#azrielxdad

Rhysand

Everyone knows that Rhysand is the ultimate protector of his family, but fatherhood took that instinct and turned it up to an eleven

The day Nyx came into the world, Rhys became a male on a mission.

The house was a maze of enchanted barriers and warding spells. Feyre thought he was going overboard when he covered every sharp edge in thick padding and rearranged all the furniture to create wide, baby-safe paths.

When he started eyeing Cassian and Azriel's wings with a calculating look, mumbling about how "a bit of padding couldn't hurt--just on the tips," Feyre had to draw a hard line.

Anyone who stepped foot near Nyx's nursery was met with Rhys's outstretched hand and a pointed look toward the nearest washbasin.

He'd wait until he heard the water run twice before letting them get close. Rhys didn't care if it was Amren or his own mother reincarnated—no one got a pass.

He would hover nearby, just out of sight, listening for every coo, every tiny sound his son made.

When Nyx got his first sniffles, Rhys had been inconsolable, pacing back and forth with the little one bundled in his arms.

"I should have been more careful!" He would murmur.

Feyre had to wrap both of them in her arms and assure him that babes catch colds. It's natural—builds an immune system.

He only half believed her, but when Nyx finally felt better, he promised himself it wouldn't happen again. Even a sneeze sent him spiraling.

The first time Nyx fell and scraped his knee while crawling, Rhys was at his side, his power flared in the room as if there had been a coordinated attack.

He picked up Nyx and cradled him, brushing his fingers through his soft hair, whispering soothing words as his own eyes grew wet.

Feyre had told him it was just a scratch, hiding her smile behind her hand as she watched her mate try and fail to keep from crying harder than the babe.

"But it's his first scratch," he had insisted.

Oh the bragging.

Even before Nyx could babble, Rhysand was already speaking of his son like he was a prodigy—savant in everything. Rolling over, crawling, walking, babbling.

At meetings of the High Lords, it was an unspoken rule that the first thirty minutes of each meeting would be dedicated to hearing all about Nyx's latest accomplishments—including those that no one but him would label as such.

Rhys would lean back in his chair, a proud smile on his face, recounting every new expression and sound his son had made.

If he could, he would even bring Nyx along—wrapped tightly against his chest—he would stride into the meeting, practically glowing, not looking up at the attendees but only down at the little tuft of black hair peeking out of the swaddle.

"It's never to early to learn diplomacy," he would joke. It was particularly hard to take him seriously in meetings where they were discussing trade strategies when Rhys spent most of the time staring down at Nyx or Nyx screeched over someone else.

Around others, Rhysand remained the poised, elegant High Lord of the Night Court. But alone with his son, he became an entirely different male.

His voice rises to a singsong, soft and silly, wiggling his fingers, making the most ridiculous faces and blowing raspberries onto any exposed skin he can find.

"Who's the best little High Lord-in-training?" he relentlessly coos.

Cassian

The first time Cassian holds Nyx, he's terrified. Cassian has seen his share of traumatic events, he’s ripped out intestines and spinal cords, faced death itself. But this little wriggling mess of a babe is an entirely new battle.

He cradles the newborn like he's handling glass, his massive hands trembling slightly as he looks to Rhys and Feyre for reassurance.

“Is this right? Is he breathing okay?" he asks in a panic.

Feyre would gently guide his arms until Nyx was nestled comfortably, while Rhysand looks like he’s about to explode.

Cassian's relief to not have to hold the baby anymore was almost laughable—but there is so much awe in his eyes as he looks down at the tiny bundle, it almost breaks your heart.

It's a side of him that no one has seen before.

For weeks, he's too afraid to hold Nyx for more than a few minutes at a time, sitting down, with his arms supported on the leans of the chair, with Feyre only inches away ready to catch the babe if he suddenly slipped from his grasp.

After a while, however, he finds his confidence, and it becomes his personal mission to never hold a baby "appropriately" again. It helped when he watched Feyre almost lose hold of the little one herself, Nyx slipping from her arms. When the babe didn’t shatter, he figured he could be a little more…lenient.

He'll tuck Nyx under one arm like a football and stride around, much to Rhys's horror. Or, once Nyx gets older, he'll balance him on a broad shoulder, supported by one wing, walking in circles around the House of Wind while Nyx squeals in delight.

"What? He likes it!" Cassian protests when Nesta scolds him, pulling Nyx from his perch.

