of it freely, lightly, without purpose beyond sharing the thought. You listen, and then—tentatively—you answer. Then again. And again. Until it no longer feels like something you must prepare for. It simply happens.

They banter between themselves as easily as breathing, small jests and knowing looks passing between them without pause.

“You only like that one because the knight looks like your brother,” Lady Wylde teases.

“He does not,” Lady Estermont scoffs, though her smile betrays her. “My brother has better posture.”

“Your brother slouches like a bored cat.”

“A dignified cat,” she corrects primly. A small breath leaves you, not quite a laugh, but closer than anything you have allowed before. They both notice, but they do not draw attention to it. They simply include you in it.

For the first time, the constant pull in your mind quiets. There is no sharp voice reminding you to correct your posture, no measured tally of what must be done next, no looming sense of expectation pressing at your spine.

Just this.

Conversation. Presence. Ease.

“My lady,” Lady Estermont says after a moment, her tone softening slightly, “how are you finding Storm’s End?” 

The question is simple, but it is not empty. It is not asked for politeness. It is asked because she wants to know.

You hesitate only briefly. “It is…” You pause, searching not for the correct answer, but for a true one. “Different.”

They both smile at that.

“I should think so,” Lady Wylde says gently.

“It is not what I expected,” you add, quieter now.

“And is that a good thing?” Lady Estermont asks.

You consider it, truly, and that alone feels new. “I believe…” You falter slightly, then steady. “I believe it is becoming one.” Something soft passes between them at that—understanding, approval.

Then Lady Wylde glances past you, and her smile shifts, becoming something more knowing. “You may wish to look behind you, my lady.”

You frown faintly, turning your head slightly. “Why—”

“Your lord husband,” she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear, “has not taken his eyes off you since you left his side.” Your breath catches immediately.

“That is not—” you begin, the denial quick and instinctive. “He is only—observing the hall—”

“Smitten,” Lady Estermont says lightly, a grin tugging at her mouth. The word lands far too sharply for how gently it is spoken.

You sputter slightly, the composure you held so carefully slipping in the smallest of ways. “He is not,” you insist, your gaze dropping as heat rises quickly to your face. “He is merely—attentive—”

“Mm,” Lady Wylde hums, unconvinced.

“Quite attentive,” the other adds. You shake your head faintly, unable to look at them fully, your fingers curling slightly into your skirts as you try to gather yourself again. But despite yourself, you glance back toward the high table.

And he is watching.

Not subtly. Not distantly. Directly.

His gaze meets yours the moment you look, as though he had been waiting for it. There is no attempt to hide it, no pretense of looking elsewhere.

Just him.

Watching you.

Your breath stutters, your heart giving a sharp, unfamiliar thrum in your chest. And before you can stop it, before you can contain it, your smile returns.

Not careful.

Not measured.

It grows, small but real.

Behind you, the ladies laugh softly—not unkindly, not mockingly, but warmly, knowingly. You turn back to them quickly, your head dipping slightly, but you cannot quite chase the smile away this time.

It lingers.

And something in your chest—something that once would have tightened, corrected, silenced—does not.

It simply lets it be.

“Let us get you back to your lord husband before you float clean to the clouds, my lady.” Lady Estermont’s voice is warm, threaded with a mischief that is light rather than sharp, her eyes bright with it as she tilts her head toward you.

You blink. “I—” You do not even know how to respond to that.

Because you do feel light.

Unmoored.

As though something in you has loosened too quickly, too suddenly, and you have not yet found where to place your feet again.

Lady Wylde steps in easily at your other side as the three of you begin to move back toward the high table, her presence gentle, steadying without being overbearing.

“We have enjoyed this greatly,” she says, her tone softer now, more earnest beneath the ease. “And I hope it is not out of line to ask…” Your gaze shifts to her, uncertain—but open. “…if you might permit correspondence between us.”

You falter mid-step.

Letters.

The word echoes.

Correspondence.

Exchange.

Connection that continues beyond this room—beyond this night.

Your mind stutters. That has never been permitted. Never encouraged. Never offered. Friendship was not something you were taught to maintain. Only alliances. Only usefulness. Only proximity with purpose.

This—this has no purpose. Not in the way you understand it.

“We would enjoy it very much,” Lady Estermont adds, her smile softer now, less teasing. “If you would.”

Your chest tightens, nut not painfully.

Not sharply..

It’s expanding.

Your thoughts try to catch up.

To measure.

To assess.

To correct.

This is unnecessary. This is indulgent. This is—

“I would like that.” The words leave you before you can stop them. Before you can weigh them. Before you can deny them.

You blink.

Because it is done.

Because you said it.

Because you meant it.

And for a moment—you feel as though you are watching yourself from somewhere just beyond your own body.

Detached—a spectator to your own voice, your own choices. This is not what you were taught. This is not what you should be doing.

And yet—you are.

And worse—you are enjoying it.

The realization sends something sharp and bright through you.

Thrilling.

Unsettling.

New.

Your head feels light, your chest fuller. Your thoughts scattered in a way that feels almost…dangerous, b you do not take it back. You cannot.

Because their smiles widen.

Because their warmth deepens.

Because something in you wants this.

“Then it is settled,” Lady Wylde says warmly.

“We shall write,” Lady Estermont adds, a pleased note in her voice. You nod faintly. You are still trying to catch your breath. Still trying to understand what you have just agreed to.

And yet—you do not regret it. Not even a little.

By the time you reach the high table, your thoughts are spinning so thoroughly that the room feels slightly unreal.

The noise.

The movement.

The flicker of torchlight.

And then—Lyonel, still seated where you left him.

You feel his eyes on you again as you return, that focus, but this time it does not tighten your chest. It steadies something in it.

You take your seat beside him, your movements a touch less precise than before—not careless, but not as rigid. Not as contained.

Lyonel does not look away from you immediately. He simply can’t.

“My lord,” Lady Estermont greets, dipping into a graceful curtsey. “You have a remarkable lady wife.”

Lyonel’s gaze flicks to her, but it does not linger. It returns to you almost immediately, as though the statement requires confirmation not from them, but from what he sees himself. Something in his expression shifts—subtle, but certain.

“Aye,” he says simply. There is no embellishment, no jest, only quiet agreement.

Lady Wylde smiles, encouraged by it. “She has been most generous with her time. We are quite grateful.”

“Are you now?” Lyonel replies, a faint curve touching his mouth. His tone is easy, but there is something beneath it, something assessing, as though he is measuring the sincerity of it rather than accepting it outright.

“We are,” Lady Estermont insists lightly. “It is not often one finds such…attentiveness in a hall not their own.”

“Storm’s End is hers as much as mine,” Lyonel says, almost absently, but there is weight in it—a quiet correction wrapped in something that sounds like fact rather than flattery. His eyes shift to you again, more directly this time. “If she’s chosen to give you her time, I’d say you’ve fared well.”

The women exchange a brief, pleased glance.

“We certainly feel so, my lord,” Lady Wylde says. “And we do hope to continue the acquaintance, if it would please your lady wife.”

Lyonel does not answer them immediately. Instead, his attention turns fully to you, his head tilting just slightly. There is no pressure in it, no spoken expectation, but the question is there all the same, clear in the quiet way he looks at you.

What do you want? It lingers between you, and for once, you do not retreat from it.

“I have agreed,” you say, your voice quieter than theirs but steady.

His brow lifts, not in disapproval, but in surprise. “Have you,” he murmurs, softer now. There is something in it, something warmer than before, something that settles rather than challenges. 

“A bold decision,” he adds after a beat, his gaze holding yours a moment longer than is proper, and yet not long enough to feel like scrutiny. “I’ll have to be sure they’re worth the effort you’ve spared them.”

The ladies laugh softly at that, taking it in good humor.

“Oh, we shall endeavor to be,” Lady Estermont replies.

“I should hope so,” Lyonel says lightly, though his attention drifts back to you again, quieter now. “My lady does not give her time lightly.”

The words are not said for them alone. There is recognition in them.

“You’ve done well tonight,” he adds, low enough that only you hear it as the women begin to withdraw. It is not praise in the way others give it, not excessive or performative, but it lands heavier than anything spoken aloud in the hall.

“We shall look forward to it, then,” Lady Wylde says warmly, and both women dip into another curtsey before taking their leave.

Lyonel watches them go only briefly before his attention returns to you fully. There is a quiet exhale, a shift, and something almost like a smile settles at the corner of his mouth.

“You agreed,” he repeats, softer now. “Without looking to me first.” There is no reprimand in it, only quiet wonder. “And here I thought I’d have to drag you into every conversation in this hall.” His gaze flicks briefly to your hands, still and composed, before returning to your face. “Seems I was wrong.”

And just like that, it is done.

The women move back into the hall, their place quickly filled again with noise and movement, laughter and voices rising as though nothing had shifted at all. But something lingers in you.

Beside you, Lyonel shifts slightly in his seat, turning just enough that his voice reaches only you. “Letters,” he says quietly. You nod faintly. Your hands rest in your lap, though they feel…different. Less rigid.

“I did not think—” you begin, then falter. He waits. Of course he does. “I did not think I would say yes,” you admit.

His mouth twitches faintly. “And yet you did.”

You glance at him. “Yes.” A small pause settles between you before you add, softer, “…I wanted to.”

The admission is quiet, but it is real. Lyonel looks at you like he is watching something unfold in real time, something he will not interrupt or rush.

“Good,” he says simply. And this time, when your chest tightens, it is not from restraint. It is from something still growing. And you let it.

Lyonel turns to you fully now, not a passing glance between duties, but with intention. His body angles toward yours, his attention settling in a way that feels focused and deliberate. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice low enough that it does not carry beyond you.

The question catches you off guard. It is not what are you doing, not why—just how.

You hesitate, but only for a moment. Then, before your thoughts can catch up, you reach for your chalice. The wine within it has remained untouched all evening as it always does, a quiet symbol of restraint and control. Your fingers curl around the stem, and though there is a flicker of awareness that this is not something you do, it is quieter now. Softer.

You lift it.

You take a sip.

Small. Measured.

And entirely your own.

As you lower the cup, your gaze lifts over the rim to meet his, and there it is again—that smile. Not the careful one. Not the practiced one. A slight tilt at the corner of your lips, uncertain but real.

Lyonel stills completely.

“Who are you,” he murmurs, a slow grin pulling at his mouth, “and what have you done with my reserved lady wife?”

The words are light, but the way he looks at you is not. There is something warm in it, something openly pleased, something that does not try to hide itself.

Your breath catches, and your smile grows. Not cautiously this time, but soft and unguarded in a way that feels almost startling against your own face.

Lyonel’s grin widens in answer. There is no mistaking it now. He is enjoying this. Enjoying you.

Your hand trembles slightly as you lower the chalice back to the table, the faint clink grounding you just enough to realize that you are still doing it—still stepping outside what you know, still choosing.

And before you can stop yourself, before you can think, your hand moves. It settles in the space between you, palm up.

An offering.

Your eyes flick to his, then away too quickly, as though you have done something you cannot undo. But you do not pull back.

Lyonel does not hesitate. His hand meets yours without a word, familiar now in its warmth and certainty. He shifts slightly, stretching his arm along the back of your chair as though it had always belonged there, your hand still clasped in his. It is not hidden, not concealed—simply there.

He glances at you once more, that same softened grin lingering, before turning his attention briefly to the lord speaking at his other side. He answers easily, effortlessly, but his hand does not leave yours. The warmth remains. The contact remains.

And you feel the shift.

The adrenaline that carried you through the evening begins to ebb, that sharp edge of boldness softening into something quieter, more uncertain. Your thoughts begin to stir again, to question, to measure—but they do not overwhelm you.

Not this time.

Because beneath them, something else remains.

That light.

Faint, but there.

Just beneath the surface.

Lyonel feels it in the way your fingers still rest in his. He sees it in the way your gaze moves now—not fixed or guarded, but wandering, taking in the hall, the sound, the movement. People loosen as the wine flows, laughter growing louder as music begins to thread through the air, strings and drum weaving into something lively and unrestrained.

And you watch.

Not with disapproval.

Not with that sharp, internal correction you know so well.

Your thoughts form—this is improper, this is excessive—but then they fall away, because you are not acting on them, because you are not tightening or correcting. You are simply watching. Being. Enjoying.

Relaxing.

The word comes quietly, tentatively, but it fits.

You feel it in your shoulders first, that constant tension loosening in small, almost imperceptible ways. Your breath deepens. Your chest feels lighter.

And when your gaze drifts across the hall again, you see her.

Lady Estermont catches your eye immediately, and her smile—wide, bright, unreserved—is for you.

Your breath catches.

And without thinking, you return it.

Softer.

But real.

Friends.

The word settles into you, strange and unfamiliar, and yet deeply welcome.

Beside you, Lyonel does not interrupt your thoughts or pull you back. He simply sits there, your hand still in his, his thumb shifting once against your skin in quiet acknowledgment.

As if to say—stay here.

And for once—

you do.

Your hand remains in his for the rest of the night.

It becomes something quiet between you, unspoken and unannounced, but constant. When you rise from the table to make your rounds, his hand slips from yours only when it must, when propriety or movement demands it, and even then it is never for long. He finds you again easily, as though he knows where your hand will be before you offer it, as though he has already decided it belongs there.

Each time your fingers part, there is a brief, almost imperceptible pause, an absence you feel more than you expect. And each time he takes your hand again, something in you settles with it.

You move through the hall together, not leading and not following, but side by side, and the difference is not lost on those around you.

“My lady,” one lord greets, inclining his head more deeply than before. “You have done a remarkable job this evening.”

“You honor us with such hospitality,” another adds, his wife nodding beside him. “Storm’s End has never felt so…refined.”

Your fingers tighten faintly in Lyonel’s, not out of fear, but awareness. They are speaking of you. To you. Not around you, not through someone else.

You incline your head in return, your voice measured, but warmer than it had been earlier. “You are most welcome here. I am pleased the evening has met your expectations.”

And you are.

The realization comes quietly, but it is there. Pride stirs in your chest as you move from one group to the next, receiving thanks, exchanging pleasantries, answering questions. Not perfectly, not mechanically, but well.

Your hall.

The words echo in your mind as you glance around at the banners, the tapestries, the long tables filled with life and sound. The evening moves with structure, yes, but not rigidity. It is ordered, but not stifled. It is alive.

Something in your chest expands, because it does feel like yours. Not entirely, not yet, but enough that you can feel it taking root.

Beside you, Lyonel says little. He does not need to. He lets you speak, lets you answer, lets you receive what is being offered. But his presence remains steady, grounding, his hand still wrapped around yours, a quiet reassurance that does not waver as more attention turns your way.

And it does.

More than before.

Those who had kept their distance earlier now approach, not cautiously or carefully, but openly.

“My lady, the arrangements were impeccable.”

“I have never seen service run so smoothly.”

“You must tell me how you manage it.”

The words come one after another, and this time they do not press in on you. They do not feel like scrutiny. They feel like acknowledgment.

You answer. You listen. You nod. And when you falter, when your thoughts hesitate, his thumb shifts faintly against your hand—a small, grounding motion. You feel it every time, and you steady.

It does not go unnoticed. The way you stand beside him, the way your hands remain joined, the way his attention drifts back to you again and again, even as he speaks with others.

There are glances—subtle, curious, some amused, some approving. You notice them, but they do not tighten your chest the way they once would have. They do not send you retreating inward.

Because you are not alone in them.

Because his hand is still there.

Because this is not something being forced upon you. It is something you are allowing. Choosing.

The music swells as the night deepens, laughter growing easier, voices less restrained, and you do not pull away from it. You remain within it, present, engaged, alive in a way that feels new and unfamiliar and right.

Your hall. Your people. Your place beside him.

The thought settles more firmly now, no longer fragile or fleeting, but something steadier.

And when your fingers shift slightly in his, not from uncertainty but from presence, Lyonel notices that too.

Of course he does.

And he does not let go.

Your chambers are quiet when you return. Not empty, not cold—quiet in a way that feels earned. The distant hum of the hall has faded, leaving only the soft crackle of the hearth and the low whisper of wind against stone. The candles burn steadily, their light warm and gentle against the walls.

You sit at your vanity, your reflection softened in the mirror. Your hair is still pinned in careful arrangement, though the evening has loosened it slightly. You lift your hands, fingers finding the first pin and easing it free, then another, and another, each movement slow and deliberate as the weight of it begins to fall, piece by piece, the structure giving way.

Behind you, Lyonel sits at the edge of the bed as he always does, shirt discarded, his broad shoulders relaxed beneath the low light, sleep pants tied loosely at his waist. He has not yet laid down. He has not moved to his side. He is watching you, as he has watched you all night, and you feel it even without turning.

When your eyes lift and meet his in the mirror, something flutters low in your chest. It is not sharp or startling, but a soft, steady pull. You look away first, though not as quickly as you might have before, and another pin slips free as your hair loosens further.

“You spoke of pride in this bed once,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying. There is weight in it, not casual, not passing.

You still slightly, your fingers pausing mid-motion as he continues. “How you felt it sitting beside me in the petitioner’s hall. How you were learning. Trying.”

Your breath deepens faintly. You remember.

“I felt that same pride beside you tonight,” he says, the words settling into the space between you, warm and steady and real. “And as you walked the hall with those ladies.”

Something in your chest tightens, though not painfully. You set the last pin aside, your hands lowering slowly to the surface of the vanity. You do not turn immediately. You cannot. The words are too much. Too unexpected. Too wanted.

When you finally move, it is slow and careful, as though something fragile might break if you rush it. You turn on the bench to face him, and your eyes catch the candlelight, bright and unsteady, shining in a way you do not try to hide.

“You mean this?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend, touched with something you cannot quite contain. “Truly?”

There is no defense in it. No structure. Only earnestness.

Lyonel does not hesitate. “Aye.”

The word lands deep.

“I watched you,” he continues, leaning forward slightly, his forearms braced loosely against his thighs. “Not managing. Not enduring.” His gaze holds yours. “Living in it.”

Your breath catches because you know the difference now. You felt it.

“I did not think I could,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hands shift slightly in your lap, fingers curling faintly into the fabric of your nightgown. “It felt…” You falter, searching not for the right word, but the honest one. “…light.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Aye. It does that.”

A quiet pause settles, but it is not heavy or strained. It lingers comfortably.

“I said yes,” you add softly. “To the letters.”

“I heard.” The corner of his lips tilts up. 

“I did not think I would want that.”

“But you did.”

You nod faintly. “Yes.” The admission feels different now, less like something to hide and more like something to understand.

Lyonel studies you for a moment, not as a lord, but as a man. “You’re changing,” he says, the words not sharp or accusing, simply observed.

You inhale slowly. “I think I am.” There is uncertainty in it, but not fear. Something steadier.

“Good,” he says simply. Your lips part slightly at the ease of it. No correction. No resistance. Just acceptance.

Your gaze lingers on him a moment longer before dropping again, not out of avoidance, but thought. Your hands move absently, smoothing the fabric in your lap.

“It frightened me,” you admit quietly. His brow lifts slightly. “The way it felt,” you clarify. “How easily it came.” Your fingers still. “I did not have to force it.”

He watches you closely. “And that’s what unsettles you.” You nod faintly, because it is. Because things that come easily have never been trusted. A small silence follows before he says, “That doesn’t make it wrong.”

Your gaze lifts again, searching his.

“You don’t have to fight everything that feels good,” he adds, quieter now.

Your breath falters slightly. “It’s…in my nature,” you admit, soft but firm. “To question it. To correct it. To restrain it.” Your fingers curl faintly again. “It does not feel natural to let something be easy. Not without wondering what I have missed. Or what I have done wrong. Or what can be taken.”

The words sit between you, honest and unvarnished.

“Aye,” he says after a moment. “That’s how you were shaped.” There is no judgment in it, only truth. “But that doesn’t mean it has to stay that way.” You swallow faintly. That is the part you are still learning to believe.

He shifts slightly on the edge of the bed, one hand braced behind him, the other resting loosely against his thigh. His eyes do not leave you. “You heard them tonight.” Your brow furrows faintly. “The lords. Their wives,” he continues. “The way they spoke to you. About you.”

Heat rises quickly to your face, and you look down, smoothing your nightgown again as you stand from the vanity. The soft fabric settles around your legs as you move toward the bed, each step quieter, the weight of the evening lingering in your limbs.

“They were being polite,” you say.

Lyonel huffs softly, unconvinced, shifting back on the mattress to give you space. “They were being honest.”

You climb onto the bed carefully, settling onto your side, your movements still composed but softer now, less rehearsed. Your head lifts slightly, though your eyes do not fully meet his.

“They do not need to flatter me,” he adds as he turns to climb up to his side. “If they had issue, they would have found a way to say it. If not to your face, then to mine.”

That makes sense.

“They praised the household,” you say, softer now. “Not me.”

His brow lifts faintly as he shifts onto his side to face you. “And who do you think runs this household?”

You falter. You know the answer, but saying it feels wrong, like claiming something you were never meant to claim. Your silence answers for you.

“You,” he says simply. The word lands with more weight than it should.

“I see what you do,” he continues. “The time you put into it. The thought. The way nothing is left to chance.” Your throat tightens, because no one has ever said that to you like this.

“It was for the house,” you say quietly. “For you.”

“Aye,” he replies. “And you did it well.” Then, more deliberate, “You did it for me and for this house. But you did it.” The distinction is subtle, but it lands.

“I only did what was expected,” you say, though the words feel less certain now.

“No,” he says, shaking his head once. “You did more than that.” Your eyes lift to him fully this time. “You didn’t just manage it,” he continues. “You made it yours.”

Your chest tightens, not painfully, but deeply, because the words echo something you had already begun to feel.

Your hall.

Your place.

“And you took pride in it,” he adds.

“I did,” you admit, the words coming easier than you expect.

“Good.” The space between you is smaller now, not closed, but no longer distant. “You don’t have to shy away from it,” he says. “From being proud of what you’ve done.”

Your gaze drops again, though not as quickly as before. “It feels…too much.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like claiming something that is not mine to claim.”

“It is yours,” he says, firm and certain. “You are Lady of Storm’s End. That’s not a title to sit quietly with. It’s one to grow into. There is nothing quiet about this place, I’ve told you that.”

Your breath deepens beneath the covers. That feels different from what you were taught. Not smaller. Not contained. Something that expands.

“You don’t diminish it by doing well,” he adds. “You strengthen it.” The words settle into you, slow and steady. Your fingers loosen slightly in the blanket.

“I did not know I could,” you admit.

He huffs softly, something like a quiet chuckle beneath it. “Aye. I’m beginning to see that’s a common theme with you.” There is no bite to it. Only warmth.

You glance at him again and you do not immediately look away. This is not correction. Not expectation. It is something else. Something you are still learning how to hold. And maybe, just maybe, something you are beginning to believe.

The candles flicker low. The storm hums faintly beyond the walls. As you settle more fully into the bed, you do not feel like you are bracing for what comes next.

You simply rest beside him.

The storm returns in the night, not as violent as before but restless. The wind presses low against the walls, rain whispering rather than striking, and distant thunder rolls like something unsettled beyond the cliffs. Lightning flickers faintly, casting shifting shadows across the ceiling.

You do not sleep.

Not for lack of trying.

You lie awake, staring upward, your thoughts circling back again and again to the feast, to the hall, to everything it revealed. Your hand in his. The way the ladies spoke to you—wanted to speak to you. The laughter. The ease. The smile you had not meant to give, but did, and the way it had stayed.

The letters.

Friends.

The word echoes again, strange and bright.

Your hall.

The pride you felt, and the way it did not choke you when you let it exist.

And Lyonel—watching you, seeing you, telling you he was proud.

Your chest tightens at the memory, not painfully, but deeply, because none of it should have felt the way it did. None of it should have been allowed to. And yet it was.

And now you cannot undo it. You cannot unfeel it.

You lie there listening—to the storm, to your own breath, to the slower, steadier rhythm beside you.

Lyonel sleeps deeply, untroubled. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the grounded, unmoving weight of his presence, so entirely unlike you.

Your gaze shifts slowly, carefully, toward him.

In the dim light, he looks different. Softer. Less like the man who commands a hall without raising his voice, less like the lord who fills every space he enters. Just a man.

Your husband.

The word still feels strange. Unfamiliar.

You study him in silence—the line of his jaw softened in sleep, the way his hair has fallen loose across his brow, the ease in his expression so unlike the constant vigilance that has lived in you for as long as you can remember.

He is… handsome.

The thought comes quietly, unbidden.

And with it comes a memory—a figure from a book long burned to ash. A man who laughed too loudly, who stood against the wind on the bow of a ship like he belonged to it, who took what he wanted from the world without asking permission.

You remember the feel of those pages beneath your fingers, the ache in your knuckles as you held them open, the fire that consumed them.

Your father’s voice echoes—every punishment is your doing. Every correction, your choice.

Your chest tightens.

You look away.

Then back again.

Because he is still there.

Real.

Not a story. Not something that can be taken and erased.

Your gaze lingers longer this time, and something in you shifts.

You turn slightly onto your side, closer now, not touching, just enough to feel the warmth of him through the space between you. It draws you quietly, steadily.

Your hand moves.

Without command.

Without permission.

It crosses the space between you, hovering for a moment, caught between thought and instinct.

Then your fingers brush his.

Barely there.

A whisper of contact.

Your breath catches.

And then his hand closes around yours.

You freeze completely.

He does not wake, not fully, but his grip is firm, unthinking, instinctive. He shifts in his sleep, turning, and the motion pulls you with him without effort.

A soft sound escapes you as the world tilts, and suddenly you are against him, your back pressed to his chest, his arm draped over you, heavy and warm, holding you there as though it has always belonged there.

Your body goes still, not from fear, but from something else entirely.

The contact is immediate. Total.

His heat seeps into you through the thin fabric of your nightgown, his chest rising and falling against your back, each breath brushing you, grounding and overwhelming all at once.

Your heart stumbles, then races, too fast, too loud.

Your thoughts try to form, to categorize, to correct, but they cannot find footing. This is not force. Not demand. Not anything you were taught to prepare for.

He sleeps, unaware.

And yet he holds you.

Your breath comes shallow. Your body betrays you, every nerve awake, too aware, too alive. The warmth of him is not distant or contained. It presses into you, surrounds you, settles into your skin in a way that feels almost unbearable.

Not from dread. Not from horror.

Something else.

Something deeper.

Something you do not have a name for.

It rises in your chest, low and insistent, spreading outward in a way that makes your fingers twitch, your breath catch, your thoughts scatter.

Those hounds that have always snapped at your heels—duty, restraint, correction—are still there.

But now they are not alone.

Something new moves among them.

Something that does not bite in warning, but pulls.

Tugs.

Wants.

Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting faintly, because you do not know what to do with it, because it does not listen, because it does not quiet when commanded.

His hand shifts slightly against you in his sleep, pulling you closer still until your back is flush with him, no space left between you. The heat of him sinks deeper, his breath brushing the exposed side of your neck, steady and unaware. And something in you, something raw and unguarded, lashes out from within.

Not to escape.

Not to resist.

But to reach.

Your chest rises sharply. You almost move, almost pull away, almost turn, but you do not. You cannot, because you do not understand what you would be moving toward, or what you would be leaving behind.

So you stay.

Rigid at first.

Then not.

Not fully.

Your body remains still, but something in you softens in spite of yourself, yielding just enough to feel it more clearly—his warmth, his steadiness, the quiet strength of his hold.

You do not sleep.

Not even for a moment.

You lie there in the dark, held in something you do not understand, your mind unraveling, your body awakening, and somewhere between the two, something new—fragile and dangerous—beginning to take shape.

Part Six

Not corrected.

Not dismissed.

Listened.

Your breath tightens. Your fingers curl against the edge of the table, the faint scrape of wood grounding you as the memory shifts—inevitably—to his hand. To the way it had felt in yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Certain in a way that did not confine you, did not hold you in place—but allowed you to remain there by choice. The sensation returns with startling clarity.

Not just memory—feeling.

It spreads low and slow through you, not sharp enough to name, not overwhelming enough to push away entirely—but present in a way that is unfamiliar. Your stomach tightens faintly. Your chest feels full. Too full. As though something has been placed inside it and you do not know how to carry it.

Your breath stutters. What is that? You do not have a word for it. You do not have a place for it. It does not fit into anything you were taught.

And that frightens you tremendously.

“My lady?” You blink back to the present. Jorrell is watching you, waiting, and you realize you have not answered him.

“I—” Your throat tightens. You clear it quickly, forcing your voice back into something steady, something usable. “Yes. That will be sufficient.”

He nods and returns to his work. You turn away too quickly. Your hands still, though your thoughts do not.

The feeling lingers uncomfortably. Not just in your chest now—but lower. A quiet warmth, unfamiliar, unsettling in the way it does not behave as discomfort should. It does not recede when you recognize it. It does not sharpen into pain.

It simply stays.

You draw in a breath. It does nothing. You exhale. It remains. Your body feels wrong.

Foreign.

As though something has been stirred awake that you were never meant to notice, never meant to feel.

And with that realization the voices come.

Not gently—never gently.

Yearning.

The word surfaces, unbidden, and you recoil from it immediately.

No, you reject without trying to understand. You do not allow that. You cannot. It is your father’s voice rises first, sharp and immediate, cutting through the confusion.

Indulgence breeds disorder. Your mother’s follows, softer—but more insidious for it.

Desire breeds failure. A wife does not seek, she receives. She does not want, she endures.

She does not reach.

Your stomach tightens harder this time—not from the feeling itself, but from the clash of it. What you felt—what you are feeling—and what you have been taught cannot coexist.

One must be wrong. It must be corrected. Your breath quickens, shallow now because the feeling does not leave. Even under the weight of their voices. Even as you try to press it down, to force it into something smaller, something manageable—it resists. Quietly. Persistently.

It lingers in your chest, it’s tendrils slither through your limbs, wrapping around the memory of his hand still ghosted against yours as though your body refuses to forget it.

As though it does not want to now that you’ve indulged.

There is a small, quiet, dangerous part of you—the part that lay dormant and beaten down but not completely defeated—that does not want it gone.

Your fingers tighten against the table until the pressure steadies you, until it gives you something real to feel beneath your hands. Something you can understand.

You draw in a slow breath—hold it—release, then again. You straighten your spine, forcing your shoulders back, your chin level. You rebuild yourself piece by piece, returning to what is known. What is safe. What has always held.

Control.

Order.

Silence.

The warmth dulls, but does not completely fade. It burrows like a worm, pressing beneath something heavy, something older. Something that has always won before. And as you turn back to your duties, your voice steady, your movements precise—you feel it.

Faint.

Persistent.

Waiting.

And you do not know which part of you will win when it rises again.

By midday, everything is in order again. Every task has been completed, every instruction followed through, every detail accounted for with the same quiet precision you have always relied upon. The kitchens run as they should. The servants move as they should.

And you feel steadier. Contained, as though you have pressed everything that threatened to unravel you back into its proper place. You hold to that feeling.

Until—

“My lady.” You turn. The same servant stands where she had before, as though she has not moved at all since you last saw her. Patient. Waiting. Expecting.

“My lord requests your presence for the midday meal.” Your stomach tightens. Not sharply, not painfully, but enough that you feel it. Enough that you know.

“I have already eaten,” you say. The words come easily. Too easily. Another lie. Another reflex. It slips into place as naturally as breath, as though your body has already decided for you what must be said.

The servant hesitates this time, if only for a moment. “…my lord will not take no for an answer, my lady.” Why would he?

Your fingers tighten around the ledger in your hands, the edges pressing faintly into your skin. You should refuse. You have reason. There are duties yet to review, stores to account for, preparations to oversee. There is always something that requires your attention—always something that can be shaped into necessity.

Structure. Order. Distance.

You cling to those things. You should remain here. You should not go.

Because going means sitting across from him. Looking at him. Remembering. Your hand in his. Your voice, unguarded. The way something inside you had shifted—and how you have spent the entire morning forcing it back into place.

Your chest tightens again, and that quiet, persistent feeling stirs beneath it, as though it has been waiting for this moment.

You press your thumb harder into the spine of the ledger. You steady yourself. You choose.

You set the ledger down carefully, deliberately, as though the act itself requires control.

“I will attend him momentarily,” you say. Your voice is even. Measured. It gives nothing away.

The servant bows and withdraws. You remain where you are for a moment longer, your hands resting lightly against the table, your gaze fixed on nothing at all. You tell yourself this is expected. That this is proper. That this is simply another duty.

But beneath it, quieter and harder to silence now, you know that is not the reason you are going—and that disturbs you more than anything else.

Lyonel is waiting.

Already seated. Already eating. Already watching the door before you even step through it. You feel it immediately.

That awareness.

That focus.

It settles on you the moment you enter, and something in your chest tightens in response—not fear, not quite—but the sharp recognition that there will be no avoiding this. Not today.

“You’re late.”

“I was tending to the household.” Your voice is even. Practiced. Your eyes do not meet his as you move further into the room, each step measured, controlled.

“It will survive an hour without you.”

You incline your head. “Of course.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.” You do.

The plate is already set and your stomach turns faintly as you look at it—at the bread, the meat, the careful arrangement. It is the same as yesterday.

But you are not the same.

“Eat.” You nod, because that is what is expected. Your fingers move, slow and precise, lifting the utensil. You cut a piece too small, and you know it even as you do it. It is instinct. Control. Limitation. You bring it to your mouth.

It is your mind that betrays you again.

His hand over yours. The warmth. The way it did not feel like something being taken, but something given. The way it stayed.

Your breath stills abruptly. The fork pauses.

No. Focus.

You force the bite into your mouth. You chew. You swallow. It tastes like nothing. You reach for another piece, smaller still, but your hand falters halfway. The motion stalls as something inside you pulls in two directions at once—push it down, let it be, push it down, let it—

“What has happened?” The words cut through you.

You look up too quickly. “My lord?” His gaze is fixed on you now, not sharp—not yet—but intent. Searching. He does not correct how you address him.

“What has happened between last night and now that has you at odds with yourself again?” The phrasing lands heavier than you expect.

At odds with yourself.

You feel it, because it is true.

“It is of no importance.” You say it automatically, and this time you see it—the way his eyes close briefly, the way something in him tightens.

“You’re pretending to eat.” Heat rises to your face.

“I—”

“You’ve taken two bites,” he continues, quieter now but no less firm. “Neither of which you noticed.” Your fingers tighten around the utensil.

“I am not particularly hungry.” You weren’t, that was the truth of it. Anxiety ate away at anything you put in your mouth for you. 

“I would appreciate it if you did not lie.” The words land harder than they should. Not because of their tone, but because of their accuracy.

You still.

Your breath catching faintly as something in you recoils—not from him, but from being seen so clearly.

“If something has happened,” he continues, his voice steadier now but edged with something worn thin, “I need to know. I will not watch you retreat back into this after yesterday.”

Yesterday.

The word alone causes a shudder to rip through you.

“I do not wish to anger you.”

“This is not anger,” he says, more firmly now. “This is frustration. Because I can see something’s wrong and you refuse to name it.”

“There is nothing wrong.”

“There is.” It is sitting in your chest, in your thoughts, in your body—and you do not know how to hold it without it unraveling you. “You’ve been like this since you walked in,” he continues. “Distracted. Distant.” His gaze narrows slightly. “What is going on in that head of yours?”

You look down at the plate—at the untouched food. At your reflection in the dull sheen of the utensil—small, warped, unfamiliar.

“I have too many thoughts,” you say.

“About what?” You hesitate.

Do not indulge.

Do not confess weakness.

Do not expose yourself.

“…Nothing of importance.” You repeat another lie. You cut another piece—too small—and bring it to your mouth just to have something to do, something to avoid saying more. Lyonel exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

“Gods,” he mutters. “You are impossible.” Your grip tightens.

“I have been distracted,” you finally admit.

He leans forward slightly. “Yes, I gathered that.” Your fingers tremble faintly against the table.

“…last night.” The words feel like stepping off something solid. There is no ground beneath them. Lyonel stills.

“…last night,” he repeats. You nod faintly, your gaze dropping again, unable to hold his now.

“I should not be,” you add quickly, the words rushing now, trying to contain what has already slipped free. “It was nothing of importance. I have corrected—”

“Stop.” The word halts you completely. “Do not do that,” he says, quieter now, but more deliberate. “Do not dismiss what it is before I even understand what you’re talking about.” Your throat tightens.

“I am not meant to dwell on such things.”

He exhales slowly. “What about last night?”

Your chest feels tight. Your thoughts louder. All of it overwhelming. 

“It was…” You struggle, searching for something safe. Something acceptable. “…unfamiliar.”

“That’s all?”

“No.”The word slips out before you can stop it. Silence follows and you feel it stretch. You feel him watching you—not pressing, not interrupting—but not letting you retreat either. Your fingers curl into your skirts.

“It stayed,” you whisper, shame falling upon your features.

His brow furrows slightly. “What stayed?”

“The feeling.” The moment the words leave you, you want them back. They sound small, foolish, but they are true.

“And that’s a problem?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it should not matter,” you say, your voice tightening. “It was…insignificant.”

“Did it feel insignificant?” You falter. No, it didn’t. Your silence answers for you.  “It mattered to you,” he says.

You shake your head faintly. “It should not have.”

“But it did.” You look down at your hands, at where his had been.

“I do not understand it,” you admit in a whisper.

“And so you reject it.”

“It feels wrong.”

“That it happened?” he asks quietly, “or that you liked it?” Your breath catches.

“The indulgence,” you whisper.

“It is not indulgent for you to enjoy your husband’s touch,” he says, more firmly now. “It is quite normal.”

“Normal?” The word feels foreign in your mouth.

“Yes.” You search his face. There is no jest. No dismissal. Only certainty in his words.

“I have never…” You falter. “Felt that before. It was quite jarring.”

“I know.” That quiet understanding unsettles you more than anything else.

“I still feel it,” you admit, the words barely above a breath. “And I do not know what to do with it.” Lyonel exhales softly and then his hand moves across the table.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Not sudden.

Not forcing.

He places it there between you, palm open.

Waiting.

Not taking.

Not asking.

Offering.

And everything in you fractures as your eyes fixate on his hand. You cannot look away. It is such a small thing. So simple. Just a hand, resting on wood, unmoving.

And yet—it feels like the center of something vast. Something consuming. Something that will swallow you whole if you take one step too far.

Your chest tightens.

Your pulse pounds.

Do not reach.

Do not seek.

Do not want.

The voices rise again, louder now, insistent, desperate to pull you back into something known, but beneath them that feeling remains.

Persistent.

Unyielding.

Waiting.

Your fingers twitch. Your breath trembles. You do not know which part of you is stronger. You do not know which part of you you’re about to betray.

Your hand lifts.

Slow.

Unsteady.

Suspended between everything you were and something you are only beginning to understand.

You hover.

You almost pull back.

You almost—

Lyonel sees it all.

Not just the movement—but the hesitation behind it. The way your breath stutters. The way your fingers falter as though something unseen is holding you in place. His gaze sharpens, not with impatience, but with a quiet, focused understanding. He does not move. Does not reach to close the distance himself. Even as something in his jaw tightens faintly—some instinct to bridge it for you—he holds where he is.

Waiting.

Letting you choose.

But he does not look away.

His eyes track every inch of your movement, every flicker of uncertainty that crosses your face. There is something restrained in him—something held back with effort—not forceful, not demanding, but present all the same. As if he knows this moment matters more than the outcome.

As if he knows that if he moves too soon, it will break—so he stays still.

Grounded.

Certain.

His voice comes then.

Quiet.

Steady.

“You don’t have to ask for it.” Your thoughts still and your eyes flicker up to him. His expression is not impatient. Not pressing.

Certain.

But there is something else there now, too—something deeper. Something that had been carefully leashed was now visible in the way his eyes hold yours. Not hunger in its rawest form, but something close to it. Something tempered. Chosen. Held back for you.

“That,” he says, his eyes flicking briefly to where your hand hovers near his, “is yours if you want it.” Your breath catches. “You need not shy away from it,” he continues, softer now. “And you need not earn it.”

His voice lowers slightly on the last words—not strained, but deliberate. Like something he believes fully. Like something he needs you to understand.

The words settle into you in a way nothing else has.

Not duty.

Not expectation.

Not permission.

Something else entirely.

“You can take it,” he says, his voice low, unwavering. “Freely.” And still—he does not move.

Even now, even as you waver. Even as your hand trembles just above his. He lets the space remain yours to cross.

Your chest tightens again, but not in the same way it did before.

Not with fear, but with something that feels dangerously close to release.

Your fingers lower.

Closer.

Closer—

And then—you touch him.

Not by accident. Not by reflex. Choice. 

There is the slightest shift in him when you do—not a flinch, not a start—but a quiet, almost imperceptible release of tension. Something in his shoulders loosens. Something in his breath steadies, deepens.

His hand closes around yours slowly, carefully, his fingers warm and steady against your skin.

Not taking.

Not claiming.

Meeting.

Holding.

His thumb shifts slightly against your knuckles—not gripping, not tightening—just there. A subtle acknowledgment. A grounding presence.

He watches you still to make sure you remain, to make sure you are choosing it still. Your breath leaves you in a quiet, unsteady exhale, and this time you do not pull away.

Your hand trembles in his—not violently. Not enough to pull away—but enough that he feels it. Enough that the unsteadiness of you is known, shared between your skin and his.

Lyonel does not tighten his grip. He does not still you. He simply holds.

Warm.

Certain.

Present.

His thumb moves once, slow and deliberate, brushing lightly over the back of your hand—not to soothe you into stillness, but to remind you that you are not alone in it.

You feel it, that small motion. It grounds you more than it should.

Your breath remains uneven, your chest tight, your thoughts still loud—but his hand does not waver, and something in you begins, however faintly, to follow that steadiness.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly. There is no judgment in it, just…recognition.

You swallow. “I am aware.” A ghost of something touches his expression—not amusement, not quite—but something softer.

The silence that settles between you is not strained.  It holds something now. Your hand remains in his without intention of taking it back, no matter how badly you wanted to retreat.

And after a brief moment he speaks again. His voice is low, measured, as if he is choosing each word carefully.

“There will be times you slip,” he says. Your gaze flickers toward him, uncertain. His eyes remain on your joined hands, not avoiding you—but anchoring the moment where it exists.

“Times where this—” his thumb shifts faintly against your skin, “—feels wrong again. Where you retreat back into what you know.”

“I thought I had…corrected it,” you say, softer now.

“You didn’t correct anything,” he replies, just as softly. “You panicked.” The word lands differently than you expect.

Not harsh.

Not condemning.

Just truth.

You inhale slowly, your breath catching at the edges.

“I do not know how to…hold both,” you admit. “What I was taught. And what I am…feeling.”

“You are learning,” he says. Your gaze lifts to him again. There is no frustration in his face now. Only that same steady certainty. “You’re learning something entirely new,” he continues. “It’s not going to sit right straight away. It’ll fight you with claws and teeth. You’ll fight it back just as fiercely.” A small pause sat between you. “And sometimes you’ll lose that fight.”

Your throat tightens faintly. “Then I have failed,” you say quietly. His grip shifts—not tighter, but firmer. Enough that you feel the intention of it.

“No.” The word is immediate. Certain.

“You don’t fail because you fall back into what you were shaped to be,” he says. “You fail when you stop trying to move forward at all.” The words settle into you slowly, rooting deeper than the others because they do not demand—they allow.

“You reached just now,” he adds, quieter still. “That counts for more than you think it does.” Your eyes drop back to your joined hands. To the way your fingers rest between his. To the way he holds them—not like something fragile, not like something temporary—but like something that belongs.

“I almost didn’t,” you admit.

“I know.”

“And if I hadn’t?” His thumb brushes your hand again.

“I’d still be right here,” he says. The simplicity of it catches you off guard. You look up at him again. “I’m not going anywhere,” he continues, his voice low, steady. “Not because you get it right. Not because you move at the pace I’d prefer.” A faint breath leaves him, almost something like a quiet huff. “Gods know you won’t.”

There’s no bite to it.

Only truth.

Only him.

“I’ll be here when you falter,” he says. “And when you pull back. And when you don’t know what to do with any of this.” His hand shifts slightly, adjusting around yours—not trapping, not holding you in place—just… fitting better. “I’ll catch you when you slip,” he finishes. “But you still have to try.”

“I am trying,” you say, quieter now—but not uncertain.

“I know.” Your hand still trembles faintly in his. Your thoughts are still loud and the battle is not gone, but you do not pull away.

You stay and Lyonel stays with you.

The days after settle into something quieter.

Not the rigid, suffocating quiet you were raised in—where silence meant obedience and stillness meant safety—but something more subtle. A space that is not empty, but held. There is a strain beneath it, yes, something stretched thin between you and Lyonel after that moment at the table—your hand in his, your breath unsteady, your thoughts slipping beyond your control—but it is not sharp.

It does not cut, it lingers. You had not fled him, not truly, but you had stepped back far enough that Lyonel noticed—far enough that he chose—deliberately—not to force you forward again.

It is the solar where he finds you that afternoon.

The room is warm despite the storm pressing against the walls beyond, the light muted as it filters through the narrow windows. A fire burns low in the hearth, steady and quiet, and the long table near the center has been claimed not for meals—but for your work.

You sit there, composed as ever, though your posture has softened in ways you do not quite recognize. A length of deep blue fabric rests in your lap, stretched carefully between your hands as your needle moves with quiet precision. Gold thread catches the dim light as you stitch—something intricate, deliberate.

Lyonel pauses in the doorway for a moment before entering so he could observe you as your fingers toil away at the intricate craft. He does not announce himself as he steps further in. He has learned you notice him anyway.

And you do.

Your hands still only briefly before resuming their careful rhythm, though your awareness of him settles into the room like a second presence.

“What is it?” he asks after a moment, his voice low as he steps further in. You do not look up immediately.

“It is not finished,” you reply, which is not quite an answer. He huffs softly under his breath, something almost amused in it, and circles slightly—not too close, not intrusive—just enough to try and catch a better glimpse.

“I gathered that,” he says. “What is it meant to be?” You hesitate just slightly.

“A wall hanging,” you answer at last. “For the lower hall.” His brows lift faintly.

“That’s a great deal of work for a hall most people pass through without looking up.”

“That does not mean it should be neglected,” you say, your needle slipping through the fabric with careful precision. “It is still seen.”

He studies you a moment longer, then he nods once, as if filing that away. You feel his gaze linger.

Not heavy.

Not pressing.

Present.

After a moment, he moves to sit—not at the table, but nearby, claiming a chair angled toward you rather than across from you.

Less distance.

Less formality.

He does not speak right away, allowing the quiet to settle naturally around you as you work. The only sounds in the solar are the soft pull of thread through fabric, the low crackle of the hearth, and the distant murmur of wind against stone. It is not an uncomfortable silence. Not anymore. But it is not entirely at ease, either.

As the afternoon stretches on, Lyonel begins to notice the pattern. It is subtle—so subtle that most would miss it—but he does not.

Every few minutes, your hands falter. The needle pauses mid-stitch, suspended as though caught between intention and retreat. Your lips part, just slightly, as if to begin a thought—something forming, something pressing forward—only for it to be pulled back again. You close your mouth, give the smallest shake of your head, and resume your work with renewed precision, as though the moment had not happened at all.

It happens once.

Then again.

And again.

Each time quieter than the last, but no less noticeable.

Lyonel says nothing.

He does not interrupt. Does not draw attention to it. He simply watches, patient in a way that has become deliberate with you, waiting to see if the thought will take shape on its own.

And eventually—after one pause that lingers longer than the rest—it does.

Your needle stills. Your breath shifts. And you do not retreat from it.

“In my time here, I have walked the corridors,” you say after a moment, not looking at him as you spoke. Your attention stays on the delicate stitching, in your hands to keep you distracted enough to get the words out. “To better understand the keep.”

His brow lifts slightly in interest. “Have you?” You nod faintly with a hum.

“I thought it necessary to know how things connect. Where everything is kept.” A pause. “For efficiency.”

“Of course,” he says dryly. You miss the tone entirely. “For necessity’s sake.”

“…I may have wandered further than required.” The admission is quiet, almost reluctant, your needle pausing mid-stitch as though even your hands are uncertain whether to continue. The gold thread glints faintly in the firelight, drawn taut between your fingers.

Lyonel, who had been watching you with that same steady attention he has grown accustomed to giving you, shifts forward slightly in his chair. Not abruptly—never abruptly—but enough that his interest becomes unmistakable.

“Further how?” he asks, his tone even, though there is a flicker of curiosity beneath it now. Not suspicion. Not reprimand. Just wanting to understand.

Your hands still completely. The needle rests against the fabric, unmoving, as you finally lift your eyes to him. It is not a full look—not bold—but it is more direct than you might have managed days ago.

“I entered rooms that were not directly relevant to my duties,” you say.

There is a pause.

A small one.

“And?” he prompts gently. Your fingers shift faintly, tightening against the fabric before loosening again.

“I should not have.” There it is.

Immediate.

Instinctive.

Unquestioned.

Lyonel exhales through his nose, the sound quiet but telling—something caught between disbelief and a faint, incredulous amusement. Not at you. Never quite at you, but at the shape of the thought itself.

“Why would you not be permitted?” He asks it plainly, but there is a patience behind it now. He has learned, in these short weeks, that if he does not pull the thread himself, you will leave it half-spoken, unfinished, tucked neatly away where it cannot be examined.

“They were not assigned to me,” you reply, just as plainly. The logic is simple.

Clean.

Immovable.

—to you.

“They’re part of your home,” he counters. The word lands before the rest of the sentence can.

Home.

It catches in you—quiet, but sharp enough that your breath falters almost imperceptibly. Your eyes drop again to your hands. Your fingers curl slightly in your lap, the fabric gathering beneath them.

“A lady should not…wander where she is not permitted,” you say carefully, choosing each word as though it must pass inspection before it is allowed to exist. “It may be seen as improper.”

“But you are permitted” he states and it causes you to falter further because he’s right, you know he is. No one has said it. No one has corrected you. No one has even looked at you twice for it.

And yet—it remains.

Lyonel hums softly under his breath, leaning back slightly, one hand braced against the arm of his chair as he studies you.

He lets the silence sit for a moment, not heavy, not pressing—just long enough for the weight of your own words to settle between you.

“This is your home.” He says it deliberately. He sees it in the way your hands stop moving, in the way your shoulders hold just a fraction tighter, that this has stilled you. “You don’t need permission to exist in it.”

The words land heavier than they should not because of how he says them, but because of what they challenge.

You do not know how to answer because permission has always been the structure beneath your feet. The thing that defined where you stood, where you moved, what you touched, what you were allowed to be.

Without it there is nothing to measure against.

“I am not certain how far that extends,” you admit after a moment, your voice quieter now, more honest than before.

Lyonel huffs a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite frustration, and drags a hand briefly over the back of his neck before settling again.

“As far as you like,” he says. “Any room. Any corridor. Any damned corner of this place. If it pleases you, it’s yours to walk into.” The certainty in the absolute way he speaks. Uncomplicated. Your fingers curl again, more slowly this time, as though testing the shape of something unfamiliar.

“If it pleases me,” you repeat, softer still. The phrase feels strange on your tongue.

Unstable.

Unstructured.

He nods once, watching you carefully now—not for the right answer, not for correction—but for understanding. “Aye,” he says and the concept lingers between you. There is more to this, Lyonel senses, than just an admission. 

You search for something mentally solid to hold onto. Something with substance. Something you can name without it feeling like you’re stepping into something forbidden.

“There is a library,” you say. The words slip out before you can stop them. Lyonel tries to school the surprise on his face, but it peeks through his eyes. .

“There is.” He confirms. You glance up at him and something flickers in your chest. “Storm’s End isn’t known for much beyond its namesake and stubborn men, but we’ve managed to gather a decent collection over the years.”

Small.

Uncertain.

But there.

“I found it,” you add, quieter now. “While walking.”

“And?” He continued to pull patiently. 

“It was early on,” you explain, your gaze dropping back to your work as your hands resume their steady rhythm. “When I was learning the keep. I did not linger.”

“Why not?” You hesitate because the answer feels foolish now.

“Because it was not necessary.”

“And you only do what’s necessary?”

“Yes.” The answer is automatic. Immediate. He studies you for a long moment, waiting for you to say what you need, with the words you’ve chosen. “You have a library,” you say again, softer this time.

“I do,” he agrees again, then, more pointedly— “As do you.” The correction lands differently than the others. Less like an argument. More like…something being placed into your hands. “You need not ask to enjoy it,” he continues. “Gods know nothing’s been touched in there for years. Do with it as you’d like.”

Silence settles.

You stare at him—at the ease with which he says it and the certainty—at the complete lack of restriction and for a brief moment something breaks through.

Your eyes lift.

Not cautiously.

Not carefully.

But openly.

Curiously.

Something brighter than anything he’s seen there before flickers unguarded and Lyonel sees it. It’s the first time he’s seen something in you that wasn’t measured or restrained or shaped by expectation.

It is yours.

And then—

Just as quickly—

It’s gone.

You look down again.

“I…will consider it,” you say, abandoning the endeavor after just the tiniest push. 

“It is important to you,” Lyonel insists, his voice steady but not unkind, as though he is placing something carefully before you rather than forcing it into your hands. “An interest of yours. I can see it clearly—even if you won’t say it.”

You do not answer immediately.

He watches it happen—the shift in you. The tightening. The quiet resistance that rises instinctively, meeting the truth before it can take form. It is not defiance. It is something older. Something learned so deeply it no longer asks permission to exist.

Your fingers still against the fabric in your lap.

Your gaze lowers and for a moment, it seems as though you will let it pass—let the silence swallow it, as you so often do, but this time you do not.

“I have always read,” you say quietly. The words are familiar. Safe. Already spoken between you before. You reach for them deliberately, like something steady in uncertain ground.

Lyonel tilts his head slightly, watching you—not interrupting, not correcting—just following.

“Have you?” he asks, not because he doubts it, but because he knows there is more beneath it. You nod faintly, though your eyes remain on your work.

“Since I was five. My mother insisted on it. It was…expected of a young lady.” Your voice steadies as you continue, slipping into that practiced cadence you know so well—measured, precise, untouched by anything that might betray too much. “Histories. Arithmetic. Ledgers. Proper correspondence.” You hear it as you speak.

The structure.

The discipline.

The purpose.

And the absence.

Your expression tightens almost imperceptibly, something small drawing between your brows as the truth of it settles in your own ears.

Lyonel hears it too. He leans back slightly, studying you with a quiet understanding that does not need to announce itself.

“That doesn’t sound like something that would make you look like that,” he says. The words are simple, but they hold meaning.  Your fingers press faintly into the fabric, the needle caught between them, unmoving, because he is right—that is not what you were thinking of.

You hesitate.

The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, but fragile. Like something that might break if handled too roughly.

“That was what I was allowed,” you say at last. The distinction is quiet, but it changes everything. Lyonel’s gaze sharpens—not in suspicion, but in attention. In recognition.

“And what weren’t you allowed?” The question is softer now.

Careful.

Not prying.

But opening something.

You feel it.

The weight of it.

The risk.

Your breath slows, just slightly, as your gaze drifts—not to him, but somewhere just beyond, as though the answer does not exist in the room with you.

For a moment, it seems as though you will not answer.

“…stories.” The word is quieter than the rest, less certain, as though it has not been spoken aloud in a very long time. Your fingers loosen slightly against the fabric. Lyonel shifts slightly beside you, attention sharpening.

“What kind of stories?” You close your eyes briefly and for a moment you are not here. You are somewhere smaller. Quieter. Colder.

You’re a small child sitting on the edge of a bed, candlelight flickering low, shadows dancing along the walls.

Your tiny hands ache. Your knuckles are raw, split, scabbed from lessons that demanded perfection you learned too slowly—lessons learned with the edge of a switch.

But the book in your lap—the book is something else. The book made the scabs and the ache disappear, because your mind disappeared into the words, if only for a little while. 

“Stories of places beyond our lands,” you say, your voice distant now. “Of ships that crossed endless seas. Of cities that never slept. Of people who…” You falter slightly. “…lived differently.”

“Differently how?” Lyonel asks. Your throat tightens.

“They were not…bound,” you say. The word feels strange. Unfamiliar. “They chose things,” you add, quieter. “Where they went. Who they were. What they did.” Silence follows.

You stare into the fabric that’s been placed onto the table, but you are not seeing it.

You are seeing the pages—the ink. The way your small fingers trembled as you turned them, careful not to tear what you were never meant to have. The pages were sacred to your young mind.

“I was not meant to read them,” you continue. “They were not…appropriate.”

“Where did you find them?” Lyonel’s voice is no higher than yours, his curiosity piqued. 

“In my father’s library,” you say. “Hidden amongst other volumes. I do not think he knew they were there.”

“And you took them.” There is no accusation in Lyonel’s voice—only a quiet acknowledgment of what that must have meant. The risk. The choice.

You nod faintly.

“I hid them,” you correct, and this time you do look at him—not defensively, not boldly, but with a kind of quiet insistence that the distinction matters. “In my chamber. Beneath the floorboards under my bed.”

Your gaze does not linger long before it drifts again, pulled back into the shape of the memory rather than the man before you.

Lyonel goes very still.

He can see it unfolding in you—the shift, the distance, the way your voice begins to follow something older than the room you sit in now.

“I would read them at night,” you continue, softer now, your fingers resting idle in your lap as though the act of stitching has become secondary to the act of remembering. “When no one could see. When there was nothing to correct. Nothing to… do.”

Your voice falters slightly on the last word.

Not because you do not know it.

Because you do.

Too well.

Something in your expression loosens—just for a moment. Not enough to be called ease, but enough that the edges of you soften around the memory.

“They were…” You hesitate. The word hovers there, unspoken, as though testing whether it is safe to exist. It is not a word you were taught to use. Not for something that belonged to you. “…quiet.” You say it carefully, like something fragile that might break if held too tightly. “They were the only place where I could think without being wrong.”

The confession settles between you like something heavy and real.

Lyonel’s chest tightens at the quiet certainty in it—the way you say it without dramatics, without bitterness, as though it is simply a fact of your life that requires no embellishment.

You do not notice.

You are not here.

Not entirely.

You are still in that room, that smaller space, lit by candlelight and secrecy, where the world could exist differently for a few stolen hours at a time.

“A servant found them while I was in my lessons and reported them to my father,” you say, your voice shifting again—not raised, not sharpened, but flattened. Controlled. “I did not replace the board as I should have.” The warmth is gone. The softness withdrew as quickly as it appeared. You retreat into something steadier. Safer.

“I was nine.” You do not elaborate. You do not need to. The silence that follows fills in what you do not say. Lyonel does not interrupt. Does not press, but he does not look away either.

He waits for you to continue. 

“I have not read one since.” Your hand shifts slightly against your lap, the movement unconscious—your fingers brushing faintly against your palm as though recalling the feel of paper, the turn of a page, something your body remembers even if your life does not allow it. 

“They were taken from me,” you continue. “Destroyed.” Your throat tightens, just barely, but Lyonel hears it. It’s not enough to break the control in your voice—but enough that something beneath it shifts. “My father burned them,” you add, more quietly now. “He made me watch.” The words are simple, unadorned, but they carry weight.

“He said it would remind me,” you continue, your gaze fixed somewhere distant, no longer in the room. “What comes of indulging in things that are not meant for me.”

Your fingers curl slightly, tighter this time.

“I had already been corrected,” you say, and now—just barely—your tone falters. “A switch. Across my already tattered hands so that if I ever felt the need to repeat my transgressions, I would feel the residual ache and think twice.” Your hand lifts without your conscious thought, your thumb brushing faintly over the knuckle of your index finger.

Lyonel exhales slowly through his nose. Anger flickers—but it is not loud. Not explosive. Not the kind that tears through a room.

It settles deeper.

Colder.

His jaw tightens, the muscle working once before stilling, and his gaze lingers—not on your face, but on your hands. On the way they have folded in on themselves again. Controlled. Composed. As though nothing had been revealed at all.

But he has seen it now and he cannot unsee it.

A child.

Small hands.

Already marked once and then struck again.

For reading.

For wanting.

His fingers grip against the arm of his chair, the wood creaking under the pressure before he forces himself to ease it. The anger is there—immediate, sharp—but he does not let it spill where it will do no good. He watches instead and something else settles into place.

A realization.

Slow.

Deliberate.

His eyes flick once more to your hands. To the way your thumb brushes faintly against your fingers when you grow uncertain. To the subtle tightening you do not seem to notice doing. The habit he has seen before—quiet, controlled, practiced.

The pinching.

Small.

Precise.

A correction.

His expression shifts, not outwardly—not enough for most to notice—but something behind it sharpens because now he understands.

The pinching was not a nervous habit. It was not idle. It was learned.

Replaced.

Refined.

The echo of something harsher—something that used to come from outside of you—now turned inward. Lyonel’s voice, when it comes, is quieter than before, but it is more measured.

“That was not correction.” The words are simple, unadorned, but they land with a weight that does not bend. His gaze lifts from your hands to your face. “You were a child,” he continues. “Reading in the dark like it was something to be ashamed of.” His mouth tightens faintly. “That should have been encouraged, not beaten out of you.” His eyes drift back down again to your hands.

Still folded.

Still composed.

Still holding themselves just a little too tightly.

“And now you do it to yourself.” The observation is quiet and there is no mistaking what he means. Your fingers still slightly, barely enough to be seen, but his eyes catch it.

“You pinch,” he adds, not accusing—never accusing—just… naming it. “When you think you’ve said the wrong thing. When you think you’ve stepped out of line.” His eyes lift again, meeting yours fully now. “That didn’t come from nowhere.” The words settle between you.

Not harsh.

Not pressing.

But undeniable.

He leans back slightly then, giving the moment space—not retreating, not withdrawing—just allowing it to exist without forcing you to answer it. The anger in him does not fade.

It steadies.

It shifts.

It becomes something else, something quieter–more resolute.

“I’m not going to correct you like that,” he says after a moment, his voice low, certain. “Not with my hand. Not with anything.”

A beat.

Then, more quietly—

“And I don’t want you doing it either. I meant it when I said it has to stop.” There is no command in it. No demand. It was a line drawn.

Clear.

Unmoving.

And the look he gives you now—is not one of a lord to his lady, but one of a man who has seen something he cannot accept—and has decided, without saying it outright—that it ends here.

“The library is yours without question,” he ultimately says. “You can do with it as you like. Read what you want. Rearrange it. Spend as much or as little time there as you wish. Ignore it entirely if that’s your preference.” A faint breath of something almost amused touches his voice. “Though I suspect that would be a waste.”

You didn’t know how to meet his humor, so you let his words set. 

“You may add to it,” he continues, as if this is the simplest thing in the world. “Any tomes you wish to bring in—histories, stories, whatever catches your interest—you need only tell me. I’ll have them brought here by the wagon-full if need be.”

The reaction is immediate—too sudden to catch, too unfamiliar to name. Pressure builds behind your eyes, sharp and insistent, and you blink quickly as if that alone might steady it. It doesn’t because this is not confusion. It is something you have not felt in so long you do not recognize it at first.

A wagon full.

The words echo, heavy not with excess—but with freedom.

No limit.

No condition.

No quiet correction waiting beneath it.

Your fingers flex faintly in your lap, the fabric slipping under them as your focus leaves it entirely. You look at him—longer than you usually allow yourself—and there is something unguarded in it.

“You would not…” you begin, your voice catching before you can steady it. “There would be no need to limit it?” The question is careful. Fragile. You are waiting for the boundary and he does not give you one.

“If you ask for it, it’s yours.” Your chest tightens. The pressure behind your eyes sharpens, and this time you cannot ignore it. You look down quickly, your composure slipping just enough that you do not trust your face to hold.

You cannot remember the last time you cried, not as a young woman nor as a child.

“This is…” you start, then stop. The words do not come. Not for this. Not for something given so freely. “I do not know what to say,” you admit quietly.

It is the truth.

Bare.

Unrehearsed.

Your breath trembles faintly as you try to steady it, your gaze lifting again—hesitant, uncertain.

And for a fleeting moment—before you can hide it—there is something in your eyes that has never been there before.

Pure, genuine gratitude. 

The great hall of Storm’s End is alive again.

Not with the rough, unguarded noise of Lyonel’s men—but something more tempered. Refined. Watched.

Two vassal houses have come to dine, their banners draped beneath the crowned stag, their colors bright against the dark stone. Lords and ladies fill the hall in silks and velvet, their laughter softer, their voices controlled. Even their indulgence carries restraint—as if each gesture is made with awareness of who is watching.

You move among them as though you have always belonged here.

Because you have.

This is familiar ground.

Not the people. Not the place.

But the expectation.

Every step is measured. Every word placed with care. Your posture never falters, your expression never slips beyond what is appropriate. You greet each guest with warmth that does not linger too long. You recall names, alliances, details that earn approving looks and subtle nods. You guide the servants with a glance, a quiet word, ensuring nothing stumbles, nothing delays, nothing disrupts.

You are seamless.

You are composed.

You are flawless.

It feels easy—too easy.

Lyonel observes it.

From his seat at the high table, his presence broad and unmissable even in stillness, he watches you move through the hall. Where he commands attention without effort, you shape it with intention. Where he fills space, you refine it.

You are not out of place here.

You are perfectly placed, and when you return to your seat beside him, it is with the same precision. You fold into yourself neatly, hands settling, spine straight, expression calm.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

“You’re frightening them.”

His voice is low, threaded with quiet amusement as he leans slightly toward you, just enough that the words are yours alone.

You glance at him. “My lord—”

“Lyonel,” he corrects without looking, lifting his cup, a faint arch to his brow.

You adjust, only slightly. “Lyonel.” His mouth twitches.

“Half the room looks like they’re being inspected for faults,” he adds, taking a drink. Your eyes flicker briefly across the hall. Nothing appears amiss.

“I am ensuring everything is in order,” you reply.

“They know,” he says. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.” Your hands settle more firmly in your lap.

“It is my responsibility to see that our guests are properly attended.”

“Aye,” he mutters. “And they are.” There is something in the way he says it, but you cannot identify it. Before you can ask, a voice interrupts.

“My lady.” You turn at once. Two women approach the high table, their gowns rich but not ostentatious. Their smiles were warm in a way that feels…genuine. Not measured for advantage. Not sharpened for scrutiny.

“Forgive the interruption,” one of them says, dipping into a graceful curtsey, the other following just behind her. “We were hoping—if you might spare a moment—that you would speak with us about the new tapestries you’ve commissioned.” Surprise fills you at their request.

Not a critique.

Not a test.

“To see them more closely,” the second adds, her eyes bright with interest. “They are quite striking from here, but I would dearly love to admire the work up close if you’ll permit it.”

You hesitate only for a moment. It is instinct. Refusal sits at the ready on your tongue—polite, appropriate, dismissive, but something in their expressions gives you pause.

Interest.

Not obligation.

Interest in you.

Your gaze flickers, almost without thinking, to Lyonel. He is already watching–of course he is. There is something in his expression—not amusement, not quite—but a quiet, knowing interest. As if he sees the moment before you do. As if he knows what you are about to say.

His brow lifts slightly, and then he gives you a small nod–just one–with a small grin touching his mouth as he lifts his cup, as if to say—go on.

Encouragement.

Not command.

Not expectation.

Your stomach tightens because you cannot refuse that. Not this time.

“…Of course,” you say, softer than before. The words feel different.

Less practiced.

More chosen.

You rise carefully from your seat, smoothing your skirts as you do. When you round the table, the two women dip into another polite curtsey.

“Lady Estermont,” one introduces. “And this is my good-sister, Lady Wylde.”

You incline your head in return. “It is a pleasure.” And you mean it–that realization comes quietly.

Unexpected.

You have never been permitted this before. Not conversation like this. Not interest without scrutiny. Not inclusion without expectation. They fall into step beside you easily, as though it is the most natural thing in the world.

“You have been a most attentive host,” Lady Estermont says warmly. “Truly, I do not think I have ever seen a hall run so smoothly.”

“Not even our own,” Lady Wylde adds with a soft laugh. “I fear I shall be quite dissatisfied upon our return.” Heat rises under your skin at the praise. You are not prepared for it, not from women like this.

“You are kind to say so,” you reply, your voice measured—but softer than it had been at the table. They do not seem to notice the carefulness, or if they do, they do not press it.

From the high table, Lyonel watches. A lesser lord speaks at his side, something about coastal tariffs or shipping routes—he does not quite catch it. Not fully. Because his gaze drifts back to you and he sees the shift.

Subtle, but there. The way your shoulders are not quite as rigid. The way your responses are not as clipped. The way your expression—careful still—is touched by something lighter.

And when one of the lords leans in with a grin, nodding toward you—

“Your lady wife seems to have settled well, my lord.” he says, a note of approval in his tone. “My own has not stopped speaking of her since we arrived. She’s quite taken.”

Lyonel’s attention sharpens and this time he smiles. Not the sharp grin he gives his men. Not the dry amusement he offers at court.

“She has,” he agrees simply without embellishment.

No jest.

Just truth.

Across the hall, you do not hear it, but you feel it in the way your chest feels lighter than it has all evening. In the way you allow yourself to guide the ladies closer to the tapestries, your hand lifting slightly—not rigid, not rehearsed—as you gesture to the woven scenes.

“They were commissioned from a master in the Reach,” you explain, your voice gaining steadiness as you speak of something tangible. “The dyes are rare. The threadwork—”

“—Oh, it is exquisite,” Lady Wylde murmurs, stepping closer, her fingers hovering just shy of the fabric. “Look at the detail in the stags—”

“And the storm,” Lady Estermont adds. “It almost feels as though it moves.”

You nod faintly. “That was the intent.” You find yourself explaining more not because you must, but because they are listening. Because they are interested. Because they are speaking with you, not at you. And something in your chest—something small, something long denied—begins to open.

Carefully.

Cautiously.

You glance between them. Their expressions are easy, unforced, and the thought comes quietly.

I want them to like me. 

It startles you. You have never needed that before. You were never allowed to want it. But now—standing here, with their attention, their warmth, their interest—you feel it.

The possibility of something more.

Not obligation.

Not duty.

Connection.

You let yourself linger in it for a moment, just enough to feel it take shape. And you find that it does not feel like something you must suppress.

It feels like something you might be allowed to keep.

Lyonel sits at ease in a way that seems almost at odds with the weight of the space. One leg is slightly forward, his arm draped over the armrest of the carved chair, fingers tapping idly against the wood as he listens.

The antlered crown rests upon his head. It suits him, you’ve decided—not because it elevates him—but because it does not change him. He wears it like he wears everything else, naturally, as though it always belonged there. 

“…and the boundary markers were moved in the night, my lord,” the petitioner says, wringing his cap between rough hands. “Three lengths into my field, they were. I’ve tilled that land since my father’s time, and his before him—”

“And your neighbor?” Lyonel asks, not unkindly, but without softness either.

“He claims it was always his,” the man says, voice tightening, with a shake of his head. “But it weren’t.” Lyonel hums quietly, leaning forward just slightly.

“Call the neighbor in,” he says to one of the guards. “We’ll hear both sides before I decide anything.” The man bows quickly—too quickly—and is ushered aside.

You watch it all, not just the words, but the way they are given. The way they are received.

The ease of it unsettles you more than the disputes themselves.

There is order here. You can see it. It moves beneath everything like an unseen framework—each petitioner called in turn, each voice heard, each matter considered before anything is decided—and yet it is not rigid.

No one is silenced before they finish speaking. No one is corrected for tone, for misstep, for speaking too plainly. There is no raised voice from the dais, no immediate punishment handed down to assert control.

It feels… loose, but not chaotic—that is what you cannot reconcile. 

Your fingers tighten faintly in your lap as you try to place it—this balance you have never been allowed to witness before.

Another petitioner steps forward, a woman. That alone draws your attention.

Her dress is plain, work-worn, her hands roughened from labor, but her shoulders are squared in a way that surprises you. Not defiant—but not diminished either. She does not shrink beneath the weight of the hall, though the tremor in her hands betrays her. She dips into a bow. 

“My lord,” she begins, giving something that’s a mix of a bow and a curtsey, then just as quickly, her gaze flickers to you. “My lady.” It is brief—respectful, unrehearsed—and it stills something in you.

You are accustomed to being acknowledged by servants—by those within the household who have been instructed to do so—who know their place beneath you. But this is different.

There is no instruction here. No expectation that she must, and yet she does. Not out of fear. Not out of rigid propriety, but because you are there. Because you are seen.

The feeling settles quietly in your chest, unfamiliar and strangely weighty, before the moment passes and her attention returns to Lyonel.

“My lord,” she continues, voice steady at first, though it wavers at the edges, “my son was taken for work on the docks. Three days past now, and no word. I was told—” she collects her words, clearing her throat. 

“You were told what?” Lyonel asks. There is a shift in his tone—not directed at her, but at what she is saying. Sharper. Focused.

She swallows. “That he would be returned by nightfall,” she says. “He’s ten, my lord. He’s never been gone so long.” You feel the hall quiet as she speaks.

Ten.

The word settles heavier than the rest. Lyonel leans forward slightly, his earlier ease gone, replaced with something more intent.

“Who took him?” he asks.

She names a man—one of the dock foremen, from the sound of it. A name that seems to carry recognition, if not weight, among the men at Lyonel’s side.

“He came with two others,” she continues, voice tightening now that she has begun. “Said they needed hands. Promised coin. Promised he’d be returned before the tide turned. I would not have let him go otherwise.”

“And you’ve had no word since?” Lyonel asks.

She shakes her head quickly. “I went to the docks myself yesterday. They would not let me past the lower steps. Said women were not permitted, but I just wanted my boy.” Her voice catches slightly then, but she presses on. “I have no husband to go in my stead. It is just me and him.”

That lands, not loudly, but you feel it beside you.

Lyonel’s jaw tightens. You notice it now—the small shifts you are beginning to recognize. The way his fingers still against the arm of his chair. The way his posture changes not in size, but in weight.

Deliberation.

Restraint.

“Did he agree to the work?” Lyonel asks. The question seems almost misplaced at first, but you understand it a moment later.

Consent.