When he finally has his own baby—which he essentially begged on his knees for—he doubles down on the unorthodox holding techniques. He becomes known for carrying his own daughter (once she's old enough) upside down, or perched on his back.

He also prefers to carry his baby in his shirt, with their small face peaking out over the collar. He loves to be able to lean down and smell their hair, and the feeling of their little heart hammering against his own.

Cassian's biggest goal, whether with Nyx or his own children, is to be the funniest fae in their life.

He makes the most ridiculous faces, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes, and puffing out his cheeks until babes are shrieking with laughter. Later on, he takes on a more…vulgar approach. Fart jokes, “potty humor”, and takes more than a little pride in teaching Nyx his first swear words.

He invents silly games like "flying lessons" where he gently swoops them around the room, or folding his wings in tightly and trying to get little ones to get him to open them as they pull with all their strength.

Whenever he's babysitting Nyx, he's caught by Feyre or Rhys mid-performance, singing made-up songs that sound more like battle chants about changing diapers or finding lost pacifiers.

Both Nyx and Cassian's own babies quickly discover that he's basically a living furnace, and it doesn't take long for them to decide that he is the perfect nap spot.

He'll settle onto the couch or stretch out in front of the hearth, babe sprawled on his chest, their tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt, or tucked underneath, skin-to-skin.

He'll stay like that for hours, a hand resting on their back, refusing to move when his legs cramp.

"It's fine," he'll say, whispering. "I'm not going anywhere."

He loves feeling the gentle rise and fall of their breathing, knowing they feel completely safe.

Cassian has always been fiercely protective, but that instinct only intensifies when he becomes an uncle and later a father.

With Nyx, he’s constantly standing guard, even if it’s just while the little one naps in the living room.

He has a sixth sense for when Nyx is about to cry, swooping in with a toy or a funny face before the tears can fall.

When it comes to his own child, he takes things even further. He insists on accompanying them to their first healer’s visit, his arms crossed and wings flaring if the healer so much as makes his baby frown.

“They need to know I’m watching,” he’d mutter to Nesta, who rolls her eyes but secretly finds his intensity endearing.

When the healer takes the baby out of their clothes to weigh them, the cold air hitting their skin setting off a series of wails, Cassian nearly jumps over the table—held back only by Nesta who hisses at him to get a grip.

Cassian might be a tough Illyrian warrior, but he has a major weakness: baby laughter.

The sound of it turns him into a mushy mess, and he will do absolutely anything to hear it.

With Nyx, he’s constantly inventing new ways to coax out those precious giggles, like flapping his wings dramatically or pretending to trip over his own feet in front of the baby.

When he becomes a dad, he finds that he loves making his own child laugh even more.

He’ll crawl around the floor pretending to be a “wild Illyrian beast,” growling playfully as he lets his little one “capture” him.

The louder the laughter, the prouder he feels.

Nesta often finds them in fits of laughter together, Cassian’s face covered in spit-up or drool, but he doesn’t care at all.

He’s always trying to teach the babies to say “Uncle Cass” or “Dad” before anyone else’s name—much to Rhys’s and Nesta’s annoyance.

He’ll hold up their little hands, moving them like they’re giving a fist bump, saying, “Come on, let’s show ‘em who’s coolest!”

He even tries to teach Nyx and his child how to “fly” by holding them in the air, whispering to them about the skies above the Illyrian mountains.

He’s always caught whispering promises into their ears, like, “One day, I’ll teach you to fly for real, little one.”

Azriel

From the moment Nyx is born, Azriel quietly takes on the role as the protector.

While everyone else fusses over the babe, he's lurking nearby.

At first, he's hesitant to hold Nyx, afraid that his scarred hands and shadowy presence might be too much for the delicate skin of the newborn.

Feyre places the baby in his arms one quiet night when it's just the three of them, and Azriel freezes.

Nyx is tiny and warm against his chest, and for a moment Azriel stops breathing.

Nyx looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes, and Azriel's heart softens in a way he never thought possible.

Azriel is the go-to for sleep regression given his own insomnia.

When Nyx wakes up in the middle of the night, it's often Azreil who slips into the nursery, lifting the babe into his arms, rocking him gently and whispering stories in his low, soothing voice.

He tells Nyx tales of faraway lands, hidden valleys, and ancient heroes and his shadows dance across the walls, forming little figures to keep the babe entertained until he goes back to sleep.