She hesitates. “He said he would go if it meant coin for the week,” she admits. “But he did not understand what was being asked of him. He is a child.”

“Aye,” Lyonel says quietly. “That he is.” Silence settles briefly as he thinks, then he turns his head slightly toward one of his councilors. “You know the man she named?”

“Aye, my lord,” the man replies. “Oversees loading at the eastern docks. Known to take on extra hands when ships come in heavy.”

“Known to keep them past their due?” Lyonel asks.

The councilor hesitates and that hesitation is answer enough, even in your eyes. Your fingers press tighter together because now you see it forming—the shape of the matter. Not just a missing boy, but something larger.

Something allowed.

Something overlooked.

“Have him brought here,” Lyonel says.The command is immediate, not raised or shouted, but absolute. “Now.”

The guard does not hesitate. He moves at once, armor shifting as he turns, the sound of his boots echoing briefly against the stone before the doors close behind him. Lyonel does not look away from the woman.

“Sit,” he tells her, gesturing faintly to a bench along the side of the hall. She blinks—once, twice—as if unsure she heard him correctly.

“My lord?”

“You’ve been standing long enough,” he says. “Sit. We’ll have answers.”

She obeys, slowly, as though the permission itself is unfamiliar and gives another half curtsey.

And you—

You sit beside him, your hands still folded, your posture still perfect. Every inch of you arranged in the way you were shaped to be seen. Composed. Controlled. Untouchable.

But something has shifted.

Not in the room.

In you.

Because this—

This is not punishment.

Not yet.

There has been no raised voice, no sharp correction delivered before all present to assert control. No immediate verdict meant to remind everyone—especially you—where authority lies.

This is not dismissal.

Not indifference.

It is something else entirely.

Something that gathers.

Something that builds before the decision is made, like the storm that so often presses against the walls of Storm’s End—felt before it is seen, understood before it breaks.

You feel it settle into your chest, quiet but persistent. It rests there beside that earlier flicker when the woman called you my lady—not as a rehearsed courtesy, but as something genuine. Something given, not demanded.

It is unfamiliar.

And yet it is real.

Not discomfort, not quite.

It’s something else—something you do not yet have a name for.

The petitions continue.

One after another, they come forward.

Land disputes argued over with stubborn pride. Broken agreements recounted in careful, defensive tones. Stolen goods, misplaced blame, grievances both petty and profound.

Small things.

Large things.

Lives laid bare in a way you have never witnessed before.

You watch them speak—freely, openly, without being cut short. You watch Lyonel listen—not just hear, but listen. Not rushing, not dismissing, not deciding before the full shape of the matter is placed before him.

Back home, matters like this were handled…differently. You would not have been present. You would not have been permitted to sit beside your father as he passed judgment. You would not have heard the arguments, the pleas, the explanations. You would have known only the outcome, and even that—only if it was deemed necessary for you to know.

Justice, as you understood it then, was something delivered. Final. Unquestioned. Not something examined, turned over, weighed in full view of those it affected.

Here…you are expected to see it, to hear it, to understand it. The expectation perturbs you more than exclusion ever did because this requires something of you.

Not obedience.

Not silence.

Thought.

Lyonel glances at you. It is quick enough that no one else would notice, but you do. Your spine stiffens slightly, instinct tightening through you like a pulled thread. There it is again, that silent question in his dark eyes—What do you think? Your gaze drops immediately, seeking safety in the familiar because you do not know how to answer that.

Your thoughts feel…unformed. Not incorrect—not yet, but unfinished. And there is no correction waiting to shape them for you. No guiding hand to place them neatly where they belong.

There is only the question and you do not yet know how to exist within it.

Your mind drifts, unbidden, back to your father’s hall. You can see it clearly. The rigid lines of it. The way voices were measured, careful not to overstep. The way men spoke was not to be heard, but to avoid offense. The way decisions were made quickly—decisively—without the need for prolonged discussion.

There had been order. There had been structure. There had also been fear.

You had never questioned it because it worked. It was effective. It was all you knew.

In this hall, there is something different, not the absence of order, but the presence of something else alongside it.

Lyonel does not rule through fear and still he is obeyed, not reluctantly, but willfully. You see it in the way they stand before him. In the way they speak. In the way they listen when he speaks in return.

There is no chaos here, no disorder. Only a different kind of control and it was one you do not yet understand.

Your gaze lifts to watch him again, almost without your permission. The antlered crown rests upon his head, but it does not define him. It does not make him larger than he already is. If anything, it seems to settle into place as though it belongs to him, not the other way around.

He leans forward slightly as another petitioner speaks, his attention fixed, his presence steady. There is nothing careless in him, despite the ease he carries. Nothing soft in the way you were taught softness looks.

This is not softness. It is fairness—measured, deliberate. He sees reason where others might not care to look for it. He allows space where others would fill it with command. He listens where others would decide. You realize, slowly, that this is not weakness.

It is something far more difficult to bear. It is something that requires restraint and understanding.

Choice.

You begin to see him differently, not just as your lord. Not just as the man who holds authority over this hall, this keep, this life you have stepped into.

Something else.

Someone else.

He is your husband–the one who waits, the one who asks—the one who looks at you as though your thoughts matter, even when you do not yet know what they are.

It rattles you because you do not understand where it comes from, what shaped it. What shaped him.

Your mind begins to wander in such a way you haven’t allowed yourself to think since you were a child. What had Lyonel’s upbringing been like? The thought comes quietly, but it lingers because something build this man beside you into who he was at this current moment in time.

Had he been allowed to speak freely as a boy? To question? To think? Had he been listened to? Guided, rather than corrected?

The idea feels almost bitingly foreign—almost impossible—and yet it must be true because this man did not come from the same place you did.

Not in spirit.

Not in shaping.

Not in any way that matters.

Your gaze drifts to him again, though you are careful not to let it linger too long, and yet your mind does. It moves where your eyes do not dare to remain, circling him in a way that feels…new. Not observant in the way you were taught to assess, to measure, to remain proper—but curious.

You try—tentatively, uncertainly—to imagine him as something other than what he is now. Not the lord seated beside you. Not the man with a crown made of wide stag antlers resting easily upon his head, but as a boy.

The image comes slowly, as though your mind does not quite know how to construct it at first. You begin with the curls. They are easier—wild, untamed, less disciplined than they are now. Dark and unruly, falling into wide, bright eyes that have not yet learned restraint. You can almost see them catching sunlight rather than hearthlight, wind-tossed rather than carefully smoothed, a boy who did not yet feel the need to contain himself—who couldn’t sit still.

Was he bright? The thought comes with a quiet certainty. Not just in wit—but in spirit. A boy who laughed easily. Who moved without hesitation. Who did not measure every step before taking it.

You imagine him running along the cliffs of Storm’s End, the wind whipping at his clothes, the sea crashing below—not something to fear, but something to meet. Something to challenge. 

A boy who shouted into the storm just to hear it answer back.

He was mischievous, perhaps. You can almost see it—the glint in his eye, the kind of boy who tested boundaries not out of defiance, but out of curiosity. The kind of boy who pushed simply to see what would happen, to understand rather than to rebel.

Was he like the boys in your stories? The ones who went seeking adventure where others were scared to look? Was he one of the boys who climbed where they should not, who spoke when they were told to be silent, who laughed too loudly and lived too freely?

Was he a boy who was never punished for it in the way you had been? Your chest tightens at the thought because you can see it too easily.

No—you think to yourself—you do not think he was careless. There is too much thought in him now for that to have been absent then. Perhaps he was both. Bright and bold, but also observant. A boy who listened—not because he had to, but because he wanted to understand. Who was allowed to question without being struck down for it. Who was corrected, yes—but not broken by it.

Guided.

The word settles differently now.

Not as something forced, but as something given. Something that shaped without stripping away.

The thought shifts unexpectedly—you imagine children. Not in the distant, abstract way you once did when Lyonel first spoke of heirs—something expected, something to be fulfilled, something that was inevitably there—but now as something more tangible. More real.

You imagine a boy with his curls. Dark and unruly, and falling into big, brown eyes that carry that same spark of life you see in Lyonel now. You imagine smaller hands, reaching, grabbing, exploring the world without hesitation. A voice too loud, too curious, asking questions you would not know how to answer—not because you are incapable, but because you were never allowed to ask them yourself.

You imagine his temperament—that steadiness and warmth—that unrestrained presence that does not demand fear to command respect. Something in your chest tightens.

You cannot imagine raising such a child the way you were raised—not anymore. You cannot imagine those curls stilled. That laughter quieted. That curiosity beaten into silence. That light leaving those beautiful eyes as it left yours.

The thought—it feels wrong. Not improper. Not indulgent.

Wrong.

You feel as if a door had been left just slightly ajar—a door that had been locked shut your entire life—because you were now questioning your very way of life just by being in this man’s presence. You were questioning all that you were taught, everything that you knew. Your fingers pinched subconsciously, not as a punishment, but as a means of bringing you back to the present and still—your mind wandered as if a chained animal had been let loose to run free in the hills.

Once, the thought of allowing a child freedom—even measured, even guided—would have seemed reckless. Disorderly. A failure of control.

Now you look upon Lyonel—at the man he is, the way he listens, the way he waits, the way he chooses—and you imagine him as that boy again.

Small.

Bright.

Untamed.

You imagine that same boy in your father’s hall. Under your father’s rule. Under your father’s hand. You imagine the wild curls cut short, the laughter stifled, the questions unanswered—or worse, punished. You imagine that light in him dimmed. Contained. Shaped into something harder.

Colder.

Smaller.

It makes something inside you recoil like you’ve been struck from within.

He would not be this man, you realize. He would not be Lyonel. Not as he is. And you wonder—who would you have been in another life had you been permitted to flourish instead of fester? Your fingers loosen slightly in your lap, the tension easing without your notice because the realization settles slowly, but firmly.

What shaped him—it mattered.

How he was raised—it mattered.

And what once seemed preposterous—the idea of raising children with guidance rather than force, with patience rather than fear—it no longer feels impossible. It begins to make sense, not as weakness, not as indulgence.

It is something that creates…this.

Him.

Your gaze drifts to him again, carefully, but you do not look away as quickly.

You are not just seeing your lord now—not just the man you were given to. You are beginning to see the person beneath it, layer by layer, and it seems endless. Each piece reveals the next. Each moment reshaping what you thought you understood. And you know with quiet certainty that something is shifting within you.

It doesn’t show all at once, not enough to name, but enough that you can feel it. Enough that you cannot ignore it anymore. 

Lyonel glances at you again briefly and you do not look away immediately. Not as quickly, not as completely, but enough to wonder what it might feel like to answer him genuinely when he asks your opinion. 

Another case is brought forward, though this one does not arrive with the same hesitant deference as the others.

It comes in loud.

Two men are ushered forward at once, their argument already spilling into the hall before they’ve even reached the center. Their voices overlap, sharp and heated, each trying to speak over the other as if volume alone will win the matter.

“She’s mine by right!” the first insists, stepping forward without waiting to be acknowledged. His clothes mark him as a tradesman of some means—well-kept, if worn, his posture rigid with certainty. “Her father gave his word. There was an agreement made, witnessed and sworn. Coin to follow at harvest.”

“She chose me!” the second cuts in, younger, broader, his voice rough but steady. “Your ‘agreement’ was talk over ale. No contract. No coin. No claim but your own say.”

“Silence.” Lyonel does not raise his voice. He does not need to. The word lands clean and final, and both men fall quiet at once, though the anger still simmers just beneath the surface. He leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along its carved edge, gaze moving between them with measured patience.

“You’ll speak one at a time,” he says. “Or I’ll decide this without another word from either of you, and I promise you won’t like the outcome.” The first man swallows, stepping forward again, more carefully now.

“My lord,” he begins, forcing steadiness into his voice, “I had a proper agreement with her father. Witnessed. Spoken before men of standing. She was to be wed to me come harvest. I’ve already begun preparations—set aside coin, made room in my household. I’ve acted in good faith.” Lyonel’s gaze sharpens slightly.

“Witnessed, you say,” he replies. “Do you have those witnesses present? Men of substance, not drinking companions who’ll say whatever suits you?” The man hesitates—just for a fraction of a moment.

“Aye,” he says, more quickly than is convincing. “They can be called.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Lyonel says, voice quieter now, more dangerous for it. “Are they here?”

A beat.

“…No, my lord.”

Lyonel exhales softly through his nose. “And the coin?”

“Promised for harvest.”

“Promised is not paid.” The man’s jaw tightens, but he presses on. “But there is still some weight to the claim.” Lyonel’s attention shifts to the second man. “And you?”

The younger man steps forward. “She never agreed to it, my lord. Not once. Her father tried to bind her to him without her word. She came to me of her own will. I’ve not hidden her, nor forced her. She’s stayed openly with my family.” A murmur stirs faintly through the hall. Lyonel’s fingers tap once against the arm of his chair in thought.

“No contract. No coin. No witnesses present to support the claim,” he says, more to himself than to them, though both hear it. “Only a spoken agreement with a father who is not standing here to answer for it.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap because that sounds incomplete, unstable. And yet, it is being weighed and not entirely dismissed.

“Bring her forward,” Lyonel says. The young woman is escorted in, walking on her own, shoulders tense but unbowed. Your gaze fixes on her immediately.

She looks determined, sure of herself, and Lyonel studies her for a moment.

“You’ve heard what’s been said?”

“Yes, my lord.” She says, bowing her head. 

“And what say you?” There is no hesitation.

“He wouldn’t be the first man my father promised me to, my lord. It’s a nasty habit of his,” she says, “My father spoke with him, yes, but he did so well into his cups. I gave no word, no promise.”

The first man bristles. “Your father’s word binds you—”

“Fathers do have ownership over their daughters, you are correct in that,” Lyonel cuts in evenly. “But drunken words without anything to bind them do not.” The first man falters.

Lyonel continues, voice steady but firm. “You’ve no coin exchanged, no written contract, and no present witnesses here to support your claim—nor do you have her father present. Had you any number of those things, we would be having a different discussion. You have an agreement made in absence, with well wishes as a follow through.” The words settle. He turns his gaze back to the woman.  Silence follows, heavier this time because this is no longer simple. Because there was an agreement—however weak. Because precedent matters. Because order matters.

You feel it then—the weight of it—how this could’ve gone either way. How it should go one way, how it might go another. Lyonel leans back slightly, studying all three of them. When he speaks again, it is slower, fully deliberate.

“There was an understanding,” he says, glancing briefly at the first man. “I won’t pretend there wasn’t. And I won’t ignore it entirely, because that’s how disputes turn into feuds.” Your breath stills. This is the part you understand. Structure. Consequence.

“—And yet,” he continues, his gaze flits to the woman, then back to the first man, “you brought no proof strong enough to bind her to it. No coin exchanged, no contract signed, no witnesses of standing to uphold your claim here and now.” The man stiffens, but does not interrupt. “You gambled on a promise and expected it to hold without securing it,” Lyonel says plainly. “That is your failing, not hers.”

A heavy pause silenced the hall. 

“The agreement does not hold. That is my verdict.” The finality lands heavily, decisively.

The first man steps forward, anger flaring again. “Then what of the agreement, my lord? What of the insult? You’d let such a slight stand?”

“I will tell you this now—my word is final,” Lyonel replies, sharper now. “I’m settling it.” He gestures faintly toward the steward. “You’ll bring your accounts of what you’ve spent preparing for this match. If they’re fair, you’ll be compensated fairly. That’s the extent of what you’re owed and all that my patience will extend to it.”

“And her, my lord?” the man demands. Lyonel’s gaze hardens.

“She is no longer your concern.” Silence. “Your matter is settled.” The man’s jaw tightens, but this time—he bows knowing he’s pushed too far.

The tension drains slowly from the hall as the  woman is dismissed and the second man follows after her. And you—you sit very still because that was not chaos. That was not softness. That was not indulgence.

It was a decision—a difficult one—and your gaze drifts once more to Lyonel. He is already watching you when your eyes find him.

Not questioning.

Not prompting.

Just…aware.

As if he knows exactly what that moment has done to you and he’s waiting to see what you make of it.

The hall begins to thin as the afternoon stretches on.

Voices that once filled the space begin to taper into quieter murmurs, petitioners dismissed to wait along the edges of the great room. The steady rhythm of cases slows, not in urgency, but in weight. What remains feels heavier. More deliberate.

Outside, the sky has darkened further. What little light filters through the narrow windows is dulled by thickening clouds, casting everything in a muted gray. The air shifts—dense, expectant. A storm is coming. You can feel it in your bones now, just as you had earlier.

Another petitioner is dismissed.

The echo of their footsteps fades.

And in the quiet that follows—

Lyonel exhales through his nose and leans back slightly in his chair. He turns to you fully this time—not a passing glance or a fleeting check.

Intent.

Present.

“Well?” he asks. The question is simple. You blink, your spine straightening instinctively beneath the attention.

“My lord?” His brow lifts faintly, not in impatience—but in expectation.

“What do you think?” he clarifies. Your breath catches because there it is again.

A question not born of obedience or recitation, but of thought. Of opinion.

Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap, the fabric of your skirts pressing into your palms as your mind begins its familiar search—for structure, for correctness, for something already shaped and ready to be given.

It finds nothing, only fragments—Images—feelings that do not yet have names. You hesitate longer than you should, long enough that you are aware of it. Long enough that he is too.

“They are…varied,” you say at last, the words careful, measured—safe. It is not untrue, but it is not all. Lyonel’s mouth twitches faintly, something caught between amusement and patience.

“Astute,” he murmurs as heat creeps under your skin. You lower your gaze at once, the reaction automatic, familiar—your body correcting before your mind can follow.

“I have not seen such proceedings before,” you add, quieter now. “Not…in this way.”

There is a pause.

“I gathered as much,” he says. There is no mockery in it—only observation. That, more than anything, steadies you. “That is why I requested you to sit in on this session. A fresh perspective is good to have once in a while.” You glance at him briefly, then back to the smaller crowd of people who mosied around the hall.

“It is…different,” you continue, the word feeling insufficient even as you say it.

“How so?” The question comes easily from him. He liked to pry, you learned, but only to learn—to push you further than your short answers. He is not asking for the right answer, only your answer. You hesitate again because the truth feels dangerous. Because it does not align cleanly with what you were taught. Because it is still forming, still shifting beneath the surface of your understanding.

“They are allowed to speak freely,” you say slowly, choosing each word with care. “Without…fear of immediate correction.” Your voice lowers slightly on the last word, as though it carries more weight than you intend. Lyonel leans back a fraction, considering.

“Aye,” he says. “Hard to get the truth out of someone who’s too afraid to give it.” Your chest tightens because what he’s saying makes sense—more sense than it should. More sense than what you were taught. Your fingers loosen, just slightly.

“And you ask for their perspectives,” you add, quieter now, your gaze drifting—not to him, but to the space where the woman had stood earlier. “Even when it…contradicts expectation.”

Lyonel’s brow lifts faintly as he huffs softly, a breath of something almost amused—but not dismissive.

“Especially then.” The words settle into you with a certain weight and you fall quiet once more because contradiction was always met with correction.

Always.

Your gaze drops to your hands, though they are no longer as tightly wound as they had been before.

“And what do you think of that?” he asks.

The question comes softer this time—less like something to be answered and more like something to be considered. You feel it shift inside you, your thoughts pressing against one another, not in conflict, but in confusion.

Structure.

Order.

What you were taught.

What you are seeing.

The two do not align and yet they both clearly exist.

“It feels…” You falter. Your voice catches because there are too many words and none of them fit cleanly into your thoughts.

Wrong.

Free.

Uncertain.

Necessary.

You swallow. “…confusing,” you settle on at last. It is the closest thing to truth you can manage without unraveling further. Lyonel nods once.

“Good.” Your head lifts slightly, caught off guard.

“Good?” you echo, quieter now, more confusion coloring your tone.

“Aye,” he says, watching you—not closely enough to corner, but enough to notice. “Means you’re paying attention, you’re adjusting, you’re learning.” You do not know what to do with that because confusion has never been good.

You hold the thought within you carefully, turning it over in your mind the way he turns over the words of those who stand before him. Your gaze flickers back to him, briefly curious, and there is something different in it now. You’re less guarded, less…braced. You do not realize it, but Lyonel does.

You offer him nothing more. No further explanation. No elaboration of the thoughts that had taken root in you—the image of him as a boy, the realization of what possibly shaped him, the quiet shift in how you begin to understand him now—you keep that to yourself.

Held close.

Uncertain.

Yours.

And Lyonel does not press you. He does not ask again, but something in his expression shifts, subtle and fleeting.

As the next petitioner is called forward, the storm finally begins to break beyond the walls of the keep.

That night, the storm does not arrive gently.

It builds the way you felt it earlier—thick in the air, pressing down until it becomes unbearable to ignore—and then it breaks. Wind slams against the walls of Storm’s End with a force that feels almost alive, rattling the glass of the windows, howling through every narrow slit in the stone. The sound settles deep in your bones, constant and unrelenting, as though the sea itself is clawing its way into the keep.

You sit near the hearth, its low fire casting shifting light across the chamber. Your hands are folded tightly in your lap, fingers laced so firmly they ache.

Waiting.

You told yourself you would not. There is no instruction that says you must. No rule that binds you to this place at this hour. And yet, there is nowhere else to go. The servants have long since withdrawn, the corridors have fallen quiet, and this—this is where a wife belongs.

So you sit.

Still. Proper. Silent.

The door opens with a push, the shuffling of feet entering the room before the click of the latch sounds once more. You straighten instantly, your body responding before thought can catch it—spine aligned, breath quieted, hands set just so.

There is something to Lyonel’s movement—sharp, restrained. His hair is damp, curls darkened by the mist, his tunic unlaced at the throat. There is no stagger to his steps tonight.

No drink.

No haze.

Only him.

But there is tension that clings to him, subtle but present, like the storm outside has followed him in. His gaze finds you immediately—and he pauses.

“You’re still awake.”

“Yes—” You catch yourself. “Lyonel.” The name comes more smoothly now, though not without effort. You remain seated, though the instinct to stand presses hard against your ribs. Your fingers dig faintly into your palms to keep yourself still.

He exhales, dragging a hand over the back of his neck as he moves further into the room. “You don’t have to sit up waiting for me like that. You could’ve gone to bed.”

“I was not quite ready for bed,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend, though steadier than it might have been before. Your hands remain folded neatly before you, fingers laced together as though they might otherwise betray you. “And I did not have anything else to attend to.” You hesitate, just briefly. “So I waited.”

The words settle between you.

Simple.

Unadorned.

Not rehearsed.

Lyonel stills. It is subtle—barely a shift in posture, a pause in the way he had been moving—but it is there. His gaze turns to you fully now, searching your face in a way that feels different from before. As though he is expecting something else to follow.

Something practiced.

Something safe.

Something about expectation.

But nothing comes because you have already said it and it is…yours. He studies you for a moment longer than usual, something unreadable flickering across his expression before it softens into something quieter. Something almost curious.

“Not because you thought you had to?” he asks. There is no accusation in it. Only a quiet testing of the ground between you. You shake your head faintly.

“No.” The answer feels strange in your mouth, but not wrong. His brow lifts slightly at that, the faintest hint of surprise there before it fades. He exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“Hm.” It is not a dismissal. Not quite approval either, but something in between. His gaze lingers a moment longer before he looks away again, but not in the same way as before. Not withdrawing—just considering. “And here I thought you’d tell me it was expected of you,” he mutters, almost to himself. There is no edge to it now. You lower your gaze out of habit, but it does not feel the same.

You had not given him what was expected and he had noticed—just as he notices everything and something in you recognizes that too.

Quietly.

Carefully.

A shift.

“Relax.” The word lands gently, too gently. You shake your head, a small, almost imperceptible motion.

“I cannot,” you admit. It is not said in defiance. It is not said as refusal. It is said as truth.

That gives him pause—a real one. You see it in the way his expression stills, in the way his attention sharpens—not in frustration, but in something more intent.

“Why?” he asks. The question lingers. You open your mouth with the answer you have always given. There is always something to be done. But the words do not come as easily now. Because that is not all of it.

“There is always something to be done,” you begin anyway, the words familiar, well-worn—but they falter before they can settle into place. You swallow, your gaze dropping briefly before lifting again, uncertain. “And when there is not…I do not know what I am meant to do with that time.” Your fingers tighten faintly together. “I was not…permitted to be idle,” you continue, quieter now. “Idleness invites scrutiny. Correction.” You hesitate, then add, more carefully, “Not from you. But…in general.” Your voice lowers further. “It is when one is not occupied that one is…noticed.”

The weight of that sits between you because being noticed had never been a good thing. Not in that way. You shift slightly where you stand, the movement small, contained.

“Sitting as I was,” you add, “it is not…relaxing, as you mean it.” Your brows draw faintly, searching for words that feel insufficient the moment they form. “But it is…quieter. There is no one to observe. No one to correct.” You pause. “It allows me to think.”

That feels closer to the truth. Not comfort or ease, but absence of pressure. “That is…the closest I know to rest.”

The admission is soft and uncertain, but very real. Lyonel watches you as you speak, something in his expression shifting—not sharply, not visibly, but enough that you feel it.

He lets the words settle before following up. “What do you think about?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now. The question tightens something in your chest. You do not know how to answer it without stepping into something uncomfortable and so you hesitate just long enough that he notices. Your gaze drifts—not quite away, but not fully to him either.

“I…” You falter, your fingers pressing faintly into one another again. “I was thinking about…what I should be doing.” His brow furrows slightly. “As your wife,” you clarify, the words coming more quietly now. “What is expected of me.”

Familiar.

Structured.

Safe.

But it does not feel the same as it once did. Now there are questions where there were once only answers. Your throat tightens.

“And…?” he prompts gently. You hesitate again. This is where it becomes difficult, where what you were taught does not align with what you have seen—what you are beginning to understand.

“The marriage bed,” you say at last, the words careful, controlled, though they sit heavier than you expect. “It has not…been as it should.” The admission feels like stepping onto uncertain ground. Your words are not said in accusation or complaint, just awareness. Your gaze drops as your courage tries to flee from you.

“I know it is a duty,” you continue, quieter still. “One I have not fulfilled, as I ought to.” The words feel wrong even as you say them, but they are what you know. What you have always understood.

Lyonel exhales slowly.

“That night,” he says after a moment, his gaze drifting toward the hearth, voice lower now, “shouldn’t have gone the way it did.” Your heart stutters. “I was too far gone,” he continues. “And you…you looked like you were enduring it.” Heat rises to your face.

“I fulfilled my duty,” you say quietly. “If it was lacking, that is my failing.”

His head turns sharply. “Lacking?” You blink, startled by the weight of it.

“I don’t understand why you think that’s all it’s meant to be,” he says, quieter now—but heavier. “Something to get through.”

“It is what I was taught.”

“By your mother.”

“And my septas.”

He exhales again, slower this time.

“Because I have not reached for you in a drunken stupor,” he says, more bluntly now, that earlier edge surfacing again, “you think something is lacking?” The words land heavy and unyielding.

“I did not mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he says, softer now. Silence stretches between you, but it is not empty. It holds something, something that is shifting.

“Listen to me,” he says, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “There are men who do not care what their wives feel. Men who see the marriage bed as nothing more than a duty to be done and forgotten. Of that, your bloody septas are correct.” His jaw tightens faintly. “I am not one of them.”

The words strike something deep and your breath stills.

“That night—” he exhales, shaking his head slightly, “—that was an outlier. A poor one. And I would sooner you forget it entirely than believe that is what it is meant to be.” Forget it—the idea feels impossible. “I’d hope in time you’d replace it with something better,” he adds, watching you now. “Something you are not bracing through. Something you actually want to be part of.”

Want.

The word makes your thoughts falter.

Tilt.

“You should want it,” he continues, not harsh—but firm. “Not because it’s expected. Not because it’s your duty. But because it’s shared. Because it belongs to both of us.”

Your mind struggles to follow and the words do not settle the way they should. They do not fit.

“I do not understand how that could be,” you admit quietly, your voice smaller now, though no less honest. You hesitate only a moment before adding, because it is what you know—what you have always known. “It is not supposed to be enjoyed…not by me.”

The moment the words leave you Lyonel stills. Not subtly. Not in the quiet, controlled way he often does. It is immediate and jarring.

His expression shifts in a way you have never seen before—his brows pulling together, his mouth parting slightly as though he has misheard you. As though he is waiting for you to correct yourself.

But you do not because there is nothing to correct.

“That…” He exhales, a short, disbelieving breath, his gaze fixed on you as if trying to understand something that does not make sense. “What?” You falter slightly under it—not because you think you are wrong, but because his reaction is so far from what you expected.

“It is for a husband’s pleasure,” you say, quieter now, though the words remain steady. “Not his wife.” The silence that follows is heavy. “I am there to…receive.”

Lyonel leans back a fraction, his hand coming up to drag across his jaw, then over his mouth, as though he is steadying himself. His eyes do not leave you, but something in them has shifted—something sharper, something unsettled.

There is anger there—not for you, never for you—but for what you have been told.

“What in the seven hells—” he mutters under his breath, cutting himself off before the words can fully form. His jaw tightens, his gaze dropping for a moment as he exhales again, slower this time. When he looks back at you, the sharpness has not entirely faded, but it has been tempered for your sake.

“I know,” he says, though the words are quieter now, more controlled. “Because no one ever told you it could be.” Your throat tightens.

“They spoke of duty,” you say, your voice softer now, though the structure of it remains. “Of heirs. Of satisfying my husband.”

“Aye,” he says, but there is something strained in it. “And they left out the rest.”

“The rest?” you echo faintly. He hesitates and you see the care in it. The way he chooses his words—not for himself, not for ease—but for you. For what you might be able to understand without recoiling from it entirely.

“That it can be…good,” he says finally, slower now. “That it can be something you look forward to instead of something you prepare yourself to survive.” The words settle into you messily. They do not slide into place the way your teachings always have.

They resist.

They press.

They linger.

“I have read of it,” you say faintly, your voice catching slightly. “Once—not of the full act and not in great detail, of course.” You hurry the addition, the instinct for propriety immediate, ingrained. 

“And you thought it was false.” Lyonel observed.

“I thought it was…embellished.” He watches you for a long moment.

“It’s not,” he says quietly. You forget to breathe as you look up on your husband. No one has ever confirmed something so obscure for you. No one has ever spoken of it as something that could belong to you. The act was not endured nor given for with nothing received in return.

It was meant to be felt.

Wanted.

Shared.

Your head feels light with it, much too full and too empty all at the same time. The words press against everything you have known, and nothing shifts cleanly—but something continues to move as it had earlier in the day.

“I do not know what that means,” you whisper, scared to hope for something better. 

“I don’t expect you to,” he says, softer now. “Not yet. Come here,” he says, the motion of his hand unhurried, easy—an invitation more than anything else.

You go not because you must, not in the automatic way you once would have, but because you choose to. The difference is small, quiet—but it is there.

Your steps are still measured, still careful, but there is less tension in them now. Less of that rigid awareness that something might happen if you misstep. You are aware of him, yes—but not in the same way. Not as something to anticipate, but something to approach.

You stop before him, closer than you would have before while still leaving a breath of space between you.

His gaze flicks briefly to the distance you’ve left, then back to your face, something thoughtful settling there rather than immediate correction.

“You hover,” he says, not unkindly. The word surprises you.

“I do not mean to,” you reply, softer than before, because this time it feels less like defense and more like truth.

“I know.” His mouth shifts faintly, not quite a smile. “I don’t think you mean to do most things you do.” There is no accusation in it, only observation. You glance down briefly, then back up—not fully meeting his eyes, but closer than you might have managed days ago.

“I am…still learning,” you say, the words careful, but not empty.

“I can see that.” Something in your chest loosens at that. A small acknowledgement. Still, you do not move closer. And after a moment, he exhales softly—not frustrated, not sharp—just… accepting it.

“What is it?” he asks, quieter now. You hesitate, searching for something that does not sound like failure, something that does not sound like refusal.

“I do not know how close I am meant to be,” you admit. His brow furrows slightly, though not in confusion—more in consideration.

“Meant to be,” he repeats, almost to himself. You nod faintly.

“Back home,” you add, after a moment, “there was always…distance. Even where there should not have been, as I am now discovering.” Your fingers tighten slightly at your sides. “It is difficult to know what replaces it.”

Lyonel studies you, the weight of your words settling between you. “Nothing replaces it,” he says. “You just…don’t keep it.” That feels too simple. It must show on your face, because he huffs softly—not in amusement, but in quiet understanding.

“Not all at once,” he adds. “I’m not asking you to forget everything you were taught the moment it inconveniences me.” Your eyes flicker up at that. There’s no irritation in his face now, just steadiness.

Patience.

“I would not wish to inconvenience you,” you say automatically.

“I know,” he replies, a touch wry. “That’s part of the problem.” You blink, now more uncertain than you just were.

Lyonel doesn’t press it.

Instead, he shifts slightly—closer, but not enough to close the space entirely. Just enough that you feel the change. The warmth of him, the presence of him—without being overwhelmed by it.

“You don’t have to stand like you’re waiting for instruction,” he says.

“I am not—”

“You do,” he interrupts gently, not cutting, just redirecting. “Not in the way you think. You’re careful. Like there’s a right place to put yourself and you haven’t been told where it is yet.” That feels closer to the truth.

You draw a slow breath. “Yes,” you admit. Silence settles again. It isn’t strained or heavy, it's just there. Present. 

Lyonel’s hand lifts slightly—then pauses, not because he is uncertain, but because he is giving you time to notice. To choose.

You do notice.

Your gaze drops to it, then back to him. There is no urgency in him. No expectation pressing in on you.

Only space.

“I will not guess for you,” he says quietly. “Where you stand. When you’re ready to be closer. That has to be yours.” Your chest tightens—not in fear, but in something that feels dangerously close to relief.

“And if I do not know?” you ask.

“Then you take your time figuring it out.”

You swallow.

The words settle differently than you expect—not as a dismissal, not as something to retreat behind, but as something that opens space instead of closing it.

Your hand shifts at your side.

Small.

Uncertain.

But this time—it does not still.

You are aware of the distance between you. Of how little it would take to close it entirely. Of how much that still feels like—too much, too soon, too undefined.

But not all of it feels impossible.

Not anymore.

Your fingers lift slowly, as though testing something unseen.

Not reaching for all of him.

Not closing the space he left for you to choose.

Just—

Enough.

“I am trying,” you say, quieter now, but steadier for it.

“I know.”

And he does.

You hear it in the way he says it—not placating, not indulgent, but certain. As though your effort is not something fragile, but something he trusts. You hesitate only a moment longer, then your hand moves forward.

Careful.

Measured.

Not toward his chest, not toward the space that still feels too close—but toward his hand.

It feels…manageable. Understandable. Something you have done before. Something you can do again.

You do not take it immediately.

Your fingers hover near his, close enough to feel the warmth of him without yet touching. Close enough that you could pull back if you needed to.

You don’t and Lyonel does not move an inch. He does not close the distance for you. He does not reach first. He simply lets his hand remain where it is, open, steady—waiting, not asking.

You draw a slow breath…and then you touch him. It is only a ghosting of your fingers brushing against his before settling, tentative but intentional, into his hand.

It is not firm, not practiced, but it is yours. The contact sends something quiet through you—not sharp, not overwhelming. Just present.

Real.

His fingers shift around yours after a moment—not to take, not to claim, but to meet you where you are. Gentle. Certain. Careful of the space you still need.

You feel it—the difference. It is not something taken. It is not something expected. It is something shared.

Your breath steadies and for the first time the space between you does not feel like something you are failing to cross.

Only something you are beginning, slowly, to understand. His thumb shifts slightly against your hand and you nearly collapse. 

Gentle and steady, two words that described Lyonel. Two words that repeated as you felt his skin touch yours. It does not feel like something being taken, only something being offered.

You stand there, caught in that space between what you know and what you are beginning—slowly, uncertainly—to understand. Lyonel sees it.

The hesitation.

The restraint.

The way your breath still hasn’t quite settled.

He exhales quietly, something in his posture easing—not in defeat, not in frustration, but in acceptance. His eyes hold yours a moment longer, searching—not for a response, but for understanding.

Then softly, “Get some sleep,” he says. It is not a dismissal. It is not a command. But he lets go of your hand gently. 

It is patience in its purest form—a patience you were never afforded and a patience you hold closely.

Your fingers curl faintly at your sides, the ghost of that earlier moment still lingering beneath your skin. You nod, small and quiet, because there is nothing else to give him. Not yet.

He steps back, giving you space—not taking it. Always offering.

You move around him carefully, the awareness of him sharper now, not something to avoid—but something you cannot quite face for too long. You prepare for bed in silence, the familiar motions grounding, though they do not quiet your thoughts as they usually would.

He joins you not long after and no further words pass between you. There is no need for them. The air holds enough already.

The chamber is dim when you finally retire. Candles have been snuffed and the hearth is low, keeping the room at a comfortable warmth. 

The storm has not yet broken from its tirade, but it lingers just beyond the walls, wind pressing low and steady against the stone as rain pelted the windows fiercely. The sound of it was soothing, lulling. The hearth burned down to embers, their glow soft and flickering, casting long shadows that shift lazily across the ceiling. 

You lie in bed beside Lyonel as you’ve done every night since you came to Storm’s End. There is space between you, an understanding, that does not get crossed. There is always space.

It is familiar now—the careful distance, the unspoken boundary neither of you has crossed without intention. The sheets are warm, the air quiet save for the distant hum of wind and the slow, even rhythm of his breathing as he begins to settle.

You stare at the ceiling.

Sleep does not come. You think of the woman and her missing boy.  Your thoughts circle, restless and unyielding.

Beside you, Lyonel shifts slightly, settling deeper into the mattress. You can feel the heat of him even from where you lie, a steady presence at your side even at a distance.

You shift in the bed before you can stop yourself. It is not something you plan. It simply happens. You roll onto your side, facing him.

The movement is small—but it is enough to break the quiet and certainly enough for him to notice.

His eyes open.

There is a flicker of surprise there, brief but unmistakable, before it softens into something more familiar.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice roughened by the edge of sleep. The question hangs between you.

You are used to it. Used to deflecting it. Used to giving him nothing, but tonight feels different. You hold his gaze for a moment, longer than you usually allow yourself to.

“I have not stopped thinking of the boy,” you say. The words come quietly, but they are real. 

Lyonel’s expression shifts—not in surprise, but in attention. Fully awake now, though he does not move closer.

“The one from the docks,” you add, though he does not need the clarification. “The woman who came before us.” He nods once, his head still resting against the pillow.

“Aye.” You swallow, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of the sheet between you.

“I cannot picture it,” you admit. “The docks. The work. I have never seen such a place.” Your brows draw faintly together. “But I know a boy of ten should not be there.”

“Duty,” Lyonel says after letting your words sit between you. The word settles differently here, in the quiet of the dark, than it ever has before. “You are well acquainted with it.”

You nod faintly. “Yes.”

“But it looks different depending on where you stand,” he continues, his voice low, thoughtful rather than firm. “For people like us…duty is structure. Something you’re shaped into from the moment you can walk. You perform it well, and you’re rewarded for it. You climb because of it.” You hear his hands rib against the Fudd under his palm as he speaks. 

“For the smallfolk,” he goes on, “duty isn’t about climbing. It’s about survival. You do what you must to keep food in your belly and a roof over your head. And if that means sending your son to work before he’s ready…” He exhales quietly. “Then that’s what’s done.”

Your chest tightens because you understand duty. You have always understood duty, but not like this.

Your gaze drifts briefly to the space between you before returning to him.

“They spoke of coin,” you say. “Of needing it.”

“Aye.”

“And she let him go.”

“She didn’t have much choice,” Lyonel replies. That unsettles you. You look at him again, searching.

“Do you think he will return?” The question slips out, softer than you intend. Hopeful. Lyonel studies you for a moment before answering.

“I think we’ll find him,” he says. Not certain. Not dismissive. Something in between. “Whether he returns as he left…that depends on what we find.” Your breath falters slightly because that is not comfort—not entirely—but it is the truth. 

Silence settles between you again, but you do not turn away this time.

“I have not stopped thinking of her,” you say after a moment. “The mother.” His brow furrows faintly.

“No?” You shake your head against the pillow.

“She spoke of him as though…” You hesitate, searching. “As though he mattered more than anything else.” Your voice softens. “She came before you without fear of herself and only fear for him.” The realization presses into you. “I do not remember my mother ever…” You stop. The words are difficult. “…speaking of me that way.” The admission is quiet, but it fills the space between you more than anything else has.

Lyonel does not interrupt. He does not soften it with something hollow. He simply listens. Your eyes drop, though you are already lying down, your voice grows quieter.

“I do not think she would have come looking for me,” you say. “Not like that.” The truth settles. “My heart hurts for that woman.”

Heavy, but not sharp in the way it once would have been. Now you have something to compare it to and that difference lingers.

Lyonel exhales slowly, his hand shifting slightly where it rests on the mattress, though he still does not reach for you.

“That woman came because she had no one else,” he says. “No one to speak for her. So she did it herself.” You nod faintly.

“I know.” But that is not all of it. You both know that. “It is…different,” you say. “The way she spoke. The way she looked at you.” You pause. “There was no restraint.”

“No,” he agrees.

“There was only…care.” The word feels fragile but right. You look at him again. “And you listened.”

Something crosses his expression in the darkness.

“I’m meant to,” he says. “It is my duty as lord of Storm’s End.” But it is more than that. You saw it. Your fingers loosen slightly in the sheet.

“She called me my lady,” you add quietly. Your gaze flickers, uncertain. “I did not expect it.”

Lyonel’s mouth twitches faintly. “They’ll do that.”

“Not like that,” you say softly. He studies you for a moment, then nods in understanding.

The room falls quiet again and you do not turn away from it. You remain facing him and the space between you does not feel like something to endure.

It feels like something you are learning how to exist within—together.

You hesitate to break the peace that’s settled between you, but there are still words unspoken.

They sit at the edge of your tongue, unfamiliar in the way they press forward—unpracticed, unscripted. You feel them there, heavy with something you do not quite know how to shape.

Your fingers tighten faintly in the blanket between you.

“I…” You falter, your voice quieter than before. “I was proud to sit beside you today.” The admission feels…exposed. Your eyes meet his and Lyonel stills.

You see it.

You feel it.

The shift in his attention—not sharp, not startled—but present. Focused. You press on, because if you stop now, you will not say it at all.

“I am learning,” you continue, slower now, choosing each word as though it might slip from your grasp if you are not careful. “That you are a just man.”

The word settles.

“Kind,” you add, more quietly still, as though it might not belong—but you say it anyway. “Where kindness is not owed.”

His brow shifts, just slightly. You do not look away this time.

“And I am…grateful,” you say, your voice soft but steady, “that you allowed me to be there.” The truth of it settles into the space between you. Because he did allow it and he did not have to.

“I saw how they looked at you,” you continue, your thoughts unfolding now, not cleanly—but honestly. “How they spoke to you. There was no fear in it.” Your fingers play with the edge of the blanket. “Only respect.”

Your attention flickers briefly, then returns to him.

“You did not raise your voice once,” you say, quieter now. “And still—they listened.” The realization still lingers in you.

Unsettling.

Impressive.

Different.

You swallow.

“In my father’s hall…” you begin, then falter, the rest of the thought dissolving before it can fully take shape.

You do not need to finish it.

He understands.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself against the weight of what you are about to say. “Expectations were much different,” you admit, your voice quieter now, but no less certain. “There was no care for those that relied on him.” Inside the household and out. 

There is a pause.

You feel it—your own hesitation, the instinct to pull the words back, to correct them into something safer, more neutral.

But you don’t.

“…But I see it now.” The words feel fragile as they leave you.

Unpracticed.

Yours.

Lyonel does not interrupt. He does not shift or fill the silence. He simply listens, just as he had in the hall, and something in you steadies because of it—because there is no interruption waiting, no correction poised to follow.

Only space.

“I know I do not…” You hesitate, your fingers curling faintly against the coverlet. “I do not speak often. I do not express myself.”

An understatement.

You both know it.

“And when I do…” You exhale softly, your gaze lowering for a moment before lifting again. “It is not easy.”

There is no shame in it.

Only truth.

“But you let me sit there,” you continue. “You let me see. You asked what I thought.” Your eyes meet his more fully now, holding there in a way they have not before. “And you listened.”

That part lingers. It settles somewhere deeper than the rest.

Your voice had never been met like that—not without something waiting behind it. Not without expectation or correction or consequence.

Just…heard.

You shift slightly beneath the covers, the movement small but deliberate.

“It is difficult,” you admit, softer now. “To change what I know.”

A lifetime.

Pressed into you.

Shaped into you.

It does not loosen easily.

“But I am fighting for it,” you say, and there is something steadier in it now, something that does not waver. “I am trying to understand… the way you do things.”

The way he is.

The way he leads.

The way he waits.

“Even if it is not what I expected to find.”

A pause follows.

Then, quieter still—

“Or what I ever thought I would be allowed to learn.” The room settles into stillness around you, the low crackle of the hearth and the distant hum of the storm the only sounds that remain.

Slowly, almost without thinking, your hand moves from where it rests at your side.

You place it between you.

Palm up.

An offering.

Not demanded.

Not explained.

Just…there.

You look away as soon as you do it, your breath catching faintly as though the act itself has exposed something more than you intended.

For a moment nothing happens, and then you hear the quiet shift of him beside you.

You glance back, just in time to see his hand move—not quickly, not decisively, but with that same careful certainty he has shown you time and time again.

Lyonel does not take your hand—not at first. His fingers brush yours, a light, deliberate touch—giving you time to pull away if you wish.

You don’t.

So he lets his hand settle into yours, his fingers curling slowly, naturally, as though he is meeting you exactly where you’ve chosen to be.

The warmth of him spreads immediately—familiar now, but no less affecting. Your eyes close briefly, not from overwhelm, but from the quiet weight of it. The steadiness.

The choice.

His thumb shifts faintly against your hand—not a claim, not a hold meant to keep you there.

Just his presence.

“I heard you,” he says after a moment, his voice low, meant only for you. You open your eyes again. He is watching you—not as a lord measuring, not as someone waiting for the right answer.

Just as a man.

“And you’re right,” he continues, quieter still. “It is different. What I ask of you.”

A small pause.

“I don’t expect you to change overnight,” he adds. “Or to understand it all at once.”

His fingers tighten just slightly around yours—not to restrain, but to ground.

“But I do see that you’re trying.” The words settle into you, deeper than you expect.

“I won’t rush you,” he says. “Not into speaking. Not into this. Not into anything you’re not ready for.” Your hand shifts faintly in his, not pulling away—just… settling more fully.

“You being there today,” he adds after a moment, “that mattered.”

Another pause.

“And this—” his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, “—this matters too.”

The storm murmurs against the walls, the fire crackles softly, and the space between you—once something rigid, something endured—feels different now. 

Not gone, but changed.

Part Five

“I enjoy fulfilling my duties,” you say carefully. His expression flattens.

“That’s the opposite of what I asked.”

“It is what is expected.”

“I don’t care about what’s expected,” he says flippantly. “I’m asking about you.” You falter, glancing down at your embroidery, as though the answer might be stitched into the fabric.

“I sew,” you offer after a moment.

“I can see that.”

“I embroider.”

“Aye.”

“I manage a household.”

“You haven’t had the chance yet,” he points out.

“I will enjoy it,” you say quickly.

He exhales through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “Seven above.” That was new, though it held the same sentiment as the others. Silence settles again and you feel it pressing on you like a great weight.

Waiting

You search for something—anything else to give him.

“…I read,” you say, repressed shame filling you.

Lyonel’s dark brow lifts slightly, his interest piqued. “What do you read?”

“Histories. Instructional texts. Religious writings.”

“Anything else?” He pressed and you hesitate for just a moment. He could see it through your eyes, and then it is gone with a blink. 

“…No.” The word feels small. Insufficient. Lyonel studies you for a long moment, then drags a hand over his mouth.

“So that’s it?” he says. “That’s all they let you have?”

“They gave me everything I needed.”

“That’s not what I asked.” It is gentle steering every time he repeated the phrase, you realized. Not quite correction. It made your skin itch. Your fingers tighten around the needle.

“It is enough.”

“For who?” he asks. You don’t answer because you don’t know. Because you have never been asked to consider the difference. Because you’ve never lived for yourself.

A lady’s duty was never to herself. It was to her husband. To her children. To her household—and if there was a moment at the end of it, she could surely find something less frivolous to occupy herself with than wants. 

Lyonel leans forward slightly, voice quieter now. “Did you ever want anything else?” There that word was again—want. The question lands deeper than the others. You stare at the thread between your fingers. There is a memory there, trying to dig its way to the surface for air.

Faint. Fragile. Dangerous. Forbidden. 

You shouldn’t touch it, but you do because Lyonel is looking at you eagerly as if he truly wanted to know.

“…When I was a child,” you say slowly, afraid to let the memory seep, “there was a minstrel who came to court.”

Lyonel goes still and you almost stop. It was instinct screaming at you—the wild dogs of obedience from within, gnawing and gnashing at your nerve to speak of the memory—but the words slip free anyway.

“He had puppets and he told stories. Sang songs of places beyond our lands, beyond anything I had ever seen or imagined there could be. Cities with bright markets. Ships that crossed endless water.” Your voice softens in a way Lyonel hadn’t heard before but you caught yourself—you always did, and something distant crept in to keep you in check.

It wasn’t a pinch of your hand, for your hands were already occupied. Lyonel noticed you wince as you pressed the needle through the fabric in the hoop, catching your finger below with a painful purpose. “I thought…I thought it must be extraordinary to have lived such a life.” Your reserved tone returned, difference settling in as you continued the embroidery as if nothing happened. As if the tip of that needle didn’t pierce you for simply remembering what joy once was, or the shadow remnants of it. 

“And?” Lyonel asks. Your grip tightens.

“My father said it was nonsense,” you say, swallowing at the memory. “A distraction to muddy the minds of children. He dismissed the man before the night was through and I never saw him again.” Something flickers across Lyonel’s face.

“And you?” he asks. You lower your gaze.

“I did not speak of it.” Of course you didn’t, Lyonel thought to himself. You feel foolish even admitting it. It was childish. Frivolous. Useless.

A waste.

Lyonel is quiet for a long moment. Not the kind of quiet you are used to—heavy with expectation, waiting for you to fill it correctly—but something else. Thoughtful. Measured. His gaze lingers on you, not harsh, not reprimanding, but intent in a way that makes your chest tighten all the same.

Then—

“Very well.” You cannot tell if he is agreeing or if it is merely an afterthought. You blink, startled, your fingers pausing mid-stitch. The needle hovers just above the taut fabric in your embroidery hoop, thread pulled but not yet set.

“My lord?” He does not answer you immediately. Instead, he pushes back from the table, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The sound cuts through the quiet of the solar, sharp enough to make you flinch.

Lyonel stands. There is no hesitation in it. No second thought, but he does let out the smallest groan.

“Come with me.” Your stomach drops. The words are simple, but the tone is not a suggestion.

“Now?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend.

“Yes, now.” You glance down at your embroidery, your fingers tightening faintly around the wooden frame. The pattern is only half-complete, neat stitches forming the beginnings of a stag worked in black and gold thread. You had been careful with it. Precise. It is something you can control.

“I—” you hesitate. “I should finish—”

“It will still be there when you get back,” he cuts in, already moving toward the door. “Surely the hoop will not grow legs and wander off in your absence.” Your lips press together faintly. It is not a jest, not truly—but there is something lighter in his tone that unsettles you all the same.

“I should not leave my work unfinished,” you say. The words come automatically.

Rehearsed.

Proper.

Lyonel stops, not fully turning, but enough that his profile catches the light from the narrow window. His jaw sets faintly.

“You should,” he says bluntly. “Because I’m telling you to.” That stills you.

Completely.

A command.

Clear.

Direct.

Familiar.

Your breath catches and your body responds before your mind can. The needle is set aside. The thread carefully drawn through and secured. The hoop placed down with quiet precision on the table.

You rise, smooth your skirts, and lower your gaze. Everything in you falls into place with practiced ease.

“Yes, my lord.” Lyonel watches you. Just for a moment. And something in his expression shifts.

Not satisfaction.

Not quite.

Something harder to name. Then he exhales sharply, running a hand briefly over the back of his neck before turning fully toward the door again.

“Quickly,” he mutters, gesturing towards the door. “Before you find another reason not to.” He does not wait. He never does when he moves like this. “And grab a cloak.”

And you follow.

Of course you do.

The corridors are cooler than the solar, the wind slipping through narrow slits in the stone, carrying the distant roar of the sea with it. Your slippers are quiet against the floor as you walk behind him, just as you were taught.

Not beside.

Not ahead.

Behind.

A step or two back.

Your hands fold neatly in front of you, fingers laced—your thumb rubbing over the tip of your index finger where the needle punctured—posture straight. You do not ask where he is taking you. You do not question it. You do not speak because it does not matter where he’s taking you. You just follow. .

Because that is what you know.

Lyonel’s strides are long and purposeful. He does not look back to see if you are keeping pace—he simply assumes that you are.

And you are.

You always are.

But after a few turns through the winding halls, something in him shifts. Subtle. Barely noticeable.

He slows, but only slightly. Enough that you draw closer without realizing it. Enough that you are no longer trailing so far behind.

Lyonel glances back briefly. His eyes flick to your position—your careful distance, your lowered gaze, your hands folded so tightly they almost tremble. His jaw tightens.

“Walk beside me,” he says. You falter just for a step, then correct yourself quickly before moving forward until you are at his side, though still not quite shoulder to shoulder. There is still space. There is always space.

It feels wrong.

Exposed.

But you do as you are told.

Lyonel notices—he always does. He says nothing this time, but his pace adjusts again—matching yours now, not forcing you to match his. The silence stretches between you.

Not empty.

Not comfortable.

Something in between.

You glance at him once, then look forward again.

“My lord…” you begin, hesitant. “Where are we going?”

His gaze stays ahead. “You’ll see.” That does not ease you, but you do not press further.

You simply walk at his side—not behind—and though your steps are measured, your posture perfect, your mind is anything but steady because you do not know where he is taking you. Because you do not know what you have done wrong.

Because a command without explanation—no matter how simply given—has always meant one thing.

Correction.

The doors ahead come into view—

Heavy.

Open.

Leading out into the wind and sound of the world beyond—your chest tightens.

Waiting for it, whatever it is. 

The wind hits you the moment you step outside.

Sharp. Salted. Alive. It pulls at your hair, your sleeves, your breath.

Storm’s End looms behind you, but Lyonel leads you forward—toward the cliffs, toward the roaring sea below.

You hesitate only once. It is too open. Too exposed. Too…wild and uncontrolled.

“Keep up, wife!” he calls over his shoulder in a tone you aren’t familiar with. You force yourself forward. Step by step. The ground is when, but slick with most from the ocean and torrents of rain that come and go. The air is loud. Nothing feels contained.

Nothing feels safe, you think as you wrap your cloak around yourself to fight against the cold that Lyonel welcomes.

And yet, Lyonel stands at the edge of the ramparts like he belongs there—and he does. This is his home, his lifeblood. He stands facing the ocean like the storm itself answers to him. He turns when you finally reach him, watching as you stop a careful distance away. Two steps behind, as is proper.

“Well?” he asks, his arms widening to present the expanse of the sea behind him.

You glance around, uncertain. “My lord?” He does not correct you. 

“What do you think?” You don’t know how to answer that. The wind howls. The sea crashes. The sky stretches endlessly above you in rolling, gray skies.

It is overwhelming.

“It is…loud,” you say, neutrality a comfortable place to land on in times of uncertainty.

He snorts. “You keep saying that like it’s a flaw.” You hesitate.”You’ll find that most things here are loud. Present company included.”

“It is not orderly.” Is the response you cannot stop from coming out. 

“No,” he agrees easily. “It isn’t.” You glance at him, surprised. He gestures out toward the horizon. “That’s the point.” You don’t understand.

“How can something without order be…good?” you ask.

The wind pulls at your hair as you stand beside him on the ramparts, the sea roaring below—endless, relentless, alive in a way that unsettles you. It crashes against the rocks with no rhythm you can follow, no pattern you can anticipate. No control.

Lyonel looks at you—not frustrated this time, but with intent because—once again—you are not rejecting it outright. You are asking and that alone is something.

“Because it’s not meant to be good or bad,” he says with enthusiasm. You frown faintly, your arms folding tighter around yourself as another gust of wind cuts through your cloak. The cold bites your face, but you welcome it. It is something you understand.

Sensation, unpleasant.

“The sea does not care about wants or duty or expectation,” Lyonel continues, his gaze drifting out over the horizon. “It does not care if a man is a king or a sailor, if he’s done everything right or everything wrong.” His voice lowers slightly. “It does not reward obedience. It does not punish defiance.” Your chest tightens. 

“That is not how the world works,” you say quietly.

“It is here,” he counters, gesturing toward the expanse before you. “A storm doesn’t come because a man deserves it. A calm doesn’t come because he’s earned it. The sea doesn’t weigh you. It doesn’t measure you.” He glances at you again. “It just is.”

The words settle uneasily in your chest because nothing in your life has ever simply been. Everything had purpose.

Structure.

Expectation.

Everything had been earned or corrected, but this feels like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.

Something you cannot contain.

You wrap your arms around yourself tighter, your fingers pressing into your sides beneath the fabric. A familiar grounding.

You will endure it. You always do.

“I do not know what I am meant to do here,” you admit. The words feel wrong even as you say them because there is always something you are meant to do.

Always.

Lyonel’s mouth twitches faintly.

“You’re not meant to do anything,” he says, shaking his head. You frown, your gaze flicking toward him, then quickly back to the sea.

“That cannot be so,” you say. “Then why are we here? What is the purpose?” He exhales, stepping closer to the edge, though not so far that it is dangerous—never careless, even in this.

“There doesn’t have to be one,” he says. Your brows knit together.

“That is not…” You falter. “Everything has purpose.”

“Aye,” he says, not dismissing you, but not agreeing either. “That’s what you were taught.” His hand gestures again, broader this time, encompassing the horizon, the sky, the violent churn of the waves below.

“But not everything exists for you to shape it or control it. Some things exist whether you understand them or not.” You stare out at it, trying to find the edges. The boundaries. There are none.

“To see it,” he continues. “To feel it. To decide what it is to you.”

“That is…all?” It sounded simple, but it was a concept that was difficult to grasp. 

“That’s all,” he says simply with a shrug. You stare at him, then back at the dark, rolling sea. That cannot be all. There must be something more. A lesson. A correct answer. Something to take from it that proves you have understood. Your fingers press harder into your sides, the urge to pinch the verwhelming you.

“What if I do not like it?” you ask timidly, not looking at Lyonel as you ask it. You cannot recall ever asking a question like that because whether you liked something or not never mattered, not before. The question feels dangerous because disliking something outwardly has always required correction.

“Then you don’t,” he says, watching you as you take it all in. He can the wheels of your mind turning with this information, trying to fill in the gaps where things just didn’t quite connect yet. 

“No consequence?” There was an edge of fear in your voice. 

“None.” He confirms softly, stepping closer to you. 

“No correction?” You ask, bolder but still tinted with anxiety. 

“Nope.” The ease of it unsettles you more than anything else, Lyonel realizes. You turn slightly toward him, searching his face for something—anything that suggests he is testing you.

There is nothing there. No expectation. No hidden meaning. Just… truth.

“That is not how it works,” you say, quieter now, lacking any rehearsed confidence of before.

“It can be,” he replies with a slight tilt of his head. His dark curls, you noted, bounced and flew with reckless abandon upon his head fron the wind and sea breeze alike. Fitting for the person they were attached to. Your breath catches.

Lyonel takes another step closer—not crowding you, not overwhelming—but near enough that his presence steadies something in the chaos before you.

“I’m not asking you to throw everything you know into the sea,” he says, his voice gentler now. “I’m not trying to tear it all down.” Your gaze flicks to him.

Because that—that is what it feels like. Like everything you have been built upon is being pulled apart by one singular man.

“I know it’s what you were raised with,” he continues. “Structure. Order. Purpose in every breath you take.” His jaw tightens slightly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s the only way to stand.” The words settle differently. Not an attack. Not a correction.

An offering.

“You don’t have to lose it,” he adds. “You just…don’t have to let it be the only thing you have.” Your chest tightens because that feels impossible. Because you have never had anything else.

You look back out at the sea.

The waves crash in a consistent torrent upon the ancient rocks—loud, violent, unrelenting—and yet…they do not frighten you. Not entirely. There is something else there. Something unfamiliar. Something that makes your chest feel tight in a different way.

Not fear.

Not quite.

“I…” You hesitate. Your fingers loosen slightly at your sides. “I do not dislike it,” you say slowly. The admission feels small, insignificant, but it is yours.

Lyonel grins like you’ve just handed him a gift. “High praise.” You almost bristle at first, your shoulders drawing in slightly—until you catch the tone.

Light.

Warm.

There is no mockery in it, only encouragement, only something that does not demand more from you than what you’ve given. Your gaze lingers on him for a moment longer this time, then it returns back to the sea.

Though you do not understand it—though you cannot name what you feel—you do not turn away.

The wind does not let up.

It presses into you, tugging at your sleeves, pulling your hair loose from their pins until it whips softly against your cheek. The air smells of salt and storm—sharp, clean, unrelenting. Below, the sea crashes again, louder this time, the spray rising in a fine mist that clings faintly to your skin.

You should step back. You should return inside. You should not linger here with nothing to do.

And yet—you remain.

“You don’t have to decide everything at once,” Lyonel says beside you, his voice steady even as the wind fights to carry it away. “And you’re allowed to change your mind.” Your jaw tightens faintly. “I change mine often, like the change in the tides.”

Change your mind. The words scrape against something deep in you—something rigid, something ingrained. It would imply there was something to change—opinion. 

“You’ve spent your whole life being told what to think—how to think,” he continues. “It’s going to take time to undo that.”

Undo that.

The phrase settles poorly. Your fingers curl faintly at your sides again, your nails pressing into your palms beneath the folds of your sleeves.

Undo implies something broken. Something wrong. Your breath tightens painfully.

You are not wrong. The thought comes sharp, defensive. Your way is not wrong.

It kept you safe. It made you…acceptable, an agreeable match. Your mind clings to it, grasping for the structure you know, the certainty you understand.

And still, you do not say it because something else is there now. Quieter. Less certain, but present all the same.

You swallow.

You must please him. The thought comes just as quickly. Just as practiced and that unsettles you more than the sea.

“I do not know how to start,” you admit—your voice is softer than you intend. Lyonel glances at you, something almost amused flickering briefly in his expression.

“You’ve already begun.” You blink, turning slightly toward him.

“I have?”

“You said you didn’t like it,” he replies, gesturing to the ocean. “That’s your opinion.” Your brow furrows faintly.

“My opinion,” you repeat, the words unfamiliar on your tongue.

“Aye,” he says. “Yours. Not your father’s. Not your mother’s. Not mine. Not anyone else’s.” The wind surges again, stronger this time, pushing at you. Your cloak shifts, the fabric snapping faintly as it pulls away from your body before settling again.

You turn back to the sea. Wild. Unpredictable. Free.

The word comes unbidden and your heart stutters because you do not know what to do with it. Because you do not know what it feels like to be it.

“I am not certain I like it,” you admit. The admission is careful—measured—but not rehearsed.

“That’s fine too,” Lyonel says easily. You glance at him again, searching. There is no correction. No disappointment.

He means what he says.

“It is…unsettling,” you continue, your gaze drifting back to the horizon. The waves crash again, louder, as if answering you.

“That’s also fine.” Your lips press together faintly. Everything is fine. Everything is allowed. There is no right answer here, but no wrong one either. The lack of it, it leaves you unsteady—like standing on constantly shifting ground.

Your mind pushes back. There should be structure. There should be order. There should be a correct way to understand this. Your fingers tighten again at your sides.

You inhale slowly.

The air is cold.

Real.

It fills your lungs without permission, without expectation.

“I do not know what I am meant to feel,” you say. This time, there is no attempt to correct it. No attempt to hide it. Lyonel shifts slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours—not by accident.

Grounding.

“You’re not meant to feel anything in particular,” he says. “That’s the point.” Your brow furrows again.

“That does not make sense.” He huffs a quiet breath, not frustrated—just patient.

“I know it doesn’t,” he says. “Not yet.”

Not yet.

The words linger, suggesting time—suggesting change. Your chest tightens again because time means uncertainty. Because change means losing something you’ve always relied on.

You hesitate.

The words build slowly this time, carefully, as if they might shatter if spoken too quickly. “But I would like to try.” They leave you quietly.

Fragile, but real. The moment they are spoken, your breath catches slightly. That is not something you were taught:

To try without knowing the outcome. To step forward without certainty.

Lyonel’s expression shifts—not dramatically—but enough to show something softer, something steadier.

“Good,” he says, giving a small nod.

No praise.

No correction.

Just… acknowledgment.

Your shoulders loosen slightly, just slightly. The wind howls again, louder than before, sweeping across the ramparts with force.

You feel it.

All of it.

The pull.

The cold.

The chaos.

This time you do not flinch—not because you are braced, not because you are enduring it—but because, for a brief moment, you are simply standing in it.

And that, in itself, feels like something new.

By the end of the week, you are given the household. Not entirely—never entirely—but enough.

The keys are placed in your hands by the head steward with a respectful bow. Inventories are recited. Stores accounted for. Servants look to you for instruction, for approval, for correction.

It settles over you like a familiar cloak.

This, you understand.

Order. Structure. Purpose.

You move through the halls with quiet precision, voice soft but firm, correcting small inefficiencies, adjusting schedules, ensuring everything runs as it should. The kitchens are reorganized by midmorning. The linens counted and rotated. The servants begin to anticipate your expectations and they fall in line without complaint. They are capable, you think, and they do their duties well. 

There is comfort in the routine of it.

In knowing what is right.

In knowing how to be.

You do not notice how tightly you hold yourself until—

“My lady.” You turn sharply. A servant dips her head. “My lord requests your presence in the solar.” Your stomach tightens.

“Now?” you ask, thrown by the request.

“Yes, my lady.” You glance at the ledger in your hands. Half-finished. Several tasks still incomplete.

“I am occupied,” you say. “Inform him I will attend to him once my duties are complete.” The servant hesitates for just for a moment.

“…He bids you know this is not a request.” Of course he does.

You straighten slightly. “Very well.” You close the ledger and set it aside..

Lyonel is exactly where you expect him to be. His leg is propped on the corner of the table like a brute, though he does have the mind to not let his boot touch the surface. His plate already half-empty. Bread torn rather than cut. A jug of ale within easy reach.

The room smells like roasted meat and fresh bread and him. You stop just inside the doorway.

“Close the door,” Lyonel says, not looking up. You do it without thought.

He gestures vaguely to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You hesitate, looking down at the table. The table is set for two. Your place is already arranged and your stomach twists.

“I have already eaten,” you say. A lie. A practiced one. His hand stills. Slowly, he looks up at you, chewing.

“No, you haven’t.” The certainty in his voice makes your chest tighten as he lowers his leg off the table.

“I—”

“Sit,” he repeats. You obey. Of course you do. You fold your hands in your lap, back straight, gaze lowered. A pinch on your hand straightens your spine. Lyonel watches you for a moment, then gently pushes the plate toward you.

“Eat.” The word lands heavy. Your fingers curl slightly as they hold one another.

“I am not hungry.” Another lie.

His jaw tightens. “You didn’t eat this morning.”

“I did.”

“You had half a cup of broth to break your fast. I feel that hardly counts.” You go still. He noticed. Of course he did. “That’s not even soup.” He notes as if it was preposterous. 

“That is sufficient,” you say quietly.

“For who?” he asks. You don’t answer because you already know he won’t like it. He leans forward slightly. “Eat.” Your throat tightens.

“I cannot.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Silence.

“What do you mean, you cannot?” he asks. “Does something ail you?” Your hands tremble faintly in your lap.

“I…should not.”

“Should not?” His voice sharpens. “Since when is eating a meal something you ‘should not’ do?” Your gaze drops further.

“It is improper.”

“Improper to eat?” he repeats incredulously.

“In front of my husband,” you clarify, barely above a whisper. The room stills. Lyonel stares at you.

“Say that again.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“It is…not appropriate for a lady to eat freely in the presence of men,” you say, each word measured, careful. “Especially not her husband. I take my meals elsewhere so that I am not seen as indulgent. It is what I am used to.”

For a moment he says nothing.

“Indulgent—who —” The words come out slow, and he has a glint in his dark eyes that you would call predatory. Dangerous.  You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

His expression darkens all the same. “Your father.”

It is not a question, but you shake your head. “My mother.” He leans back in his chair, staring at you like he’s trying to decide whether to be furious or something else entirely. He ultimately ends up shrugging, beside himself. 

“That’s the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“It is not,” you say quickly. “It is—”

“Cruel,” he cuts in.

“It is discipline.”

“It’s starvation.”

“It is self-control.”

“It is insanity!” he snaps, slamming his hand onto the table. You flinch as silence overtakes the room. Your shoulders draw in instinctively. Small. Composed. Agreeable. 

And again, Lyonel sees it. His anger falters, but it doesn’t disappear this time. It shifts and hardens into something quieter. More deliberate. One step forward with you and three steps back, it seems. 

“Look at me.” You do—slowly—reluctantly.

“You’re in my keep,” he says. “At my table. As my wife.” Your pulse pounds. “You will eat when you are hungry. You will eat when it is presented to you. You will eat in front of me when we take our meals together.” The command is clear. Familiar. Devastating. “You will not hide away.”

Your body wants to obey, but your mind—your mind is so much louder as the hounds within gnaw and gnash once more. 

“I…cannot do it correctly,” you whisper.

His brow furrows. “Correctly?”

“I do not know how much is acceptable. How quickly. How—” Your breath catches. “If I do it wrong—”

“You won’t,” he says.

“I might.”

“You won’t.” He presses. “Because there is no wrong way to do it—unless you are eating from a trough, which I don’t believe you would be doing.” he says, sharper now. “Eat.” The tension snaps.

“I cannot!” you say, louder than you mean to, a sharper pinch steels you. The room goes still. Your breath comes too fast. Your hands shake.

“I do not know how to do this without being wrong,” you admit, the words breaking out of you. “I do not know where the line is. I do not know what will displease you. I do not know how to sit or speak or eat without—” your nails break the skin this time and a sharp sound flees your lips before you can stop it. 

Lyonel stands before you understand what he’s doing and he grabs your wrist to pull it free from your other hand. Blood coats the back of your hand in a smeared mess, small scabs littered the skin from previous times you’ve done this to yourself. 

“This—” He holds the bleeding hand up between you. “—stops.” Was all he said. “I’ve seen you do it and for the life of me I could not understand what it was, but now I know and I do not like it.” He pulled a cloth off the table and pressed it to your hand. “Am I understood?” The compulsion to pinch once more had the fingers of your other hand clenching at the air. 

It was all too much. You’ve said too much. You’ve done too much. Silence crashes down around you as he returns to his seat. Lyonel is staring at you. Not angry. Not upset, just…looking.

“You think I’m waiting for you to fail,” he says quietly.

That is what you were taught. That is what you expect.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “Gods,” he mutters. “This again.” You shrink slightly at the frustration in his voice. Pinch, your mind screams, and the gnashing dogs are there to keep the temptation away. To obey what has been commanded. 

“I am trying,” you say, smaller now.

“I know you are.”

“Then why does it feel like I am always wrong?” The question slips out before you can stop it. It hangs there raw and dangerous. Lyonel stills, then after a moment he reflects.

“Because everything you were taught tells you that you are,” he says. “Every step is wrong. Every word is wrong. Every action is wrong. It is why you pinch yourself, is it not? When you feel a correction is needed and I do not give it?” Your throat constricts. “And I don’t know how to fight that for you,” he adds. The honesty stings.

“I do not know how to fight it either,” you whisper. “Because it was never something I was meant to fight.”

A pause.

“Then we start small.” You blink as Lyonel reaches for the bread, breaks off a piece, and sets it on your plate before sitting back with a gesture of his hand toward it. “Eat that.” You stare at it. It looks harmless.

Simple.

Safe.

Your hands tremble anyway.

“I—”

“Just the bread,” he says as he returns to his chair. “No rules. No judgment.” You hesitate as your heart pounds. Your mother’s voice echoes in your mind—measured, cold, absolute.

Be seen. Not heard. Never indulge. Never take more than you are given. Never reach. 

Your fingers move anyway. Slowly, so slowly, as you pick up the bread. Lyonel does not look away, but he does not interrupt either. You bring it to your mouth tentatively—pause—and then you take a bite.

Nothing happens.

No sharp voice. No correction. No consequence. Just the quiet sound of the sea beyond the walls and the crisp crust between your teeth.

Your breath catches as you chew slowly.

Swallow.

Lyonel exhales, something easing in his posture.

“There,” he says, softer now. “Not so difficult.” Your hands are still shaking. Your chest is still tight.

But—you did it.

“I…did not do it properly,” you say once you’re able, sure to wipe invisible crumbs from your mouth with the tips of your fingers.

“You did it,” he corrects. The distinction feels… strange. Unfamiliar. You look down at the piece of bread still in your hand.

Then, after a moment, you boldly take another bite.

Part Four

“Lyonel,” he corrects, never bringing his voice higher than what you can hear for this conversation is only for your ears, as a second nature at this point, though there is less bite to it now. “And don’t pretend you weren’t thinking something. You’ve been staring at that man for the past five minutes as if he’s committed an atrocity against this house.”

He had, in your mind. You glance quickly toward the knight in question—laughing too loudly, sloshing ale onto the table, slamming his tankard down so hard it reverberates. Still, you naturally hesitate.

“Speak,” Lyonel says, chewing.

You swallow. “He is…unruly.”

Lyonel lets out a short breath of amusement. “He’s drunk.”

“He is disrespectful.” You say in a quick whisper, your gaze fixed firmly on your hands as though they might offer you something steadier than the scene before you.

“Disrespectful to whom?” Lyonel raises a brow, his voice low as he leans slightly toward you.