When he has his own baby, Azriel falls into the same habit - found sitting by the window, his baby cradled in his arms, gazing out at the night sky as he murmurs about constellations

He likes to think that these quiet nights are their little secret, just him, his baby, and the night.

When Azriel has a babe of his own, he spends hours perfecting new shadow creatures—tiny wyverns that curl up and "breathe" little plumes of darkness, or shadowy butterflies that flutter around the crib.

Despite his skill with shadows and natural gentleness, Azriel is surprisingly awkward when it comes to certain aspects of fatherhood.

The first time he tries to change a diaper, he stares at it like a puzzle.

He follows Nesta or Feyre's instructions entirely, determined to get it right, but his hands are so careful, so precise, that he's barely halfway done before the babe wriggles out of the diaper.

When he finally manages it, he sighs and smiles down at the babe, "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

As the kids get older, Uncle Azriel takes on the role as the patient teacher.

He takes Nyx and his own children for gentle "flying lessons" which come with a lot less frustration than when Cassian teaches them or guides their small hands to throw punches.

He's incredibly careful, making sure lessons are safe, but also fun, and he can't help the quiet joy he feels when they take to the air for the first time or a little hop when they throw a surprisingly strong punch.

When it comes to bedtime, Azriel is always the one the kids beg for stories from.

His own little ones love curling up in his lap while tells them stories of enchanted forests, magical creatures, and hidden lakes.

They fall asleep him his arms, heads resting on his chest, while Azriel continues on until he's sure they're asleep.

He's the kind of father who watches from the sidelines, keeping a silent eye on their little one for their first steps.

He knows to never tell them to "be careful" to not teach them to fear the world.

He lets them explore and take risks, but the second they fall too hard, he's there, gathering them up into his arms with a quiet, "You're alright, little shadow."

The first time his little one gets a scrap, Azriel's heart nearly stops.

He carefully tends to their bloody knee, his hands steady but face drawn with worry, murmuring reassurances of their bravery.

He carries them home in his arms, wings wrapped protectively around them, as if he could shield them from every dangers in the world.

One of his favorite tricks to get Nyx to laugh is when he touches his nose, Azriel gasps and whispers dramatically, "How did you know my secret weakness?"

Eris

Eris never thought he would be the fatherly type, and when his child is born, he finds himself overwhelmed by a swirl of unfamiliar emotions.

He initially is distance, convinced he's too hardened and sharp-edged for such a delicate little being.

He holds his newborn like they're made of porcelain.

But the moment those tiny fingers curl around his thumb, everything shifts.

He would do anything - burn anything - to keep them safe.

Eris is meticulous when it comes to the comfort of his children.

Their nursery is decorated as perfectly as he can make it, particularly about the soft autumn-hued fabrics draping the crib.

He's the type to pace the halls of the Autumn Manor with the babe bundled in his arms, using his powers of fire to keep them just warm enough, adjusting the temperature until it's perfect.

When he lays them down to sleep, he'll smooth the blankets over them with a gentleness that surprises even him, his precise hands lingering a moment longer to make sure they're truly safe.

Despite his cold demeanor, Eris quickly finds a soft spot for holding his child close.

He's surprisingly good at soothing their cries, rocking back and forth into the early hours of the morning.

He paces pack and and forth in his study, the babe nestled against his chest, his steps slow and even as he murmurs about the ancient trees of the Autumn court.

His child's small breaths against his collarbone are a comfort he never knew he needed, a reminder that not everything in his world has to have a sharp edge.

As his child grows, Eris takes on the role of storyteller, sharing tales of the Autumn Court and its beauty.

He doesn't sugarcoat dangers, but he talks about the world in a way that makes his children's eyes widen with awe rather than fear.

He paints a picture of a world where fire and foliage blend into one, where foxes dart through shadows and ancient magic hums beneath the forest floor.

Eris is determined to pass on a sense of elegance and poise to his child, even if they're only a toddler.

He dresses them in miniature versions of his own tailored coats, rich in autumnal reds and oranges, and delights in showing them off when they toddle through the manor.

He's patient as they stumble through their first steps, guiding tiny hands with pride he doesn't bother to hide.

He teaches them to bow with a flourish that makes him laugh, even if they're far too small to get it right.

"Style is everything, little fox," he'll say with a smile while ruffling their wild hair.

He plays little games, like hide-and-seek among towering stages of books in his study, letting out exaggerated gasps when the "find" him behind a chair.

Sometimes he pretends to be a fox himself, crawling on all fours and playfully nipping at them.