“To you.” You say it as if it is obvious—because it should be. A lord is not to be treated so casually. Not in your understanding of the world. That seems to genuinely surprise him.

He leans back in his chair, glancing again toward the knight, who laughs too loudly, sloshing ale from his cup as another man claps him on the shoulder. The sound carries—unrestrained, unmeasured.

Lyonel sets his knife down against his plate, turning more fully toward you, his elbow braced against the arm of his chair.

“He fought for me in three campaigns at sea,” he says quietly. “Lost three fingers and nearly lost his whole arm doing it. If he wants to sing poorly and spill half my ale, he’s earned the right to do it.” The explanation should've been enough, but your mind and the hounds gnawing and gnashing within it for order could not let it go.

You frown faintly, your eyes flicking up toward the knight again—his laughter, the careless ease of it, the way no one recoils or corrects him.

“That is not how a lord should be regarded,” you murmur. “Even if that is the case.”

“And how should a lord be regarded?” His tone shifts—not sharp, but intent now. Curious. Watching.

You straighten slightly.

“With order,” you say, firmer now. “With structure. With—”

“Fear?” he cuts in. The word stills you. You do not answer and his gaze sharpens. “Is that what you think respect is?”

“It ensures obedience,” you reply after a moment, your voice is even quieter now. “It is effective.”

Measured

Practiced

“At what?” he presses. “Control?”

“Yes.” The word leaves your mouth before you can temper it. There is a beat of silence where Lyonel studies you—not with anger, but something heavier. Something that lingers too long.

“And is that what you want?” he asks. “To control everything around you?” Your fingers curl faintly in your lap.

“I do not control anything—my lord does. If there is no control, then there is chaos,” you say. “It is what is proper.”

The words feel worn. Not new. Not chosen. Repeated.

The noise of the hall presses in around you.

Laughter

Music

Voices rising and falling without restraint. It feels…wrong. Uncontained. Like something that should be corrected. You glance again toward the knight.

He throws his head back in laughter, unbothered, unguarded—his arm slung carelessly around another man’s shoulders. No one stops him. No one reprimands him. No one even looks at him with disapproval. They goad him, if your eyes can believe it. Your chest tightens as Lyonel leans closer, his voice dropping further.

“Would you have him dragged out?” he asks quietly. “Thrown from my table for the grievous crime of enjoying himself?” The question unsettles you. You hesitate for a moment because the answer comes easily, but something about the way he asks makes it feel…heavier.

“He is out of line,” you say instead.

“That’s not what I asked.” Your throat tightens. You glance down again, a subtle pinch, as your voice lowers further.

“A lord’s table is not a place for…that.”

“For what? He is not at my table. He's at their table.” he presses. You falter because you do not have a word for it—not a proper one.

“Excess,” you settle on.

“Joy?” Lyonel counters softly. The word feels misplaced. Foreign. You shake your head faintly.

“Lack of restraint,” you correct and Lyonel exhales quietly through his nose.

“And what would you do?” he asks. “If this were your hall?” The question lands heavier than the rest because it is not hypothetical. Because it is something you have been trained to answer. Your shoulders straighten slightly. Your voice steadies—not with confidence, but with familiarity.

“I would have him removed,” you say. The words come clean. "But this is not my hall." Your gaze does not lift. “He would be corrected,” you continue, softer now. “So that others would not follow his example.” A pause, then, quieter still—“It prevents disorder.”

The words sit between you.

Cold

Final

Lyonel does not speak immediately, but you can feel his attention on you. Not drifting. Not dismissing.

Fixed

Heavy

“You’d make an example of him,” he says. You nod faintly.

“It is necessary.”

“Why?” The question is simple. Too simple. Your breath falters.

“Because…” You hesitate. Because the answer is obvious. Because it has always been obvious. “To maintain order,” you say finally.

“And if the order is already there?” he asks. Your brow furrows faintly as you glance up at him, then back toward the hall. The knight still laughs. Others laugh with him. No one is afraid. No one is watching themselves too closely. No one is waiting for correction.

And yet—nothing is breaking. Nothing is falling apart. Your chest tightens once more because that does not make sense. Because that is not what you were taught.

“Everyone has their place,” you say, quieter now. The conviction is there, but it is thinner. Less certain.

“And what place is that?” Lyonel asks. Your lips part, then close in hesitation. Because the answer feels… less clear now. Because the hall in front of you does not reflect what you have always believed.

“They serve,” you say, though it sounds smaller now. “They obey.” Lyonel watches you.

“And what do they do when they’re not serving?” The question lingers and you do not answer because you were never allowed that answer. Your gaze drifts back to the knight—to the way he laughs, to the way no one silences him, to the way Lyonel does not correct him.

Your chest aches faintly.

“It is what you were taught,” he corrects. You stiffen. “There is a difference, and a big one at that.”

You look down at the plate you politely picked at in front of you. “It kept order.”

“At what cost?” You don’t answer because you know the cost, the pieces of yourself that were chipped away as currency for your transgressions. Because you feel it in the way your shoulders never quite relax, or in the way the corners of your lips always tilt downward because to show happiness is to lack restraint.

You felt it in the way your voice falters when his rises. In the way you still measure every word before you speak so that the few words you choose aren’t wrong.

You feel it in the compulsive pinch on the back of your hand. 

To feel is to fail, and failure is not an option. 

Lyonel exhales slowly, rubbing his jaw. “Gods.” Seven Hells, you repeat in your mind automatically. You think the conversation will end there with his displeasure—you hope it does, but it does not. It ventures further.

“What about our children?” He’s looking directly at you as he asks this. There is no longer any sign of playful interest on his face. The tilt of his lips is gone and now he is just observing. 

The question lands without warning. Your head lifts. “My lord?”

“Our children,” he repeats, drinking from his cup. The large rings glitter in the vast light of the braziers that filled the hall. “Gods willing, when we have them.”

Your pulse stutters.

You have not allowed yourself to think that far. Not truly. Not since you stepped from your carriage into this place that already felt so different from everything you had known.

“They will be raised properly,” you say simply, safety in the neutrality of your carefully chosen words.

“That’s not what I asked.” Repeated. He says that often, you notice. He asks a question, but your answer is never what he is looking for. It unsettles you—because it forces you beyond what is rehearsed, beyond what is safe. 

A correction, you recognize, with a pinch. 

You falter, trying to find your footing, though you continue to slip on the proverbial ice.

“I—”

“Will you teach them as you were taught?” His eyes are unrelenting.  The hall seems too quiet for the question. Not truly—but quiet enough that it feels louder than everything else. You hesitate a moment too long and in that hesitation he already knows your answer.

“Yes,” you say softly, your eyes falling back to your hands in your lap. Lyonel goes very still.

“Say that again.” There is no threat in his tone. But that does not make it any less volatile. 

“They will be disciplined,” you say, more steadily. “They will understand their place. They will not be permitted to—”

“To what?” he interrupts. “Laugh too loudly? Sing songs? Frolic and play?” The edge in his voice cuts and your eyes meet his once more.

“To behave without restraint,” you correct.

“They’ll be children.” Lyonel chuckles humorlessly.

“They will be heirs,” you counter, bewildered by not only the conversation, but his responses to you.

“They will be mine,” he says sharply, his brow furrowing and his mouth tightening. “And I will not have them afraid to breathe in their own home.” Your heart begins to race. Pinch. 

“I would not harm them—”

“You don’t think what you went through was harm,” Lyonel says—not unkindly, but not gently either. “What you still clearly carry with you.”

“It made me who I am.”

“And you think that’s a good thing?” he asks with his brows now raised incredulously. You open your mouth—and close it. You do not know how to answer that because part of you—the quiet, buried part—does not think it is.

But you cannot say that. You cannot unravel everything you have been built upon.

“I survived it,” you say instead. Lyonel’s expression darkens, his head tilting ever so slightly.

“That’s not the same as it being right.”

“It is what I know,” you insist, your voice tightening. “It is what works.”

“For obedience,” he says. “Not for love.”

The word hits harder than it should.

Love

It feels distant. Abstract. Dangerous. Foreign.

“A child does not need love to understand duty,” you say from experience. Lyonel stares at you like you’ve struck him.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “They do.” Silence falls between you.

Lyonel does not look away from you. That is what unsettles you most. Not his tone. Not even his words, but the way he watches you—as though he is seeing something you cannot. As though he is waiting for you to see it too.

The hall continues around you.

Voices

Laughter

The scrape of cups and plates—all of it feels distant now. Muted. Like you have stepped into something separate from it. Something far more dangerous.

“And what did it teach you?” Lyonel breaks the silence between you. The question is quiet.

“It taught me how to behave,” you answer. “It taught me how to serve my house. It taught me how to endure. It taught me that duty comes before all else.” Each answer comes quicker and stronger than the last—as if you are rebuilding the structure beneath your feet as it threatens to give way. 

“And did it teach you how to feel safe?” he asks, his expression not softening. Your breath catches and you hesitate for a moment too long. Your fingers tighten in your lap.

“There is safety in security.”

“There is safety in a mother’s arms.” The words are immediate. Firm. You shake your head faintly.

“A child does not require comfort to fulfill their role.”

“And what happens when they are not fulfilling a role?” he presses. “What happens when they are simply…being?” You falter. That is not something you were ever allowed. Again, you do not have an answer for it.

“They will learn not to be careless,” you say instead. “They will learn restraint and they will not shame us.” Lyonel exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face.

“Gods,” he mutters. Then his gaze returns to you—sharper now, but not cruel. His dark eyes searched yours before they tilted in sadness. 

“Were you ever held?” he asks. The question strikes harder than any before it. Your breath stills, caught off guard.

“What?”

“When you were a child,” he says, quieter now. “Did anyone ever hold you? Even once?” You stare at him. Your mind… empties because that is not a question you have ever been asked. Because it is not something that was ever measured.

Comfort wasn’t something that mattered.

“I—” You falter. Your throat tightens. He does not let you look away this time.

“Did anyone ever wipe your tears,” he continues, voice low, careful, “with care instead of hurt?” Something in your chest cracks.

Small

Sharp

You inhale too quickly. Your fingers tremble faintly in your lap as you search your mind for an answer—for something—but there is only absence.

Only fragments.

Cold hands

Sharp words

Correction

Always correction.

Your lips part, then close before parting again.

“I…I do not recall,” you admit and that is worse than answering a definitive ‘no’. Lyonel’s jaw tightens—not at you, never at you—at what you were given, or rather…what you were not.

“They won’t be you,” he says again, softer now, but the words still cut. Your head lifts. “They won’t need to survive their childhood.” The words land even deeper this time.

Now you understand what he means.

“That is not—” Your breath stutters.

“It is,” he says, not harsh—but unyielding. “You keep calling it discipline. Structure. Order.” His hand gestures faintly between you. “But what you’re describing is cruelty.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I was not afraid,” you insist. The lie comes quickly because you’ve said it over and over again as a reflex, but your voice wavers and Lyonel hears it.

Sees it.

“Aye,” he says quietly. “You were.”

Silence crashes down and your throat burns. Your hands tremble faintly now, though you try to still them.

“You think I would harm them?” you ask, your voice is smaller now—not defensive—but something akin to hurt.

Lyonel’s expression shifts then. “No,” he says. You look at him, uncertain. “I think you don’t know another way,” he continues.

The words are not cruel, but they cut deeper because of it because they are not accusation—they are truth.

And truth…truth is harder to fight. Your breath comes uneven as you fight for your composure in this great hall full of people who have no idea of the conversation that is happening at their lord’s table.

“I would do what is necessary,” you whisper, your chin trembling though not a single tear falls.

Your composure is all you have—it is all you have ever known, and you will fight to keep it.  

Lyonel leans forward slightly now, his voice lower. “And if what’s necessary is not what you were taught?” You still completely because that…that thought has never been allowed to exist. 

“If what’s necessary is that they are held,” he continues, “instead of corrected.” Your chest continues to tighten. “That they are comforted instead of silenced.” Your breath falters. “That they are loved,” he finishes. The word settles again.

Love

It no longer feels distant. It feels exposed because now you see what was missing.

“I do not know it,” you admit, still holding yourself together. The words slip out before you can stop them.

Bare

Unprotected

Lyonel stills because that is the first honest thing you’ve said that wasn’t rehearsed—yhat wasn’t drilled into your head. “I was not taught that,” you continue, quieter now. “I have not…felt that.” Your gaze drops.

“I was taught how to correct.” You continue, “How to prevent mistakes. How to ensure obedience.” Your throat tightens. “But not that.”

Not love.

Never love.

The silence that follows is different.

Not sharp.

Not cutting.

Heavy, but open. Lyonel’s voice, when it comes, is somehow quieter than before.

“Then we’ll learn.” You blink as your head lifts slowly.

“What?”

“We’ll learn,” he repeats.

Not you—we.

The word lands strangely.

Unfamiliar

Shared

“You think that is something that can be learned?” you ask. There is no disbelief in your voice. Only uncertainty and a need for guidance. Lyonel huffs softly.

“Aye,” he says. “I do.” Your chest simply cannot tighten any further. A part of you wants to believe him as flashes of your youth flutter behind your eyes.

“And if I fail?” you ask. The question is quiet, but it carries everything—every fear, every expectation. Lyonel does not hesitate in his answer:

“Then they’ll still know they’re safe,” he says. Your breath catches. “Because I’ll be there,” he adds, steady and certain. “And so will you because you are already trying. Failure means you learn, and you try again. And again if you must.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap because all you feel is conflict. Confusion. The ground shifting beneath everything you’ve ever known.

“You want them to be strong,” he continues. Of course you do. You nod faintly, earnest eyes meeting his when you realize he understands you. “And I want them to be whole.”

The words settle differently—not in opposition—but not the same. Your gaze drops again to your hands, this time you let your palms turn upward. You imagine them smaller, another set of hands in yours.

Fragile

Unformed

Looking to you not for correction, but for something else. Something you do not yet understand, but you see it then in your mind—your own hands reaching for your mother and being met with cold rejection. Your fingers curl in once more.

Your chest cracks and it does not close.

“I do not know if I can be what they need,” you whisper.

Lyonel’s voice softens. “You don’t have to be perfect.” The words are simple—impossible. “You just have to be better than what you were given. We should all be better to our children than we were given.” He leans back slightly then, studying you, something resolute settling into his expression.

“That fear…” he says at last, quieter now but no less firm, “—that fear and cruelty will not be something my children endure by anyone’s hands, certainly not by their mother’s.” The words land with finality. Not shouted. Not cruel. Immovable. “Nor mine.”

Your breath catches because for the first time you understand that this is not a debate he will yield, not when it comes to them and not when it comes to you.

Silence settles again at the table, but it is no longer suffocating. Your trembling lessens as you settle.

This presence was not final nor uncertain. It is something new, something that allows a root that’s been laid dormant within you since your youth start to dig its way out towards the sun. And for the first time…you are not entirely certain that what you were taught is the only way forward. Your soft inhale has Lyonel's eyes looking over to you once again.

“We will…disagree…on matters regarding the children.” You are still scared to misstep, but it is not a question you’re asking, and Lyonel makes note of that. There is not tension in your words, but he knows you are testing the proverbial ice—that you are making an effort. 

“…Then we’ll figure it out,” he says with a shrug.

“And if we cannot?” A pause—a real one—heavy with everything unsaid.

“Then we’ll argue about it, naturally.” he says finally. The honesty of it catches you off guard.

“As we are arguing now,” you point out.

“Aye,” he says with a small grin. “And we’ll likely do it again tomorrow. I quite like to argue. My mother once told me I’d argue with a wall if only it spoke back.”

Despite yourself, your lips press together, almost forming something that isn’t quite a smile. You don’t understand him.

Not fully.

Not yet.

Part Three

“Did you just-” You lower your gaze instantly. 

“-Forgive me.” The words come without thought. They always do. Silence stretches for a beat too long and you can feel it coming. You braced internally for an impact you deserved for the insolence of not staying quiet.

“For what?” Lyonel asks, genuinely confused. Your grip tightens around the cup. 

“I…I did not mean to offend.”

“I didn’t say you offended me.” He blinked down at you, furrowing his brow while fixing you with a look. 

“You did not need to, my—Lyonel.” You self-correct with a subtle twitch, voice is steady, practiced, devoid. “I understand.”

Another pause.

When you dare glance up, he is staring at you—not with anger, but something sharper. Something searching, trying to understand. 

“You understand,” he repeats slowly, “what, exactly?”

“That I should not presume.” Three hours was all it took for you to make a fool of yourself, you sneered within your own mind. A muscle in his jaw ticks and your stomach twists, still bracing.

“That you should not—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face with an exasperated sigh. “Seven weeping hells.” Around you, the feast continues, but it feels distant now, like a storm heard from behind stone walls. “Come,” he says abruptly, standing from the head table and placing his great antler crown upon the table carelessly. “Walk with me.”

You rise at once.

Of course you do.

The corridors of Storm’s End are colder than the hall, the roar of celebration fading behind thick stone. Your shoes upon your feet make no sound against the floor. His boots do.

Heavy. Certain. Unafraid.

You keep two steps behind him, head down, hands clasped in front of you.

“Will you stop that?” he snaps suddenly. You freeze in place. Your stomach drops. 

“I—”

“That.” He turns, gesturing sharply. “Hovering like a-a frightened doe. It’s unnerving.”

“I am sorry I’ve displeased you, my lord.” There it is again. You hate it. You hate how easily it comes, how your hands clasp each other so tightly to not show how they are trembling because you know what happens when you fall short, when you are lacking. It was the unknown of your new husband’s temperament, how he would ultimately discipline you and why that had you further on edge, but you would learn. You always learned. You always endured. 

And Lyonel…he loathes it in a way you could not comprehend. He exhales hard, like a man trying—and failing—to keep his temper. “Do you ever say anything else?”

You don’t answer because the answer is no. Because any answer feels like a trap. And because silence is safer—not always, but it did not allow yourself to continue the error.

Lyonel studies you, eyes narrowing slightly, dark brows furrowed as he tries to solve you. “Look at me.” Your gaze lifts at once, not because you want to—but because you must. He notices that too and something in his expression shifts.

“Gods,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’re not shy.” You blink. He steps closer, slower now, like approaching a skittish animal. “You’re afraid.” Your heart stutters.

“I am not—”

“You flinched when I laughed.”

You swallow. “It was loud.”

“I am loud,” he says plainly, pulling a face. “That’s not likely to change.”

You nod quickly. “Of course, I would not expect you to change within your own household, my lord.”

“Stop that.” You still. “Stop agreeing with everything I say.”

“I—” Your breath catches. “I will try.”

“That’s not—” He groans, turning away, pacing once before facing you again. “What kind of house did you come from?” The question strikes like a blow. You feel it in your chest, in your ribs, in the old, buried places you have learned not to touch.

“A respectable one,” you answer carefully.

“I didn’t ask if it was respectable. I asked what it was.”

Your hands clasp tighter. “Orderly.”

“And?”

“Disciplined.”

“And?” You hesitate. His gaze sharpens. “And?”

Your voice is quieter now. “Strict.”

“How strict?” 

The word slips out before you can stop it. “Very, as every household should be.” Your words were scripted, he knew. Silence follows. Heavy. Expectant. You should stop speaking. You know you should. But something about the way he is looking at you—not cruel, not mocking, just… waiting—pulls the truth loose from your throat.

“My father, as every good lord does, believed… obedience was a virtue above all else,” you say, each word measured. “There were… consequences for lacking.”

Lyonel goes still. “What kind of consequences?”

You stare at the floor. “The earned consequences, my lord. As is customary of any house.” Was he testing you? 

“That tells me nothing.” You close your eyes briefly. You should not say this, you should not, but the words come anyway, thin and fragile because he requested an answer, demanded it. And you followed demands to the letter, as is your purpose. 

“He did not like to be questioned, nor should he be as lord of the keep. Or contradicted. Or… startled.”

A beat.

“Startled,” Lyonel repeats.

“Yes.” You don’t realize what you’ve said until it’s too late. Until his laughter—earlier, booming and sudden—replays in your mind. Until your body remembers the instinct before you can stop it. Your shoulders draw in. Your head dips. You make yourself smaller.

The way you always have.

The way you were taught.

And when you open your eyes, Lyonel is staring at you like he has been struck.

“Oh,” he says.

Just that.

Oh.

You brace yourself again—for anger, for ridicule. For something. Instead, he drags a hand through his hair and turns away again, pacing harder now.

“Seven hells,” he mutters. “Seven bloody fucking hells.”

“My lord—Lyonel,” you correct quickly as to not anger him further, “I did not mean to—”

“Stop apologizing!” His arm shoots out in a stopping motion and you flinch as if you’ve been struck. He sees it and that—more than anything—seems to undo him. Lyonel’s anger collapses in on itself, leaving something rawer behind.

“My anger is not directed towards you,” he says, quieter now. You were the only person around, you tried to make sense of it in your head, so who could his ire be directed at if not you? “Gods.”

You nod quickly. “Yes.”

He closes his eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“I—”

“You’re not listening to me,” he says, not unkindly, but it still causes your spine to stiffen in a way that was familiar, expected. Measured. “You’re listening to… him.” His hand gestures at nothing, but you knew what he meant. The word hangs between you, unspoken, but understood.

Your father.

Your throat constricts.

“I am trying to be a good wife,” you whisper, fear of failure so soon overtaking you. “I will improve.”

Lyonel’s eyes open, and for the first time since you met him, he does not look larger than life. He looks… human in a way you did not trust. Lyonel peers down at you with softness and men weren’t soft, neither were they gentle—not towards their wives and not towards you. It was not real, nor was it proper, and so your mind labeled this as a fallacy. You would not fall victim to this test. Perhaps you would impress him when he saw you would not bend. 

“And you think that means being afraid of me?” he asks.

“No,” you say quickly, too quickly. A lie passed from through your lips as a means to soothe. Lyonel’s mouth tightens.

“I’m loud,” he says simply. “I drink too much. I celebrate often. I’ll likely drag you into half my nonsense whether you wish to be in it or not.” A faint, humorless huff of breath. “But I am not him and that is not how my household operates beneath this roof.”

You don’t answer because you don’t know how to believe that. It is how all households are ran underneath their roofs. He studies you for a long moment, then sighs. “This is going to be a problem.”

Your stomach drops. “I can do better-” He cuts your pleas off before they can finish. 

“-That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer again, slower this time. Deliberate. “I don’t want a wife who’s afraid to breathe too loudly in my presence.” he says. “I don’t want someone who looks at me like I’m about to strike her for speaking.” His voice lowers. “And I certainly don’t want to become that man through my own frustrations without realizing it.”

You stare at him. Confused. Frightened. Something else you cannot name.

“I do not know how to be anything else,” you admit, feeling smaller than you did in the great hall. The honesty feels dangerous, but you cannot take it back.

Lyonel exhales slowly. “Then we’ll have to learn you something new, won’t we?”

You blink. “We?”

“We,” he repeats. “Because if I leave you to it, you’ll keep shrinking every time I laugh, and I refuse to spend the rest of my life whispering in my own hall.”

Despite everything, a small, startled breath escapes you. It’s not quite a laugh—never a laugh—but it is close and you discreetly pinch your own hand to self-correct. Lyonel’s eyes catch it even if you do not intend for him to, and this time when he smiles, that softness returns and it turns your stomach. 

“Good,” he says. “That’s better already.” You don’t realize it yet, but for the first time since your wedding began, you are not bracing for the next blow.

And for tonight, that is enough.

The next morning, you wake before the sun.

You always do.

The habit is carved into you—rise early, dress neatly, speak little, make no mistakes. Even here, in Storm’s End, where the sea roars instead of your father’s voice, your body remembers its lessons.

You sit at the edge of the bed, hands folded, waiting. For what, you are not sure. For instruction. For correction. For something to go wrong. A dull ache twinges between your thighs, a remnant of the coupling you endured within the first night of your marriage bed. 

Duty

It makes you wince. It was as your mother and septa explained–painful, violating, expected, endurable. The memory of you laying stiff against the mattress, Lyonel’s drunken breath upon your neck as he rutted for a few moments before rolling off of you and falling asleep has you clenching your eyes shut. 

Duty 

Behind you, Lyonel stirs and you go still, like a rabbit startled by the break of a stick on the ground. Danger impending, your mind told you. He groans, rolling onto his back with one arm thrown over his eyes to shield the daylight that breaks through the clouds outside the windows. “Gods… whose idea was that last cask?”

You do not answer. It is not your place to comment. Heavy silence stretched uncomfortably, and slowly, his arm lowered. He squints at you through the dim morning light, trying to get a read on you.

“…Have you been sitting there long?”

You hesitate. “No.” A lie.

His brow furrows. “You’re dressed.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“I did not wish to wake you.” His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger—but in that same searching way that makes your chest feel tight.

“You’re my wife,” he says. “Not a servant waiting for permission to breathe.”

“I understand.”

“You keep saying that,” he mutters with a sigh. You lower your gaze. There is a pause, then, abruptly—“Come back to bed.”

Your head lifts. “My lord?”

“Lyonel,” he corrects automatically, voice rough with sleep. He pats the space beside him. “Come here.”

Your pulse stumbles. You do not move a muscle.

“I…” You swallow. “It is morning.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed. Too bloody early, if you ask me”

“There will be duties—”

“They can wait.”

“They should not,” you say quickly. “A lady must not be idle.” His expression shifts.

“There it is again,” he says.

You stiffen. “Again?”

“That tone,” he says, pushing himself upright now. “Like you’re reciting something.”

“I am only speaking properly.”

“You’re speaking like someone else put the words in your mouth.” Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

“They are appropriate words,” you say, carefully.

“And are they yours?” The question lands heavier than it should. You hesitate and that is answer enough. Lyonel exhales sharply, swinging his legs off the bed. He is nude, just as he was when he fell asleep. You quickly turn your head back to the window, eyes wide. “Seven hells.” He mutters as he throws on a sleep shirt and pours himself a cup of wine that’s been sitting on the mantle. Seven Hells–something he’s taken to saying around you, to you, since you got here. You flinch at his sudden movement.

He sees it, of course he does, and his jaw tightens as he walks around the bed to stand before you. “I wasn’t even near you that time.”

“I know.” Your eyes don’t meet his.

“Then why do you look like I just drew a blade?”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Silence. Tense. Fragile. “I am trying,” you say quietly.

“So am I,” he snaps, pacing back and forth before you like a caged animal. The words hit harder than shouting and you go still. Lyonel runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room before turning back to you. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like everything you do is wrong?”

Horribly so, you wanted to answer. Your throat tightens and all you can get out is a pathetic, “Yes.”

He gestures sharply with a hand. “Then you should understand how bloody frustrating this is.”

“I am not trying to frustrate you.” You stand, hands still clasped in front of you, pinching. Gods, the pinching. Lyonel’s eyes go to it, but he does not comment on it.

“I know that!” he says, louder now. “Gods, I know that. That’s what makes it worse.” Your heart begins to pound. Too loud, too fast. This is how it starts–voices rising and tempers flaring. You take a small step back without meaning to. His voice cuts off and he stares at you, at the distance you’ve put between you and something in his expression hardens.

“Right,” he says flatly. “Of course.”

Your stomach drops. “I did not mean—”

“You never mean anything, do you?” he interrupts. “You just…are.”

“That is not—”

“You don’t speak unless you think it’s safe. You don’t move unless you think you’re allowed. You don’t even sit beside your own husband without looking like you’re awaiting judgment.” His words come faster now, sharper. “And I’m supposed to—what? Gently coax you out of it forever? Tiptoe around my own wife so she hopes I don’t strike her?”

“I never said you would!” Your voice was more shrill, more panicked than you meant it to be. A lady does not lose her composure.

“You don’t have to,” he shoots back. “You wear it on your face every time I raise my voice.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“I am trying to adjust-”

“Then try bloody harder!” The words crack through the room like thunder. You freeze. Completely. Resolutely. Your breath stops. Your shoulders draw in. Your gaze drops to the floor. Small. Still. Silent. Exactly as you were taught. The moment stretches before he speaks again.

“…Gods.” The anger drains from his face all at once and he steps back like he’s been burned. “No,” he mutters. “No, that’s not—”

You cannot look at him. You cannot move.

You are waiting.

For the next thing.

For the punishment that always follows.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there is only the sound of his breathing—uneven, frustrated, something dangerously close to regret.

“I just did it,” he says quietly.

You don’t understand.

Your heart twists.

“You did not—”

“I shouted. You froze. And now you look like you’re waiting for me to—” He cuts himself off, dragging both hands down his face. “Seven hells.” Repeated once more. You begin to associate it with something negative. Something bad. Something that needed correction. 

Silence fills the space between you. Heavy. Suffocating. Familiar. 

“I cannot do this,” he says finally. The words slice clean through you.

Your head lifts, panic flaring. “I will do better, I swear it—”

“That’s not what I mean!” he snaps—then immediately winces at his own tone. You flinch again. Of course you do. His shoulders sag.

“See?” he says hoarsely. “I can’t even speak above a docile tone without—”

“You should not have to change yourself for me,” you interrupt, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. Your fingers pinch the back of your hand in another self-correction and he watched it like a hawk tracking a mouse running through the underbrush. “I am the one who must adjust, my lord. I am the one who must be better. That is how this works. I beg for nothing more than a small adjustment period and I will be all that you can expect.”

He stares at you.

“No,” he says. The word is firm. Unyielding. “That is how your father worked. Not me.”

Your hands tremble slightly. “A wife must be obedient above all else and I am. Obedient.”

“A wife must be a person before that,” he counters and the words said aloud capsize you. The force of them makes you falter.

“I do not know how,” you whisper. There it is again. The truth. Raw. Unvarnished. Terrifying. Lyonel’s expression shifts—not to anger this time, but to something that exhausts his mind. He looks at you like he is trying to solve a battle he cannot win with strength alone.

“…I don’t know how to teach you,” he admits. The words hang between you.

Not cruel, but honest, and somehow that stings more.

You lower your gaze again, voice small. “Then I will learn on my own. I am capable, I promise you.”

“How?” he asks, looking at you expectantly. He knows you don’t have an answer because you have never been allowed to find one, not before and not now.

The silence stretches–long and uncertain–then, after a moment, he exhales slowly.

“…We’re going to make a mess of this, aren’t we?” You glance up.

There is no anger in his face now, only quiet frustration and something else you cannot identify. Determination, perhaps.

“Yes,” you say quietly in agreement. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile and not quite joyous.

“Good,” he mutters. “At least we agree on something.” It is not peace–not yet–but it is not war either. For now it is enough to keep the storm from breaking.

You had awoken early at dawn to join your husband and his hunting party. A simple wish of yours amidst the endless courtly drama, and instead of waiting for his return as per usual, you had decided to join. He had looked at you quizzically, body rising over yours in between both of your small clothes. In truth, it had taken him by surprise, but with the pleading look on your face, and a soft kiss to his lips, he returned it.

“I see no reason to deny you..” He whispered into your mouth, pressing into you just close enough before pulling away. The loss was shameful, leaving you flustered in the ruffled sheets of your bed as he claimed if you were to join, you were to be early to rise.

And so you did. And in such moments, begrudgingly, you’d wished you’d stayed home. It wasn’t the glorious morning that had displeased you, or the idea of it at all, rather the fact your husband had left you waiting and wanting, and now you were stuck in the company of him and near fifteen of his men.

Few Goldcloaks had claimed to catch sight of wild boar beyond castle walls, just short of the roaring plain of fields leading into the small villages outside. A perfect place for hunting, and a perfect victory for a feast. And yet all signs of prey had been lost on you, you saw none of it.

Only the backs of turned heads met your expectant gaze, few announcing they had seen something, and then nothing. Twigs crunched under hooves, eyes snapping with every sound that threatened trepidations. And after so much of it, you found yourself drifting into your own space.

You had counted the petals from every flower and the fruitless imprints of animal tracking that you had passed. The overhead cover of the trees cleverer you all in a gentle glow, sun twinkling through the soft shells of leaves, and you greeted it with a blissful smile. The morning mist had not long lifted, leaving few on the tall grasses and moss, a sweet scent of earth in the air.

And the group continued on, men in armour at front with your husband, with you in the middle beside your young squire who patted his pelphrey encouragingly, and a few just behind. Even Maekar, your brother in law, had made an effort for such an occasion, rounding up just beside his brother on their large geldings. One a midnight black, Baelor’s, and the other a creamy white, it’s mane matching the tender strands of your husbands with a white streak.

“How much fucking longer?” Maekar’s voice broke the anticipating silence, reins jingling with them pulled taut.

Baelor huffed a laugh at his younger brother, “Lest the Gods grant us an opening, as long as it may take.” His hands tightened into the reins, turning his head just to look back at you. A smile came across his face when your gaze met his, both eyes glinting at you encouragingly, sensing the shared agiatation in awaiting the beast.

You smiled back, just catching him on your glance around the nature, careful not to let your boredom slip too harshly. Though as he often managed, he had caught sight of it rather quickly, and before you could blink, he was beside you. He had pulled back just from his brother, allowing the men to carry on, now seated in the saddle just rising higher than you, “And how do you fair, dear wife?”

“Better than your brother it seems.” You laughed lightly, eyeing forwards as Maekar scoffed at the men around him, cursing what seemed like to be nothing. Ever the impatient one.

Baelor only hummed, his gaze not leaving yours even as he shook his head at Maekar, fully fixed onto you, observing.

He’d caught the familiar glint in your eye and the curve of your lip spoke loudly of your mischief, and even he was no stranger to the way he had left you both that morning. Tucked up beneath the covers with the ache of the night before deep under warm skin, admittedly he had not wanted to leave. Large hands had turned you in his hold, palms smoothing down the curve of your breasts and into the apex of your thighs, but brought no release, only kissing you with a deep passion as you announced you’d like to join.

And as the first bells rang, it had signalled your departure, leaving no time to stay in bed. He pushed himself from you on heavy arms, the muscles of his back and shoulders sliding from your grip as he carried you both from bed. Awaiting your maids to be readied into your riding clothes.

——

You hadn’t much time to survey your escape, but with familiar mismatched eyes burning into you, so deeply you could feel it, a flush crept onto your cheeks, meeting his stare once more. And this time, with an idea.

“Quite well.. though,” Your voice trailed off, his features softening at you, “I should quite like to take that path instead.”

Your finger pointed just beyond you both, a smaller path, inching further into the Godswood, and you flicked back to him with a smirk. More secluded, and it should be an even better place to find the prey you were scouting, or something else.

He trailed the point of your hand, the curve of a trail just out of the way. Baelor looked back to you and simply nodded without protest, “Then I shall ready our men we should..”

“Perhaps it should be just us.” You shrugged, cutting him off with a fiery sweetness and he hardened his gaze as he took you in. He was no stranger to your mischief, though he wouldn’t fault his own impatience, not that he would admit it aloud. You stayed that way for a moment, hushed as the garrison moved on, nodding to the few turned heads, oblivious.

“Wait here.”

You listened, inching your mare off of the beaten path and into the greenery, your squire reaching out as you dismissed him, thanking him kindly as you urged him on.

Baelor picked up the pace, leaving your side just enough to catch up to Maekar, addressing him and the men leading.

“My lady wife and I shall take our leave on the eastern path.”

“Must you? Now?” Maekar only grumbled, looking back between you and his brother in a short knowing glance.

“A short detour is all brother, you shall not be without us for long.” He replied calmly. And with a flick of his wrist, he sent the others rounding the corner, leaving you both on your own.

Baelor found you again, the heavy footing from his gelding meeting your mare sniffing the grasses. And from there you set out your own way.

The pair of you treaded carefully through the overgrown brush winding of the small trail, most likely made by a fox. But you stayed vigilant, trotting beside your husband as your hands angled the reigns through a short opening of trees. Your head ducked through the overhang of ivy and pointed branches, a short, secluded plain of field welcoming you.

The bend of the river meandered just beyond its reaches, offering a sense of tranquility from the distant sounds of shouts and fanfare, and the even more distant bustle of the city. You stopped just short of the tree line, taking in the view as Baelor came up behind you breathing in the crisp air.

“Should this be what you wished for?” He rounded up beside you, tilting his head with a playful cadence.

“Quite.” You quipped, eyes flashing to his with a tender grin, swinging your legs from your horse as you planted them to the ground. The dew had softened the ground, small splatters of mud littering your boots, not that you had minded, the moment was far too important to care. Much less, your purpose.

Baelor watched you with an amused expression, following after you as he did the same, a heavy clink of armour hitting the floor as he led his horse to a small parting of fence. You reigned yours in, tightening the leather around the wood just beside his, your palm smoothing over your mare s she huffed gratefully, too busy engrossed in the leaves she’d started to tear apart.

“Take good care of this one.. I shall do the same.” You overheard the softness of his voice, an armoured hand gently patting the large creature in front of him, calmly standing attention next to your horse. Your palm covered your mouth as he spoke to it, an unlikely sight, and yet he spoke comfortably, as if it was a commonality.

Coneflowers and lavenders were plucked into your hands, taken from the longer strands from the field that swayed from the woodland to the rivers bank. Your skirts swirled around you, leaving a trace through the grasses as you moved around happily. Baelor watched on, taking you in as you did the morning, settling onto a broken oak log a few strides away, his hands moving to unclip the armour at his legs and thighs, allowing him ease to sit down.

He was left in the rough fabric of his breeches, the wind breezing through the opening of the valley and though his gaze did not relent from scouting the area of any others, any dangers, it did not chill him. Because in your presence he felt the resolve break, his chest tightening beneath the plates of steel, and heart swell at the sight. Of you purely in your element.

“Care to tell me why we are here?” He called out to you, lips curving as you found your way back toward him, bunches of weeds and shrubbery in your hands like a prized possession.

“Can I not have time alone for my husband?” The flowers were set down upon the log beside him as you swayed in your step, standing between his knees, opened just enough for you.

“Mhm.. in such a way, perhaps.” The rough skin of his palms were uncovered as he tugged the steeled fingers free, flexing and releasing them in his grip. His head tilting up into your view.

“Such a way?” You pushed on, resting your fingers onto his shoulder, slyly reaching for the clasp just behind it and snapping it open. His hand braced at your hip, fingers curling tightly as you continued at the other side, moving you steadily into his pace.

“Indeed.” He did not falter, only hues of deep blue and brown boring into you as you smirked.

“Perhaps it is on you, you have kept me wanting.” A pout met your lips, playful as you both knew it, and his lips parted about to protest, yet he only felt his throat tighten, wetting his lips teasingly. For if there was one thing to be noted, Baelor could play your game, and he played it well.

“Right, right it would be unseemly for the good prince..” Your hands planted onto his shoulders, shoving away the metal there as it fell away, arms baring to you, then bending properly to meet you, pulling you into him. Your knees slid either side of him, straddling him carefully as he gripped you, holding you in place just over his thighs.

The hem of your skirts scuffed over the damp log he sat upon as the rough callouses of his palms met your back instinctly, smoothing over the thin velvet fabric of your riding dress, one tailored and made wearable for such conditions. Now seemingly put to good use for being able to feel you.

“It would be, should be he caught with his wife on top of him in the Godswood.” Baelor noted, exhaling sharply through his nose, that resolve of his not yet broken, but beginning to crack. He felt all of you, your touch, your body, your need.

“It has not stopped you before.” You inched your head downward, testing a nibble at his jaw, and his breath became ragged in your hold. It was a truth even he could not deny. He had done so, many a time, even in places no honourable man would allow. Though because of you, and his own desire, he found himself in the confines of castle walls, albeit outside of them, unable to resist. Your bedchamber may have been your comfort, your solace, and utmost privacy, but that stopped neither of you from wanting.

And anywhere you seemed to rile him up, he had pulled you away from court, council and gathering alike. Taking you in the hushed corridors of the Keep with a hand clasped tightly over your mouth, or bent over the parchment and papers on his desk in the Tower of the Hand. Once even outside of the gatehouse where you had dared to tease him amongst lords and ladies, which ended in you being shoved up beside a beam nearby a stable, and him buried deep inside of you.

He couldn’t find reason in himself to deny you, and perhaps that would be his downfall he often wagered. With the very fact of the effect you had on him, the burn only deepened.

“And it should not now.” He breathed, his hands pressing tighter as you sunk into his lap. And you wasted no more time, your lips pressing to his in a sharp kiss, falling into one another as you began to work at the remnants of armour. Your fingers moved to the clasps of his chest plate, slowly shedding the darkened steel to reveal the chainmail doublet underneath. Cool steel met your fingertips sliding aside to feel the hard, tanned planes of muscle underneath.

The wetness pooled in your undergarments, heated and aroused already from his touch, the soft, steady beat of his heart beneath your hand. His hands slid up the flesh of your thighs, burning hot and warming you through the chilling breeze, thumbs rubbing over your hips as the skirts of your dress hiked up. Baelor held you there, smoothing over your skin as he dared downward, fingers testing over your entrance, finding their way through your folds underneath your gown.

“Desperate are you..?” He groaned against your lips, your head rocking against him as you nodded. And you were, wetness meeting his digits as they rubbed through you, worked up from the very hours before he’d risen in bed with you in his arms. One arm curled around you, drawing you into him as it rested onto your lower back, rolling you into him.

“Baelor..” You whined out, his thumb ghosting over your needy pearl as another finger rubbed around your entrance.

“I know, I know.. I have you, my heart.” He encouraged, lips pressing into yours as your noses bumped. A finger slipping inside of you, running through your heat as he pressed into your weeping hole. Your hips ground down into his palm, sucking him in as you moaned, wanting more. And he obliged, slipping another finger into you as his mouth moved to your neck, sucking open mouthed and teasing kisses to your jawline.

Your hands moved to the back of his head, anchoring him to you as he worked you open, the burn igniting deliciously in the depths of your belly. He urged you on, thumb circling your clit as he curled his fingers in and out of you, long and tender strokes of want, your cunt pulsing around him with every drag of his digits filling you.

“Please..” Your hips bucked into his hand, a pressure building through you threatening to come undone, fingers threading through the short strand at the back of his hair.

“Patience..”

But patience did not last long, the sounds of horns instead rippled its way through the trees, and your heads raised toward it. Your eyes met his pleadingly, and his with knowing.

There was no time to be had, not unless you wanted to be caught.

“By the Seven..” He breathed, ragged and rough from the realisation as his hand pulled from you carefully, silencing the loss with a kiss. The laces of his breeches were pulled free, loosening the fabrics and leathers as your hand reached in, freeing and grasping around him, hard and aching.

“If you are to come undone, I want it to be properly. On my cock..”

It was a fervent haze after that, his cock thrusting into you as he lined himself up, tugging your body into his as you sank down onto him. Both arms wrapped around your body, cradling you deep into his lap you braced yourself, taking him inch by inch. Your walls graced the curve of his length as it shoved up into you, punching with every eager thrust, your hips connecting in the middle as you bounced down onto him.

The wind whistled around you, distant shouts of men and the thundering of horses did not break the eagerness of your want. Instead only your rough breaths and pants filled the air around you, your foreheads rubbed into one another, noses brushing and teeth clashing with every pulse around him.

“My love..” He stuttered into you, your head thrown back, lulling onto his shoulder and beneath his chin as moans fell freely from your lips. You clenched hard round him, two fingers working around your clit, swollen and needy, drawing you closer to the coil that tightened inside of you. You had become incoherent, a mumble of “Please, please, please..” fighting through your blurring vision, glazed by the pleasure he was giving all to you.

“That’s it, my girl. Let go now..” His praises melted into your brain, your cunt firm around the base of his cock as he continued to fuck into you, moving you up and down onto him. “Let go with me..” The dual assault, still rubbing into you with the pressure, and the soothing ache of his voice, you broke, falling into him as your back arched. He held you there, unrelenting as your climax crashed over you, electric burning through your body.

And he kept his promise, thrusting into you with every spill he filled you with, cursing as hot spurts of his spend coated the inside of your cunt, deep and certain. He rolled you into him, your clit rubbing into the darkened hairs at the base of his cock, a hand soothing over your back as you shivered.

Sticky beads of sweat crowned your forehead as you rested at his shoulder, a hand gripping your thigh tenderly as his thumb circled the shaking muscle. The rise and fall of his chest evened into a distant rumble, heated and comfortable against you as he rose your head to meet his, two fingers curling under your chin.

“Alright, my heart..?” He looked to you through lidded eyes, soft pants exhaling from his lips as he checked on you, weary even through lust.

A smirk found your face, your body regaining just enough motion as his cock twitched inside of you.

“Dangerous aren’t you..“ He shook his head, pulling you in to meet his lips.

“Only for you..” You bit back, rolling your lip between your teeth teasingly before he caught it, a palm resting at the nape of your neck, capturing you against his mouth adoringly.

“As I know it.. did so well for me, my heart.” He mumbled between kisses, consuming and mouthy, the wetness of your mouths mixing in a sweet passion.

You barely had time to regather your skirts, and dignity before a figure came bursting through the trees.

Your squire.

Baelor settled you in his hold, moving you to your feet as he shoved himself back inside of the thick of his breeches, rushing between the cloudiness of just having taken you in the middle of nowhere and your skin still burning beneath velvet. His fingers rested on your hips, flattening your gown neatly as the squire found you, just before you could be seen. The pair of your heads turned to meet him, seemingly confident and noble, rising to the boy’s words.

And yet, in the muddle of his sprint to find you he had not noticed the way your bodies buzzed something hotter.

“I’am very sorry, my Prince, my Lady. We have uh.. uh”

“Do tell us, boy..” His chest vibrated against you, voice regal and formal, arm curled around you, still shielding despite having no need to.

“It seems they have found their prize, a boar for the hunt. And they called upon you to make the offering.” The boy stumbled, blushing bashfully at the sight of you two, eyes widening with knowledge he wouldn’t name.

“Not to worry, we shall join you in due time.” And the boy ran off, the trimmings of his coat disappearing in a cloud of house colours.

Baelor watched him run between the bushes until the boy was fully out of view, turning back to you as he tugged you into his chest.

“It seems we are needed.” You remarked, fingers gracing over the opening of his linen shirt, eyeing the armour thrown away in a pile by the log at his feet.

“That we are.”

The final kiss came sharp and chaste, his nose pressing deeply into yours as he moved to reclaim you once more. It left you breathless, a reddened hue at the plush of your lips as the both of you moved.

He readied himself back into his armour, with the help of your fingers clasping him into it, between huffed laughs and wandering eyes.

And as you walked back toward the fence, arm in arm, he saddled you upon your horse, stepping forth to rise to his own. He kissed your hand with an outstretched bend of his body, following dutifully behind you. And when you finally reached the party, taking their kill for the day, soon to be cooked upon the spit for a feast, you were left with a secret knowing.

One that no matter where, or when, the burning of your desire and the ferocity of your love, would not relent.

The dust of the Kingsroad clung to the air in the courtyard of the Red Keep, a fine, gritty haze that turned the early evening light into something thick and amber. It had been a month. Weeks of an empty side of the bed, of silence in the solar, of holding a daughter who asked for her father every morning and a son who was growing faster than the weeds in the garden.

The party rode in in a disordered clatter of hooves and harness. The banners of House Targaryen and the men of your husband's personal guard were stained with the gray mud of the road, the horses lathered and heads low. The air smelled of sweat, horsehair, and the metallic tang of travel. You scanned the faces, looking for the one that mattered.

You found him near the back of the column, riding his black destrier. The sight of him hit you with a sudden release of tension in your chest that made your knees weak. He was upright. He was alive. The relief was immediate and overwhelming, washing over you in a cold wave. You started to step forward, a smile already tugging at the corners of your mouth, but then you looked at him properly.

You stopped.

He was slumped slightly in the saddle, a posture so uncharacteristic for a man who sat a horse as if he had been born upon one that it seemed wrong, a distortion of nature. As he drew closer, you saw the way his right arm hung stiff at his side, the way he favored his left stirrup. The light caught his face, and you saw the mottled purple and green bruising spreading across his cheekbone, the angry split in his lower lip.

The relief evaporated, replaced instantly by a cold, heavy stone of dread in your stomach.

He pulled the horse to a halt a few feet away, groaning slightly as he swung his leg over the saddle. He hit the ground harder than a man of his skill should, his boots sending up a small puff of dust. He caught himself on the pommel, his knuckles white, before he straightened up. He smoothed his tunic, lifted his chin, and looked across the yard.

His eyes found yours immediately. They were vivid against the bruising. Before you could move to him, Maester Yormwell hurried across the cobblestones, his chain clinking softly, a small bag of supplies in his hand. The old man intercepted Baelor before he could take more than two steps toward you.

"Your Highness," Yormwell said, his voice low but carrying an edge of scolding. "I told you to ride in the wagon."

"And I told you I prefer to ride my own horse," Baelor replied. His voice was rougher than usual, gravelly with exhaustion.

You moved to his side, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. He radiated heat, a feverish warmth that worried you more than the bruises. You looked at the maester, waiting.

Yormwell sighed, shaking his head. "A blow to the back of the head," the maester listed, ticking the injuries off on his fingers. "He must rest, Your Grace. No reading, no straining his eyes, and he must be woken every few hours to ensure he has not slipped into a stupor. Bruising at the rib, likely from being thrown or the impact of the fall. It is not displaced, but it will require rest."

Yormwell reached up, tilting Baelor's head back to inspect the face. "Bruising on the cheek where the visor of his helm shattered. And the cut on the lip, which required three stitches on the road."

Baelor stood still through the inspection, his face a mask of stoicism. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of discomfort in his eyes as Yormwell prodded his side.

"I am fine," Baelor said, the moment the maester lowered his hands. He said it with total composure, his shoulders squaring, his voice steady. He was performing for you, standing straight despite the pain you knew he was feeling, trying to be the unbreakable Prince for the benefit of his young wife.

You looked at him. You let your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the swelling on his cheek, the way his breathing was too shallow. You scowled, the corners of your mouth turning down, your brow furrowing. You did not try to hide it. You wanted him to see exactly how furious you were.

He looked back at you, his mismatched eyes were calm. He didn't flinch under your glare. He just accepted it, as he accepted most things from you.

"The maester will prepare a poultice for the rib," Baelor said, as if concluding a council meeting. "And a sleeping draught."

"You will take the draught," Yormwell said firmly.

"Of course," Baelor lied smoothly.

You barely heard the rest of the exchange. The fear had burned off completely in the heat of your anger, leaving only a sharp, brittle resentment. He had done this. He had chosen to put himself in harm's way, and now he stood before you broken because of what? A display of valor?

The walk to your chambers was a blur of torchlight. The corridors of the Red Keep were busy, servants and courtiers bowing as you passed, but you saw none of them. You felt the heavy thud of Baelor's boots on the stone floor beside you, slightly uneven. You felt the tension radiating off him. He knew. He knew he was in trouble.

The guards opened the heavy oak doors to your chambers. You walked inside, the familiar scent of candle wax and roses washing over you, usually a comfort, now doing nothing to settle your nerves. Baelor followed, and the guards closed the doors with a thud that echoed.

The silence descended, immediate and suffocating. He stood by the hearth, his hand resting on the mantel, his back to you for a moment before he turned.

"You are angry with me," he said. It wasn't a question. His voice was quiet, gentle, but it carried the weight of a man who had been married long enough to know the terrain.

"Of course I am," you said. Your voice didn't shake. You turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest, a barrier between you. "You were reckless."

Baelor sighed, a long exhale that seemed to deflate him slightly. He walked toward you, stopping just outside your reach. "It was the right thing to do. The hedge knight — he would have died. Aerion was wrong."

"It was not your problem," you snapped. The words came out fast, sharp as a whip crack. "Surely someone else would have done it."

"This was my duty. It is not something I can set aside because it is dangerous, or because you might worry."

You were his wife. And you were tired of heroism if it came in a box with a cracked rib and a head injury.

You looked at him, feeling the sting of tears that you refused to let fall. You took a step closer, invading his space, forcing him to look down at you.

"I genuinely believed that one of the advantages of choosing a husband of your age and experience was that your days of senseless violence were behind you. That I would not spend my marriage frightened of losing you to a tourney field, or a brawl, or some misplaced sense of honor. I was apparently wrong about that."

Baelor blinked, his eyebrows drawing together slightly. He looked at the floor, then back at you. "There is a knight still competing at six and fifty—"

"Do not," you said, cutting him off, "finish that sentence."

He didn't.

"You find this amusing?" you asked, your voice rising.

"No," he said. "I only meant to say that—"

"I care not what you meant," you interrupted. "Your young children are innocent too, Baelor. Or have you forgotten them in your quest to save every hedge knight in Westeros?"

He flinched. It was a small movement, a twitch of the muscle in his jaw, but you saw it.

"Your daughter asks for you every single day," you said, the image of your little girl's face flashing in your mind; her eyes, so like his, filling with tears when you told her he wasn't home yet. "She draws pictures of you on the floor with chalk. She waits by the window. And your son..." Your voice broke. "Your son will not remember you if you are not there. He is changing every day. He is growing, and you are out there getting your head bashed in."

You took a breath, the air in the room feeling too thin. "Who would protect them if something had happened to you? Who would protect me?"

Baelor was quiet. He didn't look away. He didn't try to defend himself with chivalry or duty. He stood there, taking it in properly. He let your anger wash over him, accepting it as his due. Finally, he spoke. "You are right."

He reached out a hand, hesitating, then letting it fall back to his side. "I did not mean to make light of your fear. I only... I acted."

You looked at him. The bruise on his face was darkening by the hour, the gray streaks in his black hair seemed more prominent than they had weeks ago. At nine and thirty, he was not old, but he was not twenty.

You let out a long breath, your shoulders slumping. The anger was still there, a hot coal in your chest, but it was banked now, smothered by exhaustion and the overwhelming sight of him, alive and sorry.

"Sit," you said.

He obeyed immediately, moving to a seat near the large hearth. He sat heavily, a grimace crossing his face as his ribs protested the movement.

You turned to the table where the basin and cloths were already laid out, prepared by the maids who knew the routine of a returning lord. You poured water from the pitcher into the ceramic bowl, the sound loud in the quiet room. You picked up a linen cloth, dipping it into the water. It was warm, but not hot.

When you turned back to him, he was watching you, his hands resting on his knees, his posture relaxed despite the discomfort. He watched you the way he always did when you were concentrating on something. It wasn't just love; it was fascination, as if you were a complex map he was learning to read.

You stepped between his legs and brought the cloth to his face.

"I missed this," he said softly.

You moved the cloth to the bruise on his cheekbone. It was spectacular, a bloom of blue and green against his tan skin. "You missed having your wife clean your battered face?"

"I missed you," he said.

You rolled your eyes, but the gesture lacked any bite. You kept working, wiping away the grime of the road from his forehead, his temples, the line of his jaw.

"How were they?" he asked. "The children."

You paused, the cloth hovering near his ear. "Our daughter is exactly as hardheaded as you are. She decides what she wants to do and won't listen to anyone." Your voice softened. "She will be so happy to see you when she wakes."

A small smile touched his lips. "And the boy?"

"While you were gone, our son started crawling."

Baelor went still. The air in the room seemed to stop. He looked at you, his eyes widening slightly. "Crawling?"

"He pulled himself across the rugs this morning," you said. "He is determined to catch the cat."

Baelor looked down at his hands, then back up at you. The realization of time passing, of moments missed.

"They get their strength from their mother," he said quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved, almost imperceptibly, a traitorous twitch of amusement. You pulled it back immediately, to maintain your resolve. "I haven't forgiven you yet," you said.

"I know."

He reached up and caught your wrist as you reached past him to wet the cloth again. His grip was firm, his fingers warm and calloused. He turned your hand over, exposing your palm.

He pressed his lips to your palm. It was a soft, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then he moved his lips to your wrist, feeling the frantic pulse of your blood beneath the skin.

"Baelor," you whispered.

He ignored you, pulling you carefully, slowly, into his lap. Then he kissed you. His lips were soft, despite the cut, tasting faintly of the iron tang of blood and the mint of the tea he must have had on the road.

You were stiff for a moment, your hands on his shoulders, ready to push him away and remind him of his injuries. But then you weren't. Your body betrayed you, melting into the hardness of his chest, the familiarity of his embrace. You had missed him. Your skin remembered him even when your mind was still furious at him.

He shifted his hips against you deliberately, a slow, grinding movement that made you gasp against his mouth. He made sure you felt what your presence did to him, the hard length of him pressing against your thigh, undeniable and insistent.

His mouth moved from yours to your neck, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. "I missed you," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin. "Every day. Every night."

You pulled back, your hands moving to cradle his face, thumbs brushing the uninjured side of his jaw. You looked him in the eye, seeing the desire there, mixed with the pain and the exhaustion.

"I do not think you are in any state for this right now."

He raised an eyebrow, a familiar, arrogant look returning to his face. "Because I am injured," he said, "or because I am old?"

"Both," you said without hesitation.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he winced slightly. "Oh really?" he said.

"Really," though you made no move to slide off his lap. Your fingers tangled in the black hair at the nape of his neck. "You are a concussed old man who should be sleeping."

"And yet," he said, his eyes darkening as he looked at your mouth, "here I am."

Before you could draw another breath to scold him, the world tilted. Baelor's hands clamped around your waist, grip firm and unyielding, and suddenly the floor was gone. A sharp, startled yelp tore from your throat, half-laugh, half-gasped protest, as he hoisted you into the air.

"Baelor! Put me down!" you cried, but your hands betrayed you, wrapping around his neck.

"As you wish."

He crossed the room quickly and dropped you unceremoniously, letting you bounce slightly against the mattress, the breath leaving you in a rush. Before you could scramble up, he planted a knee on the edge of the bed, looming over you, a cage of muscle and intent.

"I am up for it," he declared, his voice dropping to that low, rumbling register that never failed to make your thighs clench. "And I am not that old."

He leaned down, bracing his weight on his hands beside your head, his nose brushing yours.

"I have been thinking about coming home to you since before Ashford was finished." He paused, his gaze searching yours, intense and unblinking. "And I would very much like to give you another child, if you have no objections."

The raw honesty of it, the way he stated his desire so plainly, stripped the air from your lungs. You reached up, threading your fingers into his hair, and pulled him down to you, crushing your mouth against his. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision, a desperate meeting of lips and teeth and tongues after weeks of starvation.

"None," you breathed against his mouth, your hands already tugging at the laces of his doublet. "None at all."

Clothes became an impediment, a nuisance to be discarded with reckless haste. You fumbled with the fastenings of his tunic, your fingers trembling with impatience, while he worked on your gown with practiced efficiency. Fabric tore in his haste, the distinct sound of silk giving way to his strength, but neither of you cared. He shoved the layers down, baring your skin to the cool air of the room and the scorching heat of his gaze.

When the last barrier fell away, he settled between your thighs, the heavy weight of his cock resting hot and hard against your belly. He didn't enter you immediately. Instead, he braced himself on one arm, using the other to guide himself to your entrance, teasing your folds with the velvet head of his length. He watched your face, his expression unreadable save for the intensity in his eyes.

He pushed forward, sinking into you inch by inch. It was a slow, deliberate invasion, a stretch that burned in the best possible way. He filled you completely, burying himself to the hilt before stopping, his hips flush against yours. You gasped, back arching off the mattress as your internal walls fluttered around him.

He began to move, withdrawing almost entirely before sliding back in, a slow, gentle glide that stoked the fire in your blood. "I am sorry I frightened you."

He thrust again, deep and measured, his pubic bone grinding against your clit.

Your hands roamed over his back, feeling the damp heat of his skin and the tense bunch of his muscles. "Baelor..."

"I love you," he said, his voice cracking slightly on the words. He punctuated the declaration with a roll of his hips that sent a jolt of pleasure racing up your spine. "I love you so much."

His pace picked up, the slow, torturous rhythm giving way to something more urgent. The gentle apology in his touch shifted into a desperate need to reclaim. The wet, rhythmic slapping that filled the room echoed the pounding of your heart.

"Harder," you begged, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Baelor, please... fuck me harder."

He groaned, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and obliged. He withdrew until just the tip remained inside you, then slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt. The force of it knocked the breath out of you, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. He did it again, and again, setting a punishing pace that had the bedframe rattling against the wall.

He drove into you. His strokes were long and deep, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. "Is this what you need?"

"Yes... gods, yes," you sobbed, head thrown back against the pillows.

But as the pleasure built to a crescendo, a spark of lingering anger flared within you. It was hot and bright.

You planted your feet against the mattress and pushed.

Taken by surprise, Baelor allowed himself to be rolled. Suddenly, you were on top, straddling his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you. You looked down at him, seeing the shock in his eyes, the flush on his cheeks, the sweat beading on his brow. He looked wrecked, but he was yours.

You didn't give him time to adjust. You planted your hands on his chest and began to ride him, hard. You rose up until he almost slipped out of you, then slammed down, taking him to the root. You used your thighs to drive the movement, setting a steady pace. This wasn't about making love; this was about taking what you needed, about exorcising the fear of the last three weeks with the friction of his body against yours.

You rode him fiercely, your movements demanding. You let your nails rake lightly down his chest, leaving red trails on his skin. You wanted him to feel it. You wanted him to feel every ounce of the terror he had put you through.

Baelor didn't fight it. He simply lay back as his hands came to rest on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he watched you, his heavy-lidded gaze filled with a mix of awe and lust. He moaned, a broken, needy sound, as you clenched your walls around him.

He gasped, his head pressing back into the pillows. "Take what you need, love. Gods... you are beautiful."

His encouragement only fueled your fire. You moved faster, feeling the tension coiling in your belly, the pressure building to a breaking point. Baelor's breathing became ragged, his chest heaving beneath your palms. His hips began to jerk upward, meeting your downward strokes, a desperate, instinctual bid for more friction.

You bore down on him, grinding against his pelvis as you took him deep. With a hoarse shout, Baelor found his release. His cock throbbed inside you, pulsing as he spilled himself. You felt the hot rush of his seed coating your insides, triggering your own release. Your cunt clenched hard around him, rippling and spasming as the pleasure washed over you in waves. Your vision went white, your body trembling as you rode out the aftershocks.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your combined panting, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. But Baelor wasn't done. Before you could collapse against him, he rolled you again, flipping you onto your back without pulling out.

He was still hard, a testament to his vigor and his determination. He hooked his arms under your knees, lifting your legs and pushing them up until they rested against his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The position left you completely open, completely vulnerable to him.

"Baelor, wait, I—" you started, but he cut you off with a sharp thrust.

He picked up the pace immediately, his hips snapping forward with relentless precision. You were oversensitive, every nerve ending raw, but the friction was intoxicating. He pounded into you, the wet sounds of his cock driving into your cum-filled flesh obscene and loud. The bed shook, the headboard slamming against the stone wall.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his eyes locked on your face. "So fucking tight. So wet."

"It's too much," you whimpered, your hands clutching at his forearms. "Baelor, I can't..."

"You can," he commanded, his voice rough with exertion. "You will." He bent his head, sucking a bruise onto your neck as he continued to hammer into you.

"I'm going to fill you," he growled against your skin. You clenched involuntarily at the words.

He felt it and he laughed, a dark, breathless sound.

"You like that?"  pulling back to look at you, his hips never ceasing their rhythm.

"Yes," you sobbed. "Please... I want it."

"Good girl," he praised, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm in the face of his impending climax. "Such a good girl for me."

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly the head of his cock was battering against your cervix with every thrust. It was a sharp, intense pleasure that bordered on pain, pushing you higher and higher.

You couldn't form words. You were babbling, incoherent noises falling from your lips as your brain short-circuited. All that existed was the feeling of him; the thick, hard length stretching you, the weight of his body pinning you down, the friction of his coarse pubic hair against your sensitive clit. Your legs were spread impossibly wide, opening you up completely to his onslaught.

He groaned, a sound of pure satisfaction. He released your legs, letting them fall loosely, and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the mattress above your head.

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen, sensitive nub. He rubbed it in tight, harsh circles, the added stimulation pushing you past the point of no return. You let out a high-pitched keen as your body arched off the bed, the orgasm crashing over you.

"Yes... just like that," he encouraged, his own rhythm faltering.

Your walls clamped down around him, rippling and fluttering as the pleasure tore through you. The sensation was too much for him. With a guttural moan, he buried himself deep inside you and ground his hips against yours, his cock pulsing as he found his release again. He pulled away and collapsed next to you.

You lay there for a long time, tangled together, your heartbeats slowly synchronizing. You could feel the evidence of his passion slowly beginning to seep out. He rolled onto his uninjured side and pressed soft, lazy kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your neck, his breathing gradually returning to normal.

"I missed you so much," you whispered. "Every moment was an eternity."

It felt good, releasing the last of the tension in your shoulders. Baelor smiled, a genuine, crinkling-around-the-eyes smile that made your heart skip a beat, and carefully reached out to pull you closer against his side.

You traced idle patterns on his chest, your fingers drifting over the bruises that mottled his skin, careful to avoid the worst of them. The silence was comfortable, filled with the sounds of the night outside the window and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"I cannot believe the boy started crawling while I was gone," Baelor murmured into the quiet, his hand stroking your hair.

You smiled, continuing your exploration of his skin. "You will be the first thing he crawls to tomorrow."

and unluckily for him, he does not get to meet you bloody and steeled on the battlefield. nor face your tongue in the cunning and wily words of the chambers where the small council gathers. 

it would be easier, he imagines, if you were an adversary in that regard. anything else would be easier. he would rather ride back into war and rebellion than attempt to face your true nature.

as battle-hardened as baelor is, he is no match for his alluring young niece.

a lovelier girl, baelor thinks as he stares at you from across the hall, i have never seen. 

it is hard enough to tear his eyes away from you at any given moment, though he forces himself to as soon as you meet his gaze. 

he had not thought his brother’s death would have hoisted unto him an entirely new set of grievances. he had promised to keep you safe, promised his brother on the death bed that you would want for nothing, that you would always be cared for and watched over.

baelor did not realize when he made that promise that you had intended for him to be the one to fulfill it. 

the responsibility falls solely on his shoulders—trying to honor the last wishes of his kin. you had been beside yourself with grief, he recalls, wearing those dark colors of mourning that did not suit you for months on end. 

perhaps it was a bit selfish of him. he should have been preparing himself for the matter of your betrothal and the alliance it would create for the crown many moons in advance. it was not only his burden as hand but rather his duty as your uncle. 

he had the power to ensure that the match he secured for you would not be one of misery and pain. he knew of several suitable candidates, and had thought he would, when the time was right, ensure that only the most genteel and kind would be introduced to you.

someone that you might wish to begin your new life with, far away from king’s landing.

perhaps it all went astray when he decided to delay the matter further and further. you were in no state to entertain suitors, not when you were grieving the loss of your father. and besides that, you had not expressed any interest in the issue when maekar had brought it up to you. 

instead you had looked at him. and what was he to do once you did that? 

you employed your strongest two soldiers, the most reliable ones standing at the front of the cavalry—your lovely, sad eyes that had all but blinked at him once or twice and that incorrigible pout. he was felled immediately.

you had come close to kiss maekar’s cheek first, as you bid them goodbye and took your leave for the evening. 

and then you had come towards him, and it felt as though time itself had slowed down for mere moments. he watched as your soft hair fell against his shoulder, as the overwhelming scent of your skin turned his thoughts into dust. and then you pressed your soft lips to his cheek, smiled, and left.

black silk swished by your ankles as you left, the dark red stole you often wrapped around your arms covered by the cascade of your hair. he could make out the image of the three-headed dragon you had embroidered on the fabric yourself. 

you had been so proud of your work that you’d come to show him and your father when you’d finished with it. 

moments after he saw ser donnel leave to escort you back to your chambers, he had told maekar that the matter of your betrothal would be readied when baelor deemed it time.

“she must marry, eventually,” maekar had said, running a hand over his beard. “better to prepare her now than to indulge her.”

“i am not indulging,” baelor had quipped back, a little too aggressively. he takes a long drink of his wine.

maekar had stared at him in confusion, raising an eyebrow, perhaps even suspicious, he now thinks.

“of course not. you would never do such a thing.” 

maekar’s thoughts go unsaid, surely something about you’re lucky the gods did not bless you with a daughter. you would never be able to say no to her. 

he takes another lengthy sip from his cup.

of course he knew the matter of your marriage was important. so important that it had somehow usurped all his other responsibilities, had somehow become the only thing he thought of when his mind was left to wander. 

but the idea of some haughty lannister or cold arryn getting their hands on you while you were still mourning seemed completely out of the question.

yes, he concludes, trying and failing to set the thought aside once and for all. it is more prudent to wait. to allow time for you and for him… to find you the best match he can. 

another selfish thought rears its head inside of him, even when he merely notices you thanking a knight of the kingsguard or making polite conversation with the lords of the court during a feast. 

you are a princess of their house. perhaps only a bargaining chip in the eyes of the small council, but he would not let them waste your chance for happiness on some alliance for soldiers and grain. 

you are a princess of their house and he is a prince, the thought reminds him, traveling through until it has spread from the inside out. it was a tradition of their family to marry princes to princesses. 

even from before the conqueror’s time—young ladies of the house could be wed to brothers and cousins and uncles, if it was so arranged—for honor, for their noble blood.

his father had never much cared for such traditions and nor had he. when it had come time to arrange valarr’s marriage, they had sought out an alliance to strengthen the crown’s relationships.

bloodraven whispers of slighted great houses, mulling over the stolen opportunity to put a noble daughter of the realm in the queen’s chair one day, when he was gone and valarr would rule. 

they sought you as a consolement. for you to sit besides their sons, for their lineage to have royal blood, to establish a relationship that might advance their house for generations to come.

perhaps that is why he is so adamantly opposed to answering questions about the offers for your hand. he’ll not sell you off and send you away, the last piece he has of his brother, to acquiesce a petty lord. 

if only he was, indeed, selfish.

he was not greedy either, though the thought of making you his wife so that he might protect you from all the world lingered in his mind almost daily. it was more potent, even, after two or three cups of wine. it would plague him when he tried to sleep, a tantalizing vision of you resting beside him.

naked and content, perhaps, the voice whispers in the back of his head. clear-headed or drunk, he cannot silence it. or wrapped in silks. sleeping soundly, with no tears or sadness. carrying his child, and thinking of a new life to bring into this world instead of those who have left it…

he has to tear himself away from the thought. it is entirely improper.

it does not leave him, and only comes back stronger when you are seated at the dinner table with your cousins.

baelor does not much like the way aerion has been looking at you as of late. 

at these dinners, with his father at the head and baelor right beside him, you are seated between valarr and aerion on the other side of the table. 

you talk politely with his son, asking no doubt of kiera, who is not present as she recovers from another babe she has lost. you smile gently at valarr, and tell him how you will pray for his wife’s fast recovery.

you ask aemon of the latest book he is reading, no doubt borrowed from the maester’s extensive collections. you ask aegon of his latest qualm with his brothers. you have even been so successful as to elicit a smile from your uncle maekar from time to time. 

but when it comes to aerion, your smiles fade quickly. you try not to look at the boy if you can avoid it, even when he pesters you by touching your hand or interrupting you. 

and baelor is staring again. 

it is hard to look away as it is, even more so when he wishes he might do something to protect you. you avoid aerion’s gaze but baelor sees how lecherous it truly is. 

another thought begins to haunt his mind—that of the day that aerion demands your hand for himself. even baelor could not deny that it would be a perfectly reasonable request—he is only your cousin, both borne of mothers from different houses. you would stay in king’s landing with your family, which would certainly ease your mind, he assumes. 

but despite all of that, even in the face of logic and sense, baelor decides he shall never give aerion your hand. his nephew is entirely unworthy. unlike, perhaps—

the thoughts had been the hardest to bury when he is alone with you. as crown prince, baelor has always possessed a great deal of admirable traits.

immunity to your charm is not one of them.

the way you fixate your lovely eyes on him when he is speaking, as though nothing in this world could be more important than whatever he is saying.

the way he has your full attention whether it is to speak about the courses at dinner or the latest small council meeting and the headache he had after it, or of the new taxes imparted recently on grain in king’s landing and highgarden.

you do not care about grain, he knows, and yet, you reply eloquently, offering him some insight or perspective he has never considered, before awaiting his response as you blink at him.

and he has never been one to fluster and stutter his sentences. not even when he was but a green knight or a newlywed, when there was nothing that seemed so important to focus on as jena and what she was saying.

you must bring it out of him. you seem to be able to take possession of his mind and enter it in a way that he can only name as sorcery. 

when you mention in passing that aerion has been bothering you, the boy is sent to summerhall within a matter of days. when aegon seeks your help convincing his father to allow him to squire, you are the first to bring it up at the dinner table, weaving the thought into conversation until you are sure that it has taken hold in his brother’s mind. 

baelor even finds himself agreeing with you, being convinced easily and quickly, even more so when you smile so sweetly at him that it muddles his mind. you say uncle quietly and rest your hand on his shoulder and he all but runs from your solar, leaving you behind, giggling at him no doubt.

what’s worse is that whatever charm you possess, it is rivaled only by your tenderness. 

he watches you play with rhae and daella, even though you have lady’s maids of your own to keep you company. you entertain your young cousins whenever they ask. you guide them away to the peace and quiet of your solar when his brother is yelling at his nephews, or when some violence has broken out in the training yard. 

when you ask him for things, it is rarely for the purpose of your own satisfaction. 

often it is silks and laces to make new dresses for the girls, some new toy for the children of the ladies at court, a commissioned painting to gift to kiera for her nameday, depicting the scenery of the tyrosh for her personal solar.

and for everything he thinks and knows of you, he should have guessed that he would be unable to deny your request. 

not when you recall the anniversary of jena’s passing each year and try to ease the pain his family still feels so deeply. you have the lemon cakes she so loved made and served with dinner, smiling with his sons, and then at him, and just for a few moments, a day that has always been so terrible is made slightly better.

but marriage has made you into another creature entirely. 

it has been only three moons since baelor had stood with you in the sept and covered your shoulders with the black and red cloak.

you had told him at the feast later in the day that you had been working on your wedding cloak, embroidering glimmering red dragons and the words of the house in high valyrian, for almost the turn of a moon.