If anyone else saw him like this, he'd immediately retreat into his usual cool demeanor, but with his children's laughter ringing through the halls, he finds himself not caring as much as he used to.

Eris isn't one to gush, but he shows his love through quiet gestures.

He leaves small, enchanted trinkets for his child to find - a tiny firefly made out of flame that hovers around their crib, or a leaf that glows like embers when they touch it.

He'll tuck a blanket tighter around them when they fall asleep in his arms, pressing a barely-there kiss to their forehead before slipping out.

He keeps a close eye on them whenever they play in the gardens, his gaze flicking to them every few minutes, ready to step in if needed.

He doesn't hover - he's far too subtle for that - but his presence is always there.

When courtiers dare make snide remarks about how he has softened as a father or suggest he's too indulgent with his child, he simply smiles, the fire in his eyes saying more than any words could.

"My child will never know the fear that I did," he says quietly to those who push too far.

He would burn entire forests to the ground if it meant keeping his family safe.

Though he never says it, Eris worries constantly about his child's future in the Autumn Court.

He fears one day that they'll see the shadows lurking behind the grandeur, the same shadows that shaped him.

He does everything he can to show them the beauty of the world first.

He takes them on long walks through the autumn woods, carrying them on his shoulders as he points out ancient trees and hidden streams.

He talks of a future where they might one day rule with kindness instead of fear, but it's a dream he keeps close to his chest, only revealing it in those quiet moments when they're alone under the red and gold canopy of leaves.

At the end of each day, Eris is always there to tuck his little ones into bed, not matter how many duties have filled his hours.

He lingers by their bedside, brushing stray hair from their face as he watches their breathing slow.

He’ll conjure a tiny firefly of light that hovers above their bed, casting a gentle glow, and he’ll murmur a quiet blessing in the old language, the words carrying warmth and protection.

He stays until their little fist unclenches from the fabric of his sleeve, and only then does he slip away, leaving the door open just a crack so he can hear their breaths through the night.

Lucien

Lucien never thought he’d be a father, but the day he holds his child for the first time, he feels something crack open inside him—a space he didn’t realize had been waiting to be filled.

His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he gazes down at the tiny bundle cradled in his arms, a rare hint of vulnerability in his usually confident eyes. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs, and his heart lurches when a tiny hand curls around his finger.

He doesn’t let go for a long time, marveling at how something so small could completely change his world.

Lucien’s favorite way to bond with his child is to take them out into the woods, cradling them close as he wanders through the sun-dappled forest paths.

He points out every little detail, from the way the leaves shift in the breeze to the shape of animal tracks on the ground.

As they get older, he’ll carry them on his shoulders, letting them tug at his long hair as he shows them secret clearings and hidden streams.

He tells them stories about the creatures that live in the woods—both real and mythical—and he likes to believe that with every step, he’s helping them fall in love with the natural world as much as he has.

Lucien has a way with babies that surprises even him.

It starts with his own child, whom he manages to soothe almost effortlessly.

When they cry, he instinctively picks them up, rocking them back and forth while humming old tunes from the Autumn Court that he learned from watching Eris with his own children.

Soon enough, the Inner Circle and his own brother starts jokingly calling him the “baby whisperer,” since he always manages to settle down even the fussiest little ones.

Despite his easygoing nature, Lucien’s protectiveness over his child runs deep.

He’s always hyper-aware of their surroundings, scanning the forest or the streets of the Day Court for anything that might pose a threat.

When they scrape their knee while playing, he’s instantly at their side, murmuring, “You’re as tough as they come, just like your mama and dad.”

Lucien is determined to raise his child to be kind and empathetic, so he leads by example. He teaches them how to care for the smallest creatures they find on their woodland adventures, like a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest or a fox cub separated from its den.

He’ll kneel down beside his child, showing them how to gently guide the animal back to safety. “We take care of the world, and it takes care of us,” he says softly, a lesson he wishes he’d learned sooner in his own life.

Lucien isn’t afraid to be openly affectionate with his child.

He’s always scooping them up into bear hugs, pressing kisses to the top of their head, and ruffling their hair.

He’ll carry them on his back and run through the woods, pretending they’re riding on a wild beast, much to their squealing delight.

When they start to get sleepy, he’ll tuck them into his side, wrapping them in his cloak as they sit together by a campfire, watching the stars flicker through the treetops.