“were you pleased with my work, husband?” you had asked, blinking those lovely eyes at him and watching as he lost all train of thought. 

baelor had nodded, picking up his goblet and nearly draining the entire thing empty. he did not realize how quickly you would adjust.

he had gone from uncle to husband in a matter of hours. your father might roll over in his grave if he could see you now, looking like a true targaryen bride, seated beside him at the high table, his father and mother only a few seats away. 

they had simply been pleased that baelor wished to marry again at all. he would assume something else—though perhaps it was obvious to others that you were among their favorite of the grandchildren and their prized eldest granddaughter—but their contentment had seemed genuine. 

they ate and drank and laughed, and the lords and ladies danced, and baelor swallowed hard as he was persuaded to lead you to the floor of the hall. you dance beautifully, you always have, and he recalls a time where you had begged your father for an foreign instructor. he had not listened, and you had come to ask your uncle baelor instead.

needless to say, the new instructor was on their way to king’s landing before the turn of the week—

“husband?” you had quietly asked then, gazing upon him with a sort of expression that he has never seen on your pretty features before. “what are you so lost in thought about?” 

“nothing of importance, niece,” he had replied curtly, before spinning you around the room as was expected of him. 

baelor tried to deny it—he tried to deny all of it. 

how beautiful you looked as you danced in his arms, how warm your skin felt against his, how sweet your scent was. you spoke to him sincerely and he responded in half-sentences and frayed thoughts, the wine taking over his senses, perhaps.

but as he returned you to your seat, breathless and giggling, he had decided then and there. he could not be swayed by your charm when it came to the matter of marriage. 

maekar had come to claim your next dance, and you had glanced at baelor quickly before accepting his hand, your eyes silently asking for permission. he had nodded, watching you then turn to your other uncle with a beaming smile. 

no, baelor had thought, this marriage cannot truly be of your own choosing. he did know the full length of the truth, and he would not ask you, but he knew you well enough to ascertain that some part of this was a farce. 

perhaps you wished to avoid the grim future that awaited you—for there was no doubt in baelor’s mind that aerion would have pestered him for your hand one day. or you wished not to leave the comfort of the red keep and your beloved cousins, abandoning them all to join your husband and your new family. 

of the options presented to you, he knew you misliked both. he had not expected you to some up with another alternative entirely, nor had he thought that he would accept it so easily.

persuasion, it seemed, was your esteemed general. 

you talked your way into and out of most anything you desired, and reflecting back, baelor believes he should have been more prudent. he cannot escape your charm, but he could have left the matter to maekar to sort out. 

perhaps he would have had an easier time convincing you that a marriage in the reach or riverlands would be much more suitable than what you had proposed.

or perhaps, the thought he cannot escape pipes up to remind him, you would have asked for maekar’s hand in marriage instead. then you would have been no longer his niece, not his wife, but rather his goodsister. 

his fist had tightened around the neck of the goblet at the mere thought, his eyes watching maekar dance with you. you were smiling at him, but as soon as baelor’s gaze found you, your eyes locked with his in an instant. 

baelor looked away quickly.

no, he decides in that very moment, he will not torment you by making you fulfill whatever duties you believed you had as his wife. he would allow you your freedom, leave you to do whatever pleased you, and he would not make you suffer because of his own uncontrollable lust and lechery. 

you were his niece before you were his wife. his duty, as he promised your father, was to protect you, not to force you to an early death in the birthing bed by giving you his seed. 

the thought was difficult enough to remember that night—the men of the feast had hoisted you up, carrying you to his chambers while shouting bawdy words of ribald. they had delivered you in just your tattered smallclothes, and you had been waiting for him on the bed.

you had not seemed so nervous as he thought, but perhaps only because you knew he would never harm you. 

at least, he supposes, he can find peace in that thought, that he protected you from a worse fate on your marriage night that many others suffered through.

even drunk on the sweet nectar of your cunt, baelor had forced himself to remember his vow from earlier. it was hard to do so, and perhaps the only thing harder was his cock, but he set aside the thought entirely.

that night, the first night as husband and wife, he had felt you peak against his mouth once, and on his fingers second. and finally once you were completely exhausted and boneless, sunken into the messy, wet sheets and gripping onto his arm as though you might fall away without him steadying you, he had slowly entered your weeping cunt and claimed your maidenhood for himself. 

even that night, he had finished on the soft skin of your belly, refusing to fill you with his seed. 

in your exhaustion, he thinks perhaps you did not even notice. by the time he had helped to clean you and bring you a cup of water, you had drank but a sip and fallen fast asleep against him. 

that night, he had laid awake, staring at the ceiling of his chambers, listening to the slow rustling of the wood burning in the fireplace, and decided this would very well be the first and last time he bedded you.

he had two healthy children and an heir and he had no need for another, especially not when it could be so dangerous for you. 

maekar’s beloved dyanna had perished bringing young rhae into this world, and she had been perfectly healthy during her previous five births. even jena had struggled bringing valarr into this world, and the maesters had told him it was scarcely an easy thing, even worse when it was the lady’s first child.

he looked over you, asleep in his arms, snoring softly with your hair spread out over his pillows. the scent of you might never truly leave these sheets and furs. 

and he vowed that he would fulfill his duty as your uncle and set aside his desires as your husband.

baelor never spells out his decision to you fully. if you are hurt by it, you do not show it.

(or rather, he does not notice.)

baelor keeps your interactions concise when he can. with maekar and his children off at summerhall shortly after the wedding, you had taken to eating meals in the solar with him.

he would arrive shortly before the maids began serving food, removing his cloak and sitting beside you as a serving girl pours him a cup of wine.

“how was the small council today? do you have another headache?” you ask gently, and thank the servant as she pours wine into your goblet next. the girl—who you addressed by name, as willa—smiles brightly at you before resuming her place by the wall.

“no, i am well.” 

the briefer baelor’s words are, the less you have to go off of. he does not wish you keep you engaged in conversation, or make the time longer than it needs to be. surely you wish to retire or partake in one of those activities you loved before your marriage. 

he often sees your latest embroidery project perched on a table by the fire in your solar. there are books there as well, thick volumes of targaryen history and a thinner book he recognizes as daeron the first’s retelling of the conquest of dorne. it is a favorite of his, the first account of dorne, his mother’s homeland, and he has read it cover to cover several times over.

a thought creeps in and he pushes it away—perhaps resting in bed with the fire blazing, since you are certain to get cold without it. you resting in his arms and breathing softly, resting your lovely eyes and keeping them hidden from him as he reads to you. he wonders what it would take to—

baelor blinks.

perhaps you merely wish to fill your time with other company. he often saw you with kiera in her solar when he is searching for valarr or with your lady’s maids in the gardens. it is not surprising to him that you would prefer their company.

“husband?” you ask quietly, and he turns his head. 

he has been so lost in his thoughts that he had not noticed you awaiting another response from him. when he looks at you, his heart begins to beat faster. 

you are always lovely, but perhaps lovelier still when your expression is filled with concern for him. you look as though there is nothing more important than understanding whatever thought is plaguing baelor, and discussing it until his mind is at ease. he thinks of the many ways you might be able to help ease him, and yet—

but he cannot let the thought linger for long. he asks of your day and listens to you recount it—filled with the very same activities and people that he suspected. 

you sound perhaps a touch lonelier without maekar’s children to help fill your day, but the quiet of the keep is enjoyable in its own way. 

once you have finished eating, he kisses your forehead chastely, and tells you that he is returning to his work in his study. 

even there, you continue to plague him. the way the yellow silk of your dress clung to your skin. how your hair fell around your face. the way you held his hand for a mere moment before he moved it away, your skin warm and soft, your breasts heaving with each breath—

he pushes his chair and stands up, taking a turn of the room and ending up breathing in the cool night air on the balcony. he thinks he might be able to relieve the hot tension and desire building in his chest and traveling lower with the distraction, but to no avail. his work sits incomplete on his desk.

it’s not until he takes himself in his hand later that night, in the darkness of his private chambers, thinking of the night of the wedding, stroking his manhood faster and faster as he thinks of how you had mewled under him as he took you—

he finds release, but he feels no relief. only a sense of propriety that seems to be fading the longer he thinks of you. and then, in the sheets that still smell of your skin, he sleeps.

-

“i require but a moment of your time, niece,” baelor says as he enters your solar. 

you are seated in the armchair by the fireplace, but you put down your embroidery—another dragon, he imagines—at the sound of his voice. you do not stand up, but you look towards him.

your maids look wide-eyed with concern, until he waves his hand to dismiss them. the door shuts as they step outside. 

“good morrow, husband,” you reply sweetly as always, smiling. “would you like tea? it is too early for wine but i can request-”

“no, i require nothing but an explanation. what is the meaning of this?” he clutches in his hand a piece of parchment, spelling out a list of your latest expenses, given to him by the master of coin at the small council meeting in the morning

lord penrose had looked at him with an odd sort of expression, a mixture of pity and amusement, when he had handed him the rolled up letter. 

baelor was not an impatient man. he was not prone to anger, either, but he felt his fist tighten around the paper and his jaw clench as he read the scribbled ink.

“the meaning of what, husband?” you ask innocently. you rise from your chair, setting aside your embroidery. you walk closer to him and he feels his resolve beginning to quiver. 

you wear a pretty gown of blue silk, a color that seems familiar to him for some reason, with a low neckline that he cannot remove his eyes from. he would not deem such a dress appropriate, but you are in the peace and quiet of your solar, with no one but maids for company. baelor’s jaw tenses again at the thought of ser donnel watching your skirts swish behind you as you had entered the room today, as he stood guard by the doors. 

usually, you cover your shoulders with that stole he is most familiar with. it does not seem to be found today. he stares at the bare skin there for entirely too long before looking upon your face again. you are standing closer than he realized.

he takes a step backwards, and he notices displeasure flick over your normally warm expression, if only for a moment, before returning to the sweet smile he is so familiar with.

if he had blinked, he would have missed it.

“lord penrose gave me a detailed account of your recent expenses,” he begins, the words coming out sternly. “two hundred gold dragons on white silk and myrish lace? another hefty amount on a seamstress and tailor in king’s landing? my niece, i-”

your face changes at once. the lovely smile melts away, replaced with a mispleased pout of your perfect lips. your eyebrows furrow and your eyes look at his with a mixture of concern and sadness.

baelor begins to regret his words instantly.

“are you cross with me?” you ask quietly, taking another step closer to him. your hands rests by your side but they move slowly, until your palms are pressed flat against the velvet of his doublet. “i did not mean to upset you.”

he can feel the warmth of your skin through the layers of cloth, he thinks. you are so close that the familiar, fragrant scent of your skin has taken hold of all his senses. the last time had been the night of—

he moves his head, trying to shake it slightly before looking back at your doleful eyes. his resolve begins to slip away slowly.

“not… upset, entirely. i-i spoke harshly. i only meant that-” baelor loses track of the thought as he stares at you. you look as though you are a child being scolded. “it is not proper, princess, to spend such an amount on clothes.”

“i understand, husband,” you reply solemnly, your expression unwavering.

“if you desired something, i merely wish you had told me first.”

“i did not wish to bother you with such frivolous requests. i thought that perhaps you would be pleased with my new gowns.”

“i…” baelor trails off. the one you wear now is particularly captivating. how can he be upset, when you had done it for him? 

yes, something in his mind tells him, a princess of the court, wife of the crown prince, no less, should not only be clothed in old dresses. 

it is a small thing to him, but perhaps an entirely different matter for you. there are ladies of the court, perhaps who might be your ladies in waiting one day in the distant future. he supposes you have to have something new to share with them, and take part in influencing some of the fashions of court.

though, he admits plainly, the lords of the court would thank him if their wives began dressing in this fashion. 

he would thank himself, if you began dressing like this—

“husband?” you ask again, your eyes widened while you await another answer.

“forgive me. i was… distracted,” he confesses, and your seize your opportunity.

you press your hands further into his chest, taking another step closer. 

“i did not mean any harm,” you begin, locking eyes with him. “i sought the merchants in king’s landing for a reason. i wanted different silks that i might support a great deal more families than just the ones the steward prefers. and i thought, perhaps, by commissioning new dressmakers, the ladies of court might seek them out too. i only wanted to help…”

well, he had not thought of it in that manner. 

there was no harm in the action. a bit of gold in exchange for the goodwill and support of the crafters and vendors of the city. you were right—the ladies of court would follow in your example, giving work to feed hungry families.   

“i… forgive me. i should not have taken that tone with you.”

“you should not apologize, husband. in fact, i am most grateful for an opportunity to speak with you before we dine. might i show you some of my new dresses? i would like to wear it at supper,” you say, but he swallows uncomfortably.

resisting you when you are fully clothed with your stole is a task he deems difficult enough. listening to you change your dresses behind a partition while you come out to show him the many options, each more revealing than the last is…

near impossible.

“i must return to my study for another meeting, niece. but i will see you at dinner,” he says, and presses another kiss to your forehead, his hands coming up to cup your cheek before departing. 

you bite the skin of the inside of your cheek, deep in thought as he leaves.

-

perhaps a few days later, baelor is seated in the armchair of his study. there is still dozens of documents for him to review, a proposal for the small council that needs to be finished before the afternoon meeting tomorrow, and it is nearing the hour of the owl. 

he has finally been able to rid himself of the image of you and whatever silky smallclothes you might be wearing underneath your new dresses, in order to finish some of his work. 

they must be even smaller than he imagines, though, if your dresses reveal so much soft, flawless skin to him without them making an appearance. 

(rid himself of it, he thinks, by releasing into his hand every night since. you are a haunting vision of blue silk, and he imagines how you might look wearing that very dress while he fucks you over the table in—)

there is a knock on the door. it is late, too late to be anyone but a knight of the kingsguard or his manservant preparing his chambers for sleep.

“enter,” baelor says, not looking up from the parchment spread across the desk. he reads the small words slowly, sleep growing heavy in his body. something about new taxes on imported fabrics and treaties between—

“it is very late, husband.” baelor turns to look at you in an instant.

his shoulders relax as he sinks further into his chair. you look just as he would have imagined at this hour—your hair slightly mussed, your expression sweet yet tired. in the dim candlelight that illuminates his study, you look closer to a goddess paying him a visit.

but he is no praying man.

his eyes travel down from your face, where you bite your lip hesitantly while awaiting his reply, to your nightgown and the soft, pale robe that covers it. with it untied, he can see what waits underneath—pure white silk, the color of stars, with lace around the neck. it stops just before your ankles, and he can see the slippers you wear if he sits up a little taller. 

the fabric feels delicate just from gazing upon it. you would be comfortable to sleep in it, no doubt. this must be one of the new gowns you had commissioned, because he has never seen clothing for sleep look so lovely and enticing.

you make your way closer, stopping beside his desk.

“it is almost the hour of the owl, niece. what are you doing awake?”

“i could not sleep,” you confess, running your fingers across some of the papers that lay cluttered on the surface of the bureau. “it evades me. i am not sufficiently tired.”

you glance up towards him, and the resolve, which has already been battered and beaten to near death by the strength of your forces—namely your bleary, beautiful eyes—begins to shake, as a newly anointed knight facing battle for the first time might.

“you should rest, princess.”

“i do not wish to rest.”

perhaps the silence of the castle and the lull of the night has made you braver and bolder than the young woman he thought he knew so well.

you move quickly, to perch yourself against his lap seamlessly, as though he was a seat made for you only.

your hand comes to stabilize yourself against baelor, fingers wrapping around the thickness of his muscled arm. he moves faster than you, wrapping both of his hands securely around your waist to steady you, taking in, finally, how thin the fabric of your nightgown truly is. he releases a shuddery, painful breath at the thought that follows.

he can feel the heat of your skin and how your flesh yields in his grip.

he has not felt you in so very long. your soft skin in his hands and the aroma of your hair, jasmine and something else he cannot name, make him dizzy with want.

he has tried so hard to make all the interactions chaste and short, and here you are, offering yourself to the predator, a misguided, sleepy creature of prey. 

his prey.

you trace the skin of his cheek with your soft fingers.

“you are not eating enough,” you say quietly. baelor holds back a quiet laugh.

“spoken like a true wife.”

“i am your true wife,” you reply with a tone he cannot quite place. “will you not come to bed with me? i have so missed your company, husband,” you purr.

he very nearly shuts his eyes at the sound. when his eyelids open again, you are staring at him with wide, doe-like eyes, blinking in eager anticipation. 

“niece,” baelor warns in a low voice. “i-”

“wife,” you correct again.

“i have much work to complete before i can retire,” he lies, knowing that the moment you leave him, he will be unable to finish writing even another sentence.

such is the strength of your power over him. even when you are not beside him, his mind can think of nothing else.

“can it not wait until the morning? i should like to sleep beside you,” you whisper, laying your head down on his shoulder. 

he looks down the length of your back, your thin excuse of a robe abandoned on the ground, the silk of your nightgown shining and shimmering in the candlelight. he notices how it stretches across your skin, revealing curves that he should not be looking at, how easily the fabric might be torn into two if he only pulled—

reality floods his veins as though someone had emptied a barrel of ice water on his skin. 

perhaps you are lonely, and truly, that is his mistake—he has tried his best to resist temptation by limiting the tempting interactions entirely.

with maekar and his children gone, you have no one to keep you company. it’s only natural you would seek him out, even in this state, because you wish to speak with someone else besides your maids. you have always been a unifying feature of their family, preferring to spend time with them rather than alone.

yes, that must be it, he concludes as you rest against his body, adjusting your legs to get more comfortable. 

your smooth skin brushes against his manhood—which is only growing harder with each passing moment—and he brings one hand to your thigh to stop you from moving any further. he soaks in the satisfied feeling when he feels your limb still under his touch.

this must all be borne of a loneliness you possess and a desire for company. he can easily remedy that—many of the lords of the court have daughters and wives and sisters who could be brought along to be your companions. 

it does not quite feel as though his idea will work when you are curled up so comfortably against him, fitting together as though you and he are two parts of a whole. 

but he shall have to try, regardless. he will not defile and debase you any further. you shall be allowed at least that much respect.

you make a soft, sweet noise of sleep against him. he feels you nuzzle your head against his shoulder further. you end up burying it into the crook of his neck, sighing softly, and he soaks in how your breath feels against his skin. 

“you should sleep, princess,” baelor says quietly into your ear. 

he cannot help it—everything seems much more intimate under the veil of darkness. all that he has tried so hard to push away in the daylight returns with a tenacity he did not expect.

something speaks up, the part he tries to keep silent. it calls him a fool—reminds him that he has a lovely creature, bound to him before the gods, that seems to desire him, desire his company. and all he has done is push her away time and time again.

the two sides begin to battle it out—his moral thoughts that somehow always travel back to the day he promised your father he would protect you and the perverse ones that tell the others to be quiet and please his wife, to give in and make her every wish come to fruition.

“i will,” you begin softly, the words said into his ear, a lustful shiver rolling over his muscles at the sound. “if you join me.” 

he exhales a deep breath, filled with both guilt and regret, and he knows you can hear it.

“i cannot. come, i shall escort you back to your chambers.” 

you sigh too—one of pure frustration, as he helps you stand up. 

baelor’s fingers barely skim the bare skin of your shoulder, bringing the fallen strap that was hovering on your arm back to its rightful place. then he picks up your robe and wraps it around you gently. 

he offers you his arm to lead you back to your chambers. you have a difficult time letting go.

“husband, i-”

“sleep now, niece. we shall talk during the day tomorrow.” 

“but i-” baelor turns his beautiful, mis-matched eyes towards you and the sentence dies on your tongue. you shall still have the last word, however, and so you hold onto his arm and lean in for a kiss before he can turn away from you.

he makes your knees weak without even trying.

baelor’s mouth is warm and his lips taste of sweet wine, no doubt the cup he was nursing before you entered his study.

in truth, you had slumbered hours ago, falling into sleep after baelor had left your chambers following supper. you wanted to be awake at such a time that you knew he would still be in his study, all alone.

your plan had, for the most part, failed. though you had gotten closer than previous attempts, and though it had been wonderful to feel his hands on your skin once more, he was still being too pious for your liking, too reminiscent of his namesake.

your hands are still wrapped around his arms, digging into the muscles as you feel baelor returning your kiss. you whimper into his mouth, surprised by the rough feel of his beard against your skin and his tongue touching yours. but the kiss itself is still surprisingly gentle, just as the ones on your wedding night had been. 

you had thought your teasing might earn you a glimpse of a different side of your husband, but it seems that you were mistaken.

no matter. you will accept each victory, no matter how small. 

and most unsurprisingly, he pulls away first. 

his lips look swollen and pink, and your own tug into a pleased smile at the image before you. baelor runs a hand over his beard, sighing, looking at you as though he is unsure of what he will do with you.

good, you think. let me be plagued with dreams of my kisses. 

“i bid you goodnight, my husband,” you sing sweetly, leaning your feet forward on your toes so that you can press one of those chaste kisses he so loves to his cheek. 

then you enter your chambers, leaving him in the corridor.

-

baelor thinks of nothing but your startling kiss and how your nightgown looked in the dim light of his study. 

the gown—if it can even be called that, since it was merely a few scraps of thin fabric stitched together—has been the only thing on his mind for days on end.

he tries ardently to distract himself by setting up meetings with lords mallister and santagar and tyrell to have them bring ladies of their family to court to serve as your companions. he speaks with the men for too long, asks questions that are irrelevant, and tries to prolong the encounter just so he is not left alone with this thoughts.

one thought in particular—namely the softness of your lips, a soldier rising through the ranks as he wins battle after battle.

and despite all of that effort, even days later, he finds himself unable to think of anything but the scent of your skin and the ease with which you climbed into his lap.

a lesser man might even think that you wanted him.

he tries, and fails, to cast the thought aside entirely. 

you, on the other hand, have not been thinking of anything else. baelor tells you when he joins you for dinner later in the week that he has arranged for your ladies-in-waiting to come to court earlier than he had planned. 

he tells you their names and their lineages, their relation to his small council and the relationships their families wish to maintain with the crown. 

but you pay little attention.

again, your husband has spurned you. 

you thought you were strong enough to deal with this rationally. that baelor was only being distant because you were newlyweds, because he did not want to seem eager. 

but you’re no fool, either. your little stunt in his study proved what you already knew to be true. your husband desired you, he just wouldn't allow himself to act on his desires. 

now he wishes to keep you complacent with noble ladies that will no doubt ask you questions that you have no answer for—such as when your husband planned on getting you with child and when the court would have another little prince or princess running around.

no matter what else happened, you knew you needed to take the issue into your own hands if you wanted a resolution. 

if you wanted your husband’s seed, you will have to go seek him out and make him give it to you. 

baelor does not meet you for dinner the following evening. he is in his study with his father and maekar, who is visiting from summerhall. 

he left the children behind, much to your displeasure, but brought along daeron and aerion. hardly a fair trade, you think, though the thought feels tainted. you have nothing against the elder, but the second-born is another deal entirely.

the boys had begun their morning sparring with your other cousins—or rather, your step-sons—in the training yard. you had walked by on the way to the gardens with your ladies, the lot of them giggling at the muscles and sweat of the boys below.

it is only aerion and matarys doing the sparring now. 

in the garden, daeron seems to be taking a nap in the sun, perched on one of the benches by the trees. valarr is taking a turn about the gardens with kiera, who is finally feeling well enough to come outside and enjoy the fresh air. 

seeing the way the two of them hold each other, the way their love and admiration for the other was so palpable to all of you, made your heart ache. 

yes, you wanted your husband to please you and give you a child of your own. but you also wanted that. 

love and affection and tenderness. 

the worst of it, perhaps, was that you knew baelor was incredibly capable of it. he was not at all like the lords you feared you would have been married off too—cold and cruel and devoid of kindness. baelor was overflowing with love for his children and his family. 

you were spoiled, perhaps, you think as you sulk in the shade with your new ladies. you were so used to his love and compassion growing up that you had only expected it to further grow as the moons of your marriage passed. 

now your husband seems to have nothing but proper concern for you. everything he does, everything he says, it is apparent that he wishes you to stay safe and well. he will not even touch you, perhaps for fear that he will break you, living up to his nickname after all, you suppose.

you bite into cherry and let the tartness linger on your tongue. lady bethany mallister, the daughter of the lord of ships, picks up a piece of fruit as well. 

you are tired of them, though not because they are not enjoyable company. it is your own situation that feeds your sadness. 

aly tyrell is funny beyond all measure. lady bethany is sweet and gentle and always compliments your dresses. lord santagar’s sister, sarena, is young and excited and reminds you of the innocent hope all girls possess at that age. you feel towards her perhaps that which an elder sister might feel towards the younger.

though your frustrations are targeted to your husband and his lack of action, you do not wish to take it out on them.

“at least,” you begin after taking another bite and chewing your cherry until your lips and tongue are red, “the fruit is sweet and the sun is warm.”

“i wonder if we will have another long spring,” bethany comments, picking up another slice of apple. 

“perhaps,” you mull. “it would bode well for the small folk. i know they dread winter so.”

“bethy, i cannot imagine what winter must be like at seagard. how do you survive the cold?” sarena asks, selecting a slice of blood orange for herself. 

“the same way everyone else does,” aly answers for her, “by staying warm in their husband’s beds.”

you laugh first, though it stings. the others follow.

“you shall be safe then, princess,” sarena says with a wide-eyed smile. “the prince would never let you be cold.”

“right you are, my lady. he would never.” you bite on your cheek, listening as aly begins another tale.

she is interrupted by a pale hand reaching towards the fruit, picking up a cluster of grapes. 

“cousin,” you greet, faking a sweet smile the way you are used to in his company.

“princess. ladies,” aerion says, narrowing his violet eyes towards you. “do your prince a favor, my ladies, and take a turn about the garden. i require a word with my dear aunt.”

the girls look toward you for permission first and you nod your head, something you know aerion did not appreciate, and they each get up and leave. 

sarena turns to look back at him twice, until aly steps to intentionally block her view, making her focus in front of her.

aerion looks a sweaty mess, slumping into bethany’s seat, next to you.

“so,” he starts. “how fares your marriage?”

“perfectly well,” you reply quickly. “baelor is a most thoughtful husband.”

“baelor,” aerion mimics with a scoff. he pops a grape into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. “four moons ago you called him uncle.”

“a lot can change in four months, aerion. now he is my husband.”

“and some husband he is, i am sure. tell me, has he gotten a child on you yet? given his age, you can never know…”

you head snaps towards him, your fingers twitching as you try your hardest to refrain from slapping him.

“i will not dignify you with an answer. mind your tongue or i will-”

“you will what?” he questions, eating another grape, looking at you with a feigned, innocent expression. 

you cannot think of anything to say.

“you seem to forget that i am no longer your cousin. i am the crown prince’s wife now,” you finally reply, hoping he cannot see through your angry words, the saddened, lonely girl that sits beneath your visage. 

“of course not. i am merely looking out for you. well, if you require me… you know where i shall be.” 

“i do not require-“

“good day, aunt.” he picks up your tightened fist and presses a kiss to the skin of your hand. you pull your hand back instantly.

+

aerion’s words do not leave you for the rest of the day.

your ladies continue to chatter and gossip, but your thoughts are far away. you pick only bits and pieces, speaking when there is a silence meant for your reply.

“prince aerion is so handsome, is he not?” sarena says breathlessly, and bethany looks towards you with a concerned expression. aly rolls her eyes.

“as pretty as he is violent. i beg you to find literally anyone else to fancy. his older brother’s just over there-”

sarena scrunches her freckled nose in disagreement. you’ll warn her about pursuing aerion before he leaves once again for summerhall, but your mind cannot think of anything but your own plight.

it’s not until the sun has almost set and the air is much cooler that you are finally granted the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts.

alone, that you might finally concoct your plan.

you work quickly, before your mind has time to stop and think too much of your actions. your maid is confused when dismiss her after your bath, but you do not need her noticing that you do not plan to spend the evening in your chambers.

you dress yourself in the smallest of the newly-made nightgowns, not tying and lacing it where it ought to be, leaving it hanging off your shoulder and exposing the skin of your neck and chest more than you should.

part of the plan from the other night had worked—baelor had been susceptible to the charm of your new gowns, which seemed now to be worth every penny. perhaps that one was not the true victor, however.

you were confident that the one you donned now would be.

you forgo the robe entirely this time, knowing that baelor is not in his study across the corridor. he’s only in his chambers, only a door away. you step out into the hall and put a finger to your lips when ser donnel of the kingsguard sees you, standing in between the two doors for his watch until morning. 

though his eyes are wide at your clothes—or rather mostly lack of—he does not say anything. 

“no interruptions, ser donnel, if you can manage it. the prince and i have a most urgent matter to discuss.” 

he nods, and you smile, knocking on the door.

baelor’s gentle, deep voice echoes as he tells whomever it is to enter. 

it’s not until you step inside, gently closing the door behind you and padding barefoot to the desk and armchair by the fireplace where he works when he is tired of his study, that he notices you.

he looks up quickly, his gaze returning to the assortment of papers before him, before suddenly returning his eyes towards you, his head almost spinning. you bite back a smile.

“niece. what are you-”

“husband,” you greet, ignoring his use of your former title. “i require a moment of your time.”

his mismatched eyes, deep in a distracted thought, travel from your face, slowly raking downwards. 

he stops to observe your bared shoulder and the sheer silk that reveals the curve of your breasts and hips before making his way to your legs, and then back up when you clear your throat.

“what?” he questions, meeting your eyes once again. “did you say something?”

“no,” you lie, shaking your head innocently, putting one step in front of the other until you are much closer to him and the fire. it provides warmth to your exposed skin but it is not nearly warm enough.

nothing but the heat of your husband on top of you will cure your coldness, you think, thinking back to what aly had said in the garden.

“you should return to bed. and wear something warmer. there is a chill in the air tonight.”

“i do not wish to sleep alone,” you reply, taking yet another step closer. he does not have anywhere to escape to, seated in his chair with the fireplace on one side and you on the other. 

“we have discussed this, princess-”

“not princess,” you say, feeling bolder than ever before. 

you perch yourself against his desk, the silk slipping aside and baring your thighs to him. his eyes are fixated on the skin until you speak again, when he moves to meet your eyes again. you hold back another laugh at his attempts to be stoic and polite, even when you are vexing him so deeply. 

“niece-”

“not niece, either. wife. it is the only name i shall respond to,” you say quietly, hoping he can also feel the sincerity of your words.

you watch as baelor swallows, tension thick in the air between the two of you. he runs a hand over his beard as he does when he is frustrated and trying not to show it.

from so close, you can see all the gray hairs that litter his face. they blend together with the dark hair seamlessly. that, along with the wrinkles by his eyes and the absolute temptation in his eyes, is enough to make butterflies erupt in your chest. 

“you do not know what you are asking for,” baelor says, and you smile. 

“i do know. i have had many moons to think about it.”

“you-” baelor stops himself, releasing a deep breath. “you do not want me. you simply desire company. that is why i arranged-”

“my ladies are lovely. kind and funny and good at conversing.” 

“i am pleased to hear it. perhaps they-”

you move slowly, shifting from your position near his desk until you are settling yourself in his lap, just as the other night. 

and just like then, baelor’s hands come to secure you. always worried about your safety, he holds on tightly, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your waist as yours wrap around his neck. 

“as lovely as they are, they cannot give me what i want.” 

you lean in to kiss the hollow of his cheek again, working your way down until you can nestle your face into his neck, littering a handful of kisses there too. baelor’s hands tighten on your body as you feel him suck in a deep breath. 

you breathe in the scent of his skin, calming and soothing as it is, leather and amber and something else that is uniquely your husband.

“what is it that you want?” he questions quietly, with a soft groan that is music to your ears. you stir against his lap and feel his hardness growing against your thighs, warm and firm.

you must be well and truly deprived, you think, since the thought of his manhood against you is enough to make your mouth water.

“i want you. i have wanted you for as long as i can remember. now i have you but in name only.”

“sweet girl, i am only-”

“tell me, husband, am i so awful that you will not spend time with me? am i not the same niece that you so doted on before our marriage?”

“that is precisely why i cannot-”

you lean in to silence him with a kiss, your lips hot and wet against each other. you moan into his open mouth, gripping onto his shoulder fiercely, not pulling away even as you feel baelor try and resist you. 

he too gives in—his hand weaving into your hair, his huge palm holding your head in place. the other hand stays by your waist, adamantly about not straying, though you can feel the heat of his skin through your silk. 

and beneath you is an entirely different story than whatever baelor claims to be the truth—he grows harder and hotter as you move ever so slightly against him, adjusting yourself until you sit atop his manhood. 

you rock gently, your eyes rolling back at the sensation between your legs, one you have not felt so intensely since the night of your wedding.

you believe you could even find your pleasure like this, drowning in his kisses and moving your hips faster until you both feel that shuddery release that you have so longed for—

and then baelor stops, pulling away. his hand stays on the back of your head, cupping and pulling you gently to look at him. 

breathless, flushed in every way possible, with a familiar yet distant ache growing hot and tight in your belly, your swollen lips turn into a pout as you bat your eyelashes at him.

“why do you deny me, husband? why do you deny yourself? you cannot hide the truth. i know you desire me,” you say, rocking yourself against him once more.

baelor’s lovely eyes are hidden from you as he shuts them tightly, holding back a moan. 

“i am trying to protect you,” he says quietly, his eyes opening again. they are filled with pain, something that you detest. it fills you with an immense sadness. 

you lean forwards, pressing your forehead against his.

“you cannot protect me from everything,” you whisper. “and if you must, let us start with the rumors of the court. it wounds me every time someone questions why i am not yet with child.”

“who has said it? i will-”

“it does not matter who. i know they all think it.”

“let them, sweet girl,” baelor says, bringing his hand to hold your cheek tenderly instead. tears—born mostly of sadness and frustration—begin to well up in your eyes. “i am trying to keep you safe and yet you are attempting to force my hand at every turn.”

all you have ever wanted is before you—baelor as your husband, talking of how he wishes to keep you safe, as you always knew he would. and yet, somehow, it is a terrifying thing altogether to imagine a life such as the one you have been living forever.

far away from him, detached and alone, sharing nothing but a meal on occasion instead of days filled with the love you know he harbors inside.

“keep me safe from what?”

“everything,” he replies, his hand tightening around your waist. a tear runs down your cheek and he wipes it away with his thumb. “the childbed, for one. you are too young to leave this world because of my own selfish desire-”

“baelor,” you whisper, your pout magnifying in intensity, if possible. “there is no telling what the gods have planned for us. i have learned that lesson with enough pain. should we not enjoy our marriage for as long as we are blessed enough to do so?”

you bite your lower lip, blinking slowly at him, wondering if this might be where the tide finally turns. you lean in for another kiss, only getting a soft, hesitant one before he pulls you away with his hand on your face.

baelor turns his head away from you. 

“go to bed, niece. it grows late.”

you feel a selfish sort of anger burning in your chest. you have tried to reason with him—and the gods know your husband a reasonable man, more than most. but you are not content with this life, and you never will be, not until you have your husband the way you want him.

the way you know he wants you.

you do not move. a rational side of you tries to argue that you’ve made more progress than before. perhaps one more plan needs to be made, and you will have convinced him of your own accord to heed you.

however, the irrational side wins, the words spilling out before you can think twice about it. 

“you know, aerion visited me today. he said that i only need find him if my uncle is having too much trouble getting me with child.”

baelor snaps his head towards you in an instant, his dark and light eyes blazing with a hidden fury. even so, he keeps his composure more than you wished he would.

“and what did you tell him, hm?”

“i told him to leave. i should have told him that i would have his tongue cut out if he spoke in that way again. because-” you breathe, your entire body trembling in his grip. “because i know my husband can please me. i know he can give me the child we both desire. please baelor… do not let them win.”

you fiddle with the tied ribbon by the collar of your neck, pulling it until it falls flatly around you. he can make out your heaving breasts under the sheer fabric.

you move your head slowly, just to meet his eyes again, blinking quickly. perhaps it is past your time to admit defeat, that you were simply not armored enough today.

baelor brings both his hands to either side of your face and crashes his mouth onto yours.

you release a squeal in surprise, returning the force of his kiss with an intensity you have never felt before. baelor’s hands hold you tightly in place, with no opportunity to move, his mouth hard against yours. 

and yet, his lips are soft. he kisses you as though he wishes to cherish the memory, trying to learn the curves and divots of your face with his fingers. you moan against him as his hands move down, dragging slowly past your past, tracing down your back until he finally lands at your hips. 

he squeezes, as though he is trying to make certain you are truly there before him. the position is not nearly as comfortable as before, but you have no complaints, allowing him to explore your mouth with his tongue, breathing him in through your every sense. 

baelor does not pull away, even as he reads your mind and hoists you up as he stands from the armchair. he sets you on the edge of his desk, using his other hand to brush papers and books out of the way so there is a clearing for you to lay on. 

you giggle against his mouth at the sound, only wondering what ser donnel may be thinking from his post outside the door.

but then baelor pulls away, and the thought is lost, replaced instead with regret. you let out a greedy whine, your fingers pulling at his doublet, wishing for his lips on yours again.

“patience, sweet girl,” he says, and you feel a shiver work its way through your entire body. 

you are many things. patient is not one of them.

your fingers work deftly at the buttons of his doublet, undoing most of them easily, but before you can get the bloody thing off of his shoulders, baelor brings his hand to your jaw, cupping it and squishing your cheeks together.

“i said to be patient,” he reminds you, and you comply instantly, an eagerness to please him rolling smoothly through your body. 

something aches between your legs at his tone, but you are not stupid enough to be defiant now, when you are finally getting what you want.

you remember the night of your wedding as though it was yesterday—how gentle he’d been and how much pleasure he gave you, as though your pleasure mattered more than his. it had been—

the thought is distracted as you hear the sound of silk being torn. you gasp, looking up at baelor instantly.

“baelor, my gown—!” you cry out, though it is hard to care that much. you are mostly being dramatic because you want to see his reaction. 

“it has served its purpose,” baelor says calmly. 

he does not meet your eyes, rather, he stays focused on your newly exposed skin. the silk falls on either side of your body, revealing your breasts and the skin of your belly and legs to him completely. the air hardens your nipples further, and he stares, stares until you begin to tremble and shake with anticipation.

“husband,” you plead, wondering why he is only looking when he has you like this—a slavish position, bared completely for him while he still has all of his clothes on. 

his eyes wander further down, until he stops to stare at your cunt. you feel yourself burn with hotness at his gaze, wondering why he will not just get on with it. he has you exactly how he might want you—splayed out on his desk, your legs wrapped around him loosely. he need only—

baelor kneels. you almost sit up, wanting to know what he is thinking, but one of his huge hands on your stomach tells you, silently, to stay as you are.

“oh,” you sigh, feeling baelor’s hot breath on the sensitive skin of your thighs. his beard is scratchy, deliciously so, as he lines your inner thighs with kisses. when he takes a piece of the delicate skin between his teeth, you yelp, your hand weaving into his hair.

he looks up at you from the position—your legs almost wrapped around his head, his beautiful eyes—one blue, one brown, both dark with lust—looking up at you.

and you do not need him to speak to understand what he is saying. you lay back, keeping your eyes on him.

he dives in between your legs as though he is a man starved. 

the first lick makes your entire body tremble, and the second makes you moan out as though there is no one else in the castle save for the two of you. you feel his hot tongue work up and down your leaking cunt, focused on that one part that makes you see stars as his tongue teases it over and over again. 

he trails down, prodding against your sensitive hole with his tongue, lapping up your wetness, as your fingers grow tighter in his hair, pulling as you try to move your hips, a silent signal that you need more. 

baelor holds your hips down and his tongue returns to your sensitive pearl, simultaneously thrusting in two fingers. your eyes roll all the way back. you moan wantonly—it is all you have wanted.

no amount of your own fingers or folded pillows or thoughts of your husband could ever replace this. his tongue moves against you, flicking and sucking, the noises obscene as they fill the chamber. you cannot hold yourself back, certain someone can hear you, though it is hard to care. 

your back arches, rising off of his uncomfortable desk, but you know the feeling that grows deep in your belly. it’s tight and hot and wound up, but it loosens and stretches with every lick of your husband’s tongue.

but it’s different than the night of your wedding. this is so much better, not as gentle and sweet as that night.. no, this is rougher and more deliberate and filled with a fervor that you have unknowingly been creating in your husband all these moons.

the thought is enough to make you reach your peak instantly, but you hold back, wanting to bask in the sheer pleasure for a moment longer. baelor wraps his mouth around your pearl and continues thrusting his fingers in and out, the squelch of your soaking cunt making your entire body feel as though a flame has consumed you whole.

how—how could you have ever been satisfied by yourself? nothing could ever replace this feeling, you think dreamily, drunk on your husband’s affection. he enjoys it, you can tell, being the reason for your complete undoing.

baelor’s other hand reaches towards you, groping your exposed breast from his position. his fingers tease your nipple and you cry out, the pleasure close to unbearable.

he says something, his lips vibrating around you, and it makes your mouth gape open. you cannot understand him, but you guess it all the same, crying out his name over and over again. 

“good, sweet girl. perfect girl. let me feel your release on my tongue,” he murmurs against your cunt, and with a final thrust of his fingers and pinch of your nipples, you give in to the pleasure, succumb to your husband. 

the sheer bliss that washes over you is unlike anything you have ever felt before. it scorches through your body, a feeling something like lightening striking you, as the heat deep inside of you unwinds, and then snaps altogether.

the shockwaves continue as you moan out baelor’s name, and he does not let up. your body continues to shake in his grip, his tongue rough and almost painful against you, your sensitive cunt pulsing around his fingers. 

it’s not until you are completely boneless, slack-jawed and exhausted, collapsing against his desk, that you feel him slide his fingers out of you. 

you cannot imagine what a mess he has made of your thighs, though when he stands, groaning, you smile before you can help it. 

your juices linger on his beard, and the very thought makes you feel as though you are on fire.

using your hands on his doublet, you push him closer to your for a kiss, feeling the taste of yourself on his tongue and mouth, not receding until he finally uses his hands on your face to guide you away gently.

“that was incredible,” you whisper, leaning your head against his chest. his broad hands on your back support you, otherwise you are certain you would collapse back down.

“i am glad to hear it,” baelor says, polite as ever. “i shall escort you back to your chambers. let me retrieve my-”

“my chambers?” you question, pulling away to look up at him in confusion. “but we have not-”

“you are tired, sweet girl. i will not-”

you make a low, frustrated sound.

“i am not tired. i do not want to go back to my chambers. i want you, all of you. i want you to claim me, as is your right as my husband.”

“claim you?” baelor repeats slowly, watching you with his intense, consuming gaze. 

“will you not give me your seed, husband? as your wife, am i not entitled to it?” you ask, armed with that alluring pout that he is so mad for. 

it is not even so much your words, but rather how you say them, and how you look at him. as though there is nothing you desire more than him. 

baelor leans in for another kiss, your sweet mouth eager for his. 

and then he picks you up by the waist, your sore legs wrapping around his easily. he carries you over to his bed, placing you down with a gentle thud.

his time, when your hands come to his doublet, he lets you take it off of him. you remove it and the cloth falls somewhere behind him, just as your scraps of silk now lie on the ground by his desk.

his shirt is next, even as you paw at his breeches and their laces. he pulls the cotton from the back and yanks it off over his head, while he stares down at you. you are biting your lip in anticipation to claim the spoils of your victory.

sweet, eager girl. you have no idea what you are truly asking for. but he will give it to you all the same.

as soon as your fingers successfully untie the laces, he pulls them off, taking his hardened, throbbing cock into his hands. he strokes it as you watch wide-eyed, your chest heaving and breasts bouncing as you wait patiently for him to give you what you so desire.

he hovers over you, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth before working across to your jaw and then down the column of your neck. he goes over your collarbone, over where your heart beats under your skin, and onto your breasts.

baelor feels your fingers tighten around his arm and watches as your eyes roll back in your head as he takes your nipple into his hot mouth. he flicks his tongue against the sensitive skin, still stroking himself, his cock pulsing with every sweet sound you make. 

he switches to the other breast, lavishing it with attention while he moves your legs as though you are but a gift for him, positioning you until his cock is lined up against your drenched cunt. 

“husband,” you whimper, and he lets go of your tender nipple with a soft noise. “please… please take me,” you say, hot tears of frustration and overwhelmed pleasure running down the side of your face. 

he abandons your breast and moves, nudging the thick head of his cock so it slowly slips inside of you. your tight cunt sucks him in instantly, pleading for more as your face twists into a gasp, mouth falling open, eyes shutting tightly.

baelor comes close to your face, kissing your tears softly, until those lovely eyes flutter open to meet his. he groans, burying his face into your neck as you smile, teasing and sweet and yet so hungry for him.

“please, husband,” you moan again, a soft question this time. he answers by thrusting his length into you, all in one swift motion.

the sound of the bedframe thudding against the wall fills the chambers, followed by the lewd, wet sound of baelor moving in and out of your cunt. then there is your cries and pleas, your sweet moans that he cannot believe he has denied himself for so long.

“there, sweet girl,” he says, as he moves your pliable legs easily. he feels that soft spot inside of you that makes you lose all train of thought, makes your eyes shut and squeal louder than he has ever heard before. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“yes, yes, baelor-” you continue, and brings himself all the way out, just to push back in. 

you take him as though you were made for him. and perhaps you were.

“i know, sweet girl. i will give you want you need. i will give you everything-”

but he lets go of the thought, focusing instead on the way your cunt pulses and tenses around him every time you hear his voice. and who is he to deny you, when he has already denied so much?

this overwhelming pleasure, this sensation that lights his very bones aflame. he could have had this every single night since the day he took as you as his wife in the sept, if only he had not been so—

“baelor!” you cry out, whining and panting as he pulls himself out of you, using every last bit of strength he possesses. 

your sweet cunt clenches around nothing, pulsating as he flips you over onto your belly, folding your legs until you’re exactly how he wants you. he keeps his hands on the soft flesh of your ass, digging in his fingers until he’s sure he’s marked you.

and then he slides back in, feeling the grip you have on his cock, his own eyes rolling back for a moment. 

his muscles tense and his bodies shudders, the new position allowing him to feel every last inch of himself buried deep inside of you.

it’s when you turn your head, attempting to look back at him, that he truly loses all sense of control.

this is all your fault—of course. 

how could any red-blooded man, even one as patient as he, resist your charms and temptation? resist your sweet smiles and your devious plans to make him lose his composure? 

it had worked, he thinks, worked too well. there’s only so much a man can take before he must give in, before he has to please his wife—a duty given to him by the gods.

yes, baelor thinks, watching your lovely features tighten up, as your body mimics the very same around his cock, you are a gift from the gods. 

gifts are not meant to be ignored. they are meant to be cherished. 

baelor leans forward, gripping the back of your neck, pushing his body weight on top of you, fucking you harder than before. 

all that he hears is your cries, all that he feels is the sweat and slick of flesh hitting flesh, and all he can focus is on how your cunt swallows him so perfectly. he knows he cannot last much longer, not when you flutter around him as if you are doing it on purpose.

he pulls out once again, flipping you back over easily. his arms come around either side of your head, boxing you in, as your legs end up spread atop his shoulders. baelor folds you in half, his nose brushing yours, leaning in for another hot kiss as he slides back inside. 

it is all he can do not to spill instantly at the very site of your hiccuped moans with each and every thrust. you are so perfect, your body tensing up again, ready for another release, he knows. 

i know because i am your husband. your body speaks only to me. 

his fingers do not tease this time—flicking over your pearl repeatedly as you weep, perhaps wanting more, perhaps wanting him to slow down. he does not listen.

your back attempts to rise off the bed again, arching as he does not give up his ministrations on your most sensitive part. 

baelor feels you begin to peak before your mind has even begun to process it. you clamp around him, the tension increasing and building until it snaps. he leans in for a kiss as he works you through it, not stopping any motion, swallowing your gasps and your damp tears. 

your entire body is limp by the time you have finished your pleasure. 

it feels as though that alone is more than enough for him, baelor thinks. he slows down his thrusts, coming to cup your face gently, pressing a light kiss to you.

“how do you feel, sweet girl? are you well?”

“no,” you say, to his immediate alarm. if he was not already completely pressed against you, he would adjust until he had you in his arms entirely. 

“no?” he repeats. “what can i-”

“you have not given me your seed yet,” you say, blinking those pretty, bleary eyes at him.

you look ruined in every sense of the word—your face sparkling with tears, lips bruised and swollen, your entire body marked by him in some way or another.  

“please,” you continue, and baelor begins thrusting back into you, almost without even thinking of it. it must feel incredibly sensitive for you, as you shiver and tremble under him, but you do not give up on your goal. “i want it, husband. i want your seed. please, will you not give it to me?”

it does not take much.

baelor moans loudly against the skin of your neck, the brunt of his release hitting him squarely in the chest. his hips begin to stutter, losing his control as he feels the hot spend fill your pulsating cunt. even that does not stop, not until you have milked his cock completely dry.

you are maddening. a creature sent to torment him in the world of the living and in the land of dreams. 

you giggle at the sensation, likely pleased with your victory. you pull on baelor’s neck until he gives you another kiss—this one long and lingering, your tongues playing together until finally baelor’s muscles give out from sheer exhaustion. 

he collapses next to you, an arm sprawled across your body.

you end up curled against his chest, mewling like a satisfied kitten might after receiving a fair serving of milk. he can feel the heat of your body radiating onto him, the sweat that coated both of your skin and your soft, tired breaths as your body melts into his. 

finally satisfied, he thinks, a smug feeling rolling over him lazily. 

this is what you needed, he knows, and now the sedition has slowly seeped out of you, as his seed is seeping out of your cunt. 

“now, wife,” he says, the words a steady whisper into your ear. “sleep. we shall talk in the morning.”

“mmh,” you make a sweet, pleasant noise and he feels your body still as you enter your slumber.

hopefully a peaceful one, such as that after a fiercely fought battle has been won he thinks, his own eyes beginning to shut. 

it could only be moments later—he has not even felt himself descend into sleep—that you stir in his grip. your soft lips begin littering kisses up the column of his neck, over the hair of his beard that grows there, all the way up until you find the lobe of his ear. 

you kiss there too, teasing the skin between your teeth until you finally release it, his eyes almost fluttering open again. 

“husband,” you whisper into his ear, “can we go again?”

“seven hells-”

He knew his eyes were red and he was lucky they weren't swollen shut, but they were stinging like acid had been poured directly into them. At least he could still blink and see properly. His skin was tight and inflamed in places and his lips were dry from each harsh breath he had to intake.

He felt like he was going to be sick, his stomach was churning like a cement mixer and his head was pounding. Getting through this was going to be a real fight for him.

Clark was glad to see that baby Joey was back with his dad, the sight of them cuddled together and walking away safe and sound made Clark's chest ignite with adrenaline and had a smile trying to form on his lips.

It was something that made Clark's mind wander as he stood outside the corrupted portal that had closed in on itself.

In a few months, that sight would be him. In little over three months Clark would be a father with a child in his arms. He would have a baby, another life that he needed to protect, but this would be someone who relied on him. Someone he would love with every fibre of his being, just like (Y/n).

It was going to make things interesting, especially his relationship with (Y/n). She couldn't be seen to be with both Clark and his alter ego Superman, which meant that when they had their baby, the world would never know that Superman had a child.

Clark hung his head down as his hand scratched at his neck once again and he moved to rub the back of his neck where a dull ache was pulsing through his spine and the nape of his neck. His nose twitched and he sighed through gritted teeth, still feeling like he could barely breathe normally.

Kryptonite wasn't something Clark was often exposed to, but it felt like an allergic reaction. His body itched, sometimes swelled, his breathing got shorter and cut off as the poison worked through his body. God, he wished there was an antidote so he didn't have to wait this out.

His body felt sluggish as he dragged his boots towards the edge of the tent the portal was hidden in.

But he didn't get one foot out the tent before two people were entering the tent.

Shock plastered across Clark's face and his sore eyes widened when (Y/n) appeared in front of him, with Mr Terrific in tow behind her. The smile on her face was one that made Clark's heart skip a beat and he felt like he was about to melt into a puddle when her arms hooked around his neck.

Just having her here in his arms was enough to make Clark feel like he was on top of the world and it brought that extra breath back to his chest that was struggling. He took a few steps back so they were under the cover and privacy of the tent, just in case any of the very few people out there were paying attention.

The world couldn't know that Clark Kent was Superman, nor that (Y/n) was Superman's partner too. Things had to stay separate to keep everyone safe.

His head bowed down until his lips and nose were meshed against the top of (Y/n)'s head, inhaling her scent through croaky breaths. He couldn't help but close his eyes as if he was now in a state of bliss and his arms tightly bound around her waist, pinning her against his chest.

He found himself smiling brighter, despite the sting in his inflamed skin when he felt (Y/n) turn her head so she could kiss his cheek. And he felt one of her hands unhook from around his neck so her palm could cup his cheek. The feeling of her thumb gliding over his skin had shivers coursing through his system and he almost closed his eyes again, but he tried to look down at her.

"Are you okay?" Her voice was like music to his ears and the concern dripping from her tone almost made his heavy legs go weak.

"You shouldn't be here." He uttered the croaky words against her temple where he placed a few soft kisses.

He was glad she was here, he was happy to have her arms around him and soak in the comfort she gave. But Clark didn't want her at any risk or in trouble or danger by being out here. This was guarded territory, this was Luthor's land and his portal that they had just destroyed. Clark didn't know what lengths Luthor might go to, especially if he wanted revenge for this.

But they were all leaving now anyway, and the portal was closed. There was a much less sense of danger now, and it wasn't as if (Y/n) was doing anything dangerous. Her sole concern right now was looking after Clark.

"And you should be careful." (Y/n) tilted her head back so she could look at her husband with a pointed expression that made him glance down to his boots as if he were a child being scolded.

She let her head slump back against his shoulder and she dropped her hand from cupping his face in favour of patting his chest. "You didn't answer the question." She mumbled softly, feeling Clark hum as he kissed the top of her head.

"I don't feel great."

(Y/n) could tell by the sound of his breathing and his heaving chest that he wasn't doing amazingly well, but it was still astounding to hear him admit it. Clark was the kind of person who would pretend a broken bone was a mere sprain or carry on trying to look out for others even if he was on Death's door. He minimised and hid things because he didn't think it was important or he didn't want to be a bother.

But he had learnt that he didn't have to do that around (Y/n). He hated it if she hid things like that from him, so it worked both ways.

"Then we need to go home." (Y/n) tilted her head back just enough so that she could attach her lips to Clark's throat. She felt how he held his breath at her touch and she smiled against his skin.

Her left arm moved to bind around his lower back while her right hand stayed pressed into the centre of his chest, helping to keep him upright and steady since he seemed wobbly on his feet. Something which didn't happen very often.

"Let's get you guys home." Mr Terrific was already walking out the tent before the couple could thank him for the offer. It wasn't as if they had any other means of transport to get out of here.

Clark squinted and bowed his head at the bright sunlight that streamed down on them and he gruffed, feeling sluggish as he dragged one foot in front of the other. But his lips quirked up and his steps slowed so he could look down at his wife.

He shifted his arm that was around her waist so he could press his palm against the lower side of her stomach.

"Someone's lively." He mused, unable to keep the smile off his face as he felt the baby kicking against his palm, almost as if they knew he was there.

"You've woken them up." (Y/n) teased back as the pair of them slowly aimed for the strange aircraft that Mr Terrific had adapted himself.

She tried her best not to wince or twitch and give away the slight discomfort she was now feeling. The baby seemed to have livened up since she saw Clark, something (Y/n) wasn't always used to, but they must have sensed him because they were wriggling and kicking up a storm now.

The kicking, combined with the headache (Y/n) was starting to feel made her want to sit and close her eyes.

Her lips pursed at the way Clark slumped down into a seat once they were in the aircraft that was like a tiny, modified plane. He groaned and closed his sore eyes, binding his arms around his chest as he took deep breaths presumably to stop himself from being sick.

(Y/n) leaned over, resting her hand on his shoulder so she could peck his temple that was flushed like he had been sitting in a sauna.

A sudden breathlessness took over (Y/n) once she sat down in the seat beside Clark's. She tipped her head back and took a moment to close her eyes. She hadn't felt like this on the journey down here to find out what was happening and find Clark. Maybe the day was starting to catch up with her.

A ghost of a smile traced over her lips when she felt Clark's heavy hand rest on her thigh, and the feeling of his thumb stroking up and down her inner thigh was soothing.

She kept her eyes closed while their journey started and Clark told Mr Terrific the address of his parent's farm. Clearly he wanted somewhere quiet and comforting to stay and recuperate.

God, her headache was starting to get worse. It felt like someone was constantly hitting at a chisel, trying to carve a new work of art out of her head. Maybe it was the flying, maybe it wasn't agreeing with her.

She was glad it didn't take long for them to arrive at the farm which had steadily become a second home to her since she and Clark got together. His parents had taken her in as if she were their child- she guessed this was how Clark had felt all his life when they took him in too- and made her feel loved and welcome.

"Do you need a hand?" There was something sweet in (Y/n)'s voice that dragged a chuckle past Clark's lips.

It should be the other way around. It should be him asking her if she needed a hand and offering to help her up or hold doors open for her, not (Y/n) trying to care for him.

He slumped his head back against the headrest and squinted up at his wife with quirked lips as she stood beside him, holding her hands out like she was actually willing to try and lift him up. Clark knew she wasn't weak, far from it, but he wasn't sure it would be the best idea to try and let her pull him up or hold his weight up, especially when she was six months pregnant.

His hand grasped the back of his chair but he held his other hand out to take (Y/n)'s. He didn't push any weight onto her or let her pull him up, but her touch was comforting and reassuring as he heaved up to his feet.

His tall stature meant he didn't fit in the craft properly so his shoulders hunched forward and he hung his head down, stumbling after (Y/n) as they both climbed down. Chiming their thank you's and grateful remarks before Mr Terrific left.

"Clark! Oh honey, what happened?"

It was inevitable that a smile tugged on Clark's lips when his mum's southern accent hit his ears. It was like a light had been shone directly onto his heart. He spoke to his parents almost every day on the phone, but it had admittedly been a while since he had visited in person. And it wasn't very good to turn up when he was ill rather than for a social visit.

"K- kryptonite, sorry ma." He winced as if he had done something wrong, and his tired eyes watched his dad hurry forward after being pushed by his mum. He heard her utter 'well help him.' as she nudged his dad in the right direction and that sassy tone to her voice was almost an antidote for Clark.

As soon as his dad grabbed his arm and looped it around his neck, Clark tried to lean his weight to the right so he wasn't crippling (Y/n). He ended up with an arm around each of their shoulders, despite leaning more on his dad than his wife.

Clark could feel his mind spinning around in circles as they both helped him inside and his mum became the ringleader, ushering the way to his old bedroom as if none of them knew where it was.

As they headed towards the stairs, (Y/n) took a deep breath and bowed her head that felt like it was going to explode. And to top it off, the baby was doing so many summersaults that she was sure she was going to be sick in a moment if she didn't get to sit down soon.

She did her best to hold down a groan, she didn't want Clark worrying or thinking that something was wrong. He was the one in need, not her. (Y/n) was just a bit under the weather.

She leant her cheek against his chest as the three of them made an awkward hobble up the stairs. It was clear Clark was getting more and more lethargic because he was dragging his feet on each step and he was almost putting his full weight onto his dad.

The stairs and the landing floorboards creaked as the three of them trudged into Clark's room.

Bile rose in the back of (Y/n)'s throat and the room momentarily spun around her when they got into his room. She stumbled to the right but with Clark's unsteady balance, none of them noticed.

They tried to be graceful but Clark ended up flopping onto his childhood bed which gave an ungodly creak as he crashed onto his back. His dad swung his legs up so he was fully laid out on the bed and when his mum tried to run her fingers through his hair, Clark leaned into the touch. He could barely keep his eyes open.

"You sleep now honey, and you'll feel right as rain."

Reaching out, (Y/n) grabbed the headboard with her left hand while her other hand squeezed Clark's shoulder. She felt like collapsing down and lying there with him.

He took her by surprise with the force which he grabbed her wrist with and he tugged on her arm, groaning as he turned to try and kiss her skin. "Stay." He uttered, as if (Y/n) was thinking of leaving him on his own so soon.

"We'll give you two a moment." The pointed look his dad gave his mum caused her to sigh, but they both disappeared from the room quickly enough.

A bout of dizziness washed over (Y/n) and she slumped down onto the edge of the bed, although there wasn't much space with Clark's broad frame sprawled out like this. She tried moving her hand from his shoulder and dragged her fingers through his unruly curls, watching how they bounced back and jumped like coils and springs as she ruffled them.

The touch was clearly soothing because Clark was turning and moving his head like he was chasing her touch, and it made (Y/n)'s heart leap. But it didn't do anything to soothe the raging storm that was getting worse within her.

She tried to put her focus onto Clark, taking note of his reddened skin that was similar to an allergic reaction. He looked a little better, but he was still sweating and breathing in huffs and pants. He looked like he was fighting off an infection or a fever, but that was just how the kryptonite was affecting him.

The way he was shuddering made her wince and feel bad for him so she bent forward and kissed his burning temple. She had to close her eyes and her lips stayed against his skin for longer than intended because she feared if she sat upright, she might fall over.

A great fog was rolling in and clouding her mind and her feet itched in her shoes which scraped against the carpet as she fought to remain calm and hold herself together.

"You're gonna be okay, you- you just need rest," It was too hard to force herself to smile.

(Y/n) slid her hand down from Clark's hair so her hand was cupping the side of his neck to try and keep giving him comfort and keep him calm. But she had to bow her head and turn to the left, leaning over the side of the bed because she didn't know if she could stop herself from being sick or not.

At the feeling of her receeding touch and how she was shaking, Clark grimly opened his eyes and tried to blink past the blurred vision to look at her properly.

His features twisted into a frown that had his upper lip curling when he noted the distress written across his wife's tense features. She looked ill. She was starting to shake and tremble like he was. She wasn't looking at him and she was almost doubling over. Something wasn't right.

His grip tightened on her wrist while he dug his right elbow down into the mattress in an attempt to steady himself. He pushed up, leaning most of his weight on his elbow so he could arch forward and try to be a bit closer to (Y/n) to find out what was wrong.

"Sweetheart, y- you okay?" He spoke through his teeth, huffing to try and breathe properly because his chest was still tight.

But his blood ran cold when he heard (Y/n) barely able to utter "Feel sick," under her breath.

There wasn't time for Clark to respond or even to try and reach out for her. (Y/n) tore her wrist out of his grip and scrambled onto wavering legs just in time to grab the rubbish bin near the door. She doubled forward, clinging to the bin as her body shook and she heaved, throwing up her lunch.

She coughed and gagged so much that she could barely take in a proper breath and it sent stars twinkling before her eyes. Her stomach clenched and her chest tightened like it was a rope being twisted into a thousand knots. All the overwhelming feelings and sensations sent (Y/n) down to the floor on her knees, clutching the bin to her chest like it was some kind of medallion or comfort teddy.

"Damn."

A groan fell from Clark's lips and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, struggling to roll off the side and get onto his legs that had since turned to jelly. Shivers broke out in his system again and he shook his head to try and clear his mind enough to reach his wife.

He stumbled forward until he was within reach of her and he let himself crash down to his knees behind her. His hands clung to her arm and the other on her shoulder, trying to steady her and cling to her in case she was about to topple over, but then again Clark wasn't very sturdy either at the moment.

His lips attached to her neck and he closed his eyes as he tried to take deep breaths to get (Y/n) to copy him. His hand started to glide shakily up and down her left arm while the other squeezed her shoulder and when he gave a little nudge, (Y/n) leant a little of her weight back into his chest. She didn't want to lean up against him when he wasn't well either, but Clark was trying to hold her up.

"You didn't tell me you… you were sick." Clark could feel his head spinning, but he felt a little more stable than he had done earlier.

Why didn't she mention that she wasn't well? Why didn't (Y/n) tell him she was feeling sick? He needed to know, he couldn't just walk around oblivious like this. He would of found out sooner or later, just because he was unwell didn't mean she had to hide this from him.

He peppered his lips up her neck until he reached her jaw and his nose tickled her cheek. Clearly they both needed a bit of looking after right now.

"I felt okay before, got the shakes now." (Y/n) winced and hid back a whimper as she set the rubbish bin down in front of her so she could hold her hand out. She felt the way Clark hummed against her jaw but when he looked to see what she was doing, his breathing changed and his chest hardened.

She was trembling, she could barely hold her arm out in front of her with how badly it was jittering. And Clark's murmur of "Oh baby," only made her shaking ignite.

This was just like the bouts of morning sickness she got at the beginning of the pregnancy. (Y/n) couldn't count the number of times Clark had found her hunched over the toilet or curled up on the bathroom floor. Each time he had carried her back to bed, and once he had taken her to the hospital because he had been so worried.

Those bursts of sickness came out of the blue at all times of the day and (Y/n) got horrible shakes when she was sick like that. But this couldn't be morning sickness, it had wore off already and this was so out of the blue.

Her head pressed back into Clark's shoulder, despite not wanting to lean on him or put too much weight into him in case it set him off balance. And she moved one hand to press down into her abdomen when she felt the baby wriggling. Again.

Clark almost managed a smile when he slid his hand down from (Y/n)'s shoulder to cup her stomach too. But his smile faded before it began. His lips tore into a frown and his brows furrowed as he tried to focus his senses.

"Their heartbeat, it's elevated, getting faster."

Ever since he was a child, Clark had to learn how to tune all the noises of the world around him. His mum spent a long time teaching him how to focus, how to block out the sound of a cricket or the sound of her heartbeat which used to overpower Clark and send him into an overload. He could hear people's breathing from fifty feet away. He could hear their pulse and them chewing food in another room.

He could hear the tractors on nearby fields and at night he could hear the corn crinkling and wavering in the night breeze. It took time to tune his hearing down and ignore all the background noises.

But when (Y/n) got pregnant, it changed things. Clark had something he wanted to listen to and pinpoint, not just (Y/n)'s heartbeat that he was frequently listening to so he knew if she was alright or scared or happy or sad.

Now, there was a little constant beating that he loved to listen to like it was his most favourite song in the world. Their baby's heartbeat was music to Clark's ears and he often found himself listening to it while he was in another room or when he couldn't sleep. It reassured him that their baby was okay and safe and that everything was well.

He wasn't comforted by that sound right now. He was frightened.

The baby's heart was speeding up and becoming uneven, and the baby was kicking and moving a lot more than usual. That wasn't a good sign, that was an implication that something might be wrong with them or with (Y/n), and Clark didn't like the sound of that.

A croaky "Oh no," tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips before she jerked forward away from Clark's chest and bent over to throw up whatever was left in her stomach into the bin.

Her throat tightened as she coughed and started to wretch, feeling like she needed to keep being sick but she didn't have anything but bile left in her system. Shakes broke out all over her body again and she coiled her arms around her chest on top of her bump. She felt like curling up in a ball on the floor.

The feeling of Clark's lips pressing against the back of her head was somewhat comforting and she tried to focus on his hands that were roaming up and down her arms to try and help her and somehow make her feel better.

When she felt sure that she wasn't about to gag or throw up again, (Y/n) tried slouching back against Clark's chest. But the way she pressed one hand against her chest made him panic.

His eyes narrowed as he stared down at his wife in his arms, but it was (Y/n)'s breathing that worried him. He watched as she started to take shallow breaths this time and her eyes closed like she was finding it hard to breathe and she was starting to struggle.

(Y/n)'s eyes shot open when she felt Clark's chest vibrate with a deep growl that hit her to her core. She tried angling her head back to look up at him through blurring eyes but he was beginning to unravel from her.

"No… Dammit!" His hands left her skin leaving her feeling cold and helpless but the way Clark flopped onto his side and ended up crawling towards the bed made (Y/n)'s heart ache and want to reach out for him. "Ma! Ma!"

His voice echoed through the room and shook the walls, loud enough that his mum would be able to hear him anywhere in the house and come to their aid. But for what, (Y/n) didn't know.

"Baby, what-" (Y/n) wavered to the right and tried to flop her arm out in Clark's direction. She needed to know what was wrong, what was running through his mind.

She managed to curl her fingers around his wrist, unsure whether she wanted to try and tug him towards her or use him as leverage to inch herself closer to him. But she didn't get chance to do either. She barely tugged on his wrist before Clark roughly flung his hand out at her and shook his arm so violently she recoiled her hand to her chest.

"Don't touch me. Ma!"

His words sent shivers running down (Y/n)'s spine and had a tear trickling down her cheek. What had she done? Why was he being like this all of a sudden? Why was he acting like her touch was going to hurt him? What had changed in the space of a few minutes for him to suddenly scramble away from her so fast like this?

"Clark…" She wasn't sure what she was trying to ask, but the way she whimpered his name made him cower.

He hated it. He hated hearing the torment and agony in (Y/n)'s voice, and he hated that he made her think she had done something wrong. The way she said his name had Clark's heart spasming in his chest and physically ached within him.

He could feel his eyes welling up with tears but he slammed them shut as he flopped his arms onto the bed and used it as leverage to pull himself up. He heaved his broad frame back onto the bed, groaning as he felt like throwing up the same as his wife had done.

When he heard the floorboards creak close behind him, he dropped his head down onto the mattress and held his left arm out behind him. He wafted his hand in (Y/n)'s direction, pointing his finger at her to try and make it clear that he wanted her to stay away from him.

He was glad he wasn't looking at her because the quiet moan she let out in response made his soul shatter.

"Kryptonite, it's poison to me… and the baby." He barely managed to lift his head and glance behind him, focusing his gaze on (Y/n)'s stomach and not her eyes that would break him completely. "It's making you sick, sweetheart p-please, stay away until I'm better."

How could he be so stupid? How could Clark be so dumb and ignorant?

Kryptonite was harmful to him, it was the only thing deadly to him and look what it had done to him today. It wouldn't affect a human, therefore he thought he was fine being around (Y/n). He was too stupid to consider that it might hurt the baby despite them being safe within (Y/n).

Their baby was half of Clark, they had half of his genes and woven into his genes was the affliction with kryptonite. He had passed that down to them, so being around the poison would harm them especially at such a delicate and early stage.

It was making (Y/n) sick, it was harming the baby and as long as (Y/n) stayed around Clark and absorbed the substance, it meant her and the baby were at risk. She had to get out of the room. She had to get away from Clark until he was better, until his body was fully rid of the poison and he wasn't at risk of passing it to their baby.

(Y/n) couldn't find the will to move in any direction. She knelt there on the carpet, dumbfounded as she stared at Clark like he had spoken in a foreign language or transformed right before her eyes.

She wouldn't have thought that kryptonite would have affected her like this, she wouldn't think it would have affected her at all. She hadn't been exposed to it, and the baby hadn't had direct contact either. But clearly as it was leaving Clark's system, it was rubbing off on the baby.

And neither of them knew how badly it would affect the baby. Surely with the kryptonite being in Clark's system, whatever (Y/n) was absorbing or surrounded with was only small amounts, little flecks like pollen. After effects. Second-hand contact like this shouldn't be deadly or too frightening, and the baby was only half Krypton, their reaction wouldn't be as severe as Clark's.

But none of that meant that any exposure wasn't harmful and with the baby being small and under-developed so far, it could harm them.

"Oh- what are you two doing?"

Deep breaths raged past Clark's lips as he craned his head to look over his shoulder, locking eyes with his mum who was clinging to the door. Stood in the doorway like she wasn't sure whether she was allowed to enter the room or not.

"Take her downstairs, ma. I'm making the baby sick." Anguish flooded Clark's voice and he let his eyes linger on (Y/n) for a few lasting seconds before he turned away.

He smothered his face into his pillow, doing his best to choke down a groan while his trembling arms encased to his chest.

"Come on honey."

(Y/n) wanted to object. She wanted to shake off her mother in law's touch and try to scramble towards Clark. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him that it was okay, he hadn't done anything wrong. He was sick, he needed to be taken care of, he was the one who had been exposed to something that could easily have killed him.

But she knew if she tried to get close to him, he would shake her off. He would get upset, and it wasn't often that Clark used that harsh tone of voice with her or looked at her with frustration and torment in those burning eyes. Leaving and waiting for him to recover on his own- with the care of his parents of course- was going to be the best and only thing that (Y/n) could do. Despite everything her heart was telling her she had to do.

Reaching out, (Y/n) gripped onto her mother in law and heaved up onto shaking legs. Her head started to spin and pound, feeling like it was stuffed with cotton wool as the pair of them left Clark wallowing alone.

By the time they got downstairs, (Y/n) felt like she was going to collapse. The sofa couldn't have been any closer to her and she almost passed out the moment she flopped down and slumped her head against a pillow.

Maybe when she woke up, they would both feel better and this would all be just a dream.

***

It was sunny.

Clark liked it when the sun was shining and he was back home on his parent's farm. Rain was good, storms were worse in case it ruined crops or threatened the animals or made the roads unsafe. But the blistering sunshine was always welcoming. The way it shone on the corn in the fields looked like little golden flecks of the sun had fallen to Earth.

The way the heat soaked into his skin was always heavenly and when there was a slight breeze in the air, Clark felt at home.

Sitting out in the back garden like this made him feel like a child again. He had been a kid with lots of energy and lots of things to do. He would run in the fields, make up his own games, ride his bike all around the farm. And of course he would tend to the animals with his mum and help his dad out in the fields or with the equipment when he was old enough.

But there had been times where he would just sit for ages at a time on the porch swing, just staring out into space like he was solving all the world's problems.

The cup of coffee in his hands was strong and starting to lose its heat. The palms of Clark's hands had long since turned blistering hot from cradling the cup like it was the most precious and tender thing in the world.

His shoulders hunched forward, draped in his dressing gown that always brought back old memories. His head hung forward as he stared down at his coffee rather than out at the fields surrounding his childhood home. His foot was steadily tapping against the porch while he got lost in his mind, suddenly finding it very easy to drown out every other sound that usually bothered him so much.

His head lifted slightly and he squinted in the sunlight to see who was walking out the back door. Clark managed a half smile as he watched his dad trudge over and slump down into the small space left on the porch swing.

Neither of them were exactly thin or slender and it was a bit of a squeeze with them both sitting there. Clark pulled his knees in a little as he had admittedly been sitting and manspreading, but that was just how he would usually sit.