Despite his easygoing demeanor, Lucien sometimes struggles with doubts about whether he’s a good father.

He worries that his own fractured past might somehow cast a shadow over his child’s future.

On sleepless nights, he’ll stand by their crib, watching them breathe and wondering if he’s doing enough to keep them safe from the dangers of the world. “I promise, I’ll give you a better life than I had,” he’ll whisper, smoothing a curl of hair away from their forehead.

When his child wakes up and smiles at him with unfiltered joy, he feels a flicker of reassurance—like maybe, just maybe, he’s doing something right.

Lucien wants his child to see the world as a place of endless wonder.

He’ll sit them down beside him as he watches the sunrise over the mountains of the Day Court, holding them close as the first rays of gold light wash over them.

He’ll point out the way the shadows shift as the sun climbs higher, whispering, “Look, the world’s waking up.”

When his child starts to understand, they’ll reach up to touch his scarred face, tracing the path of light across his eye, and Lucien feels a warmth in his chest that nothing else can match.

Above all, Lucien’s loyalty to his child is unbreakable.

He’s determined that they’ll never feel unwanted or unprotected the way he once did.

He tells them every day, “You’ll always have a place with me, no matter what,” his voice steady with the weight of that promise.

Even when they throw their worst tantrums or make a mess of his papers, he simply ruffles their hair and grins, saying, “You’ve got a spirit like wildfire. And that’s something worth protecting.”

Tamlin

Tamlin is terrified when his child is born.

For all the power he possesses as High Lord, holding something so small and fragile makes his hands shake.

Despite his awkwardness, he’s committed to learning, determined not to let his uncertainty stand in the way of being a good father.

He spends hours reading through ancient scrolls and asking the court’s healers for advice, anything that might help him understand how to care for a newborn.

He practices cradling them gently, murmuring words of comfort even when his voice comes out unsure. It’s a clumsy start, but his heart is in it, and the first time his child smiles at him, something in him starts to melt.

The Spring Court has always been a place of wild, vibrant beauty, and Tamlin takes pride in sharing that with his child.

From the earliest days, he takes them out into the gardens, wrapped snugly in soft blankets.

He shows them the blossoming flowers, the streams that weave through the estate, and the animals that roam the grounds.

As they grow, he lets them toddle through the grass, pointing out each new bloom and teaching them the names of plants, a quiet pride in his voice as he shares the secrets of his lands.

He shows them how to gently touch the petals of a daisy or listen to the hum of bees gathering nectar.

“This is our home,” he whispers, as they look up at him with wide eyes. “And I’ll make sure it’s beautiful for you.”

Tamlin’s protectiveness over his child is fierce and unyielding.

He knows all too well the dangers that lurk beyond the borders of the Spring Court, and he’s determined that those threats will never touch his child.

He layers their nursery with enchantments and wards, barriers that would keep out even the most persistent of threats.

But it’s not just about magic; Tamlin is always nearby, watching over them with his keen senses, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.

When they fall and scrape their knee for the first time, his heart stops, and he rushes to their side, his expression a mix of relief and worry.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, over and over again, pressing a kiss to their forehead as if trying to convince himself as much as them.

Tamlin has spent so long shrouded in sadness and anger that he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to laugh.

His child’s joy is infectious, and soon, he finds himself letting his guard down around them in ways he never imagined he could.

He chases them through the garden, letting them clamber onto his back as he pretends to be a wild beast, growling playfully.

Their laughter is a balm to his soul, and he treasures these moments more than he ever thought he would.

The first time he hears them call him “Papa,” he feels a lump in his throat and has to look away to hide the tears that well up in his eyes.

Tamlin has always had a love for music, though it’s a passion that’s grown quiet over the years. But when it comes to bedtime, he finds himself singing again, his deep voice carrying old Spring Court lullabies that his mother once sang to him.

He’ll sit by the window, his child tucked against his chest, singing softly as he watches the moon rise over the forest. The songs are gentle, filled with the magic of the earth and the stories of ancient creatures.

His child’s eyelids grow heavy, lulled by the warmth of his voice, and Tamlin feels a sense of peace settle over him that he hasn’t known in years.

Tamlin’s connection to nature becomes a way to bond with his child.

He teaches them to respect the animals of the Spring Court, showing them how to feed the deer that wander through the gardens or gently pet the soft fur of a fox cub.

He’ll hold their tiny hand as they release a butterfly back into the air, watching with a proud smile as their face lights up with wonder.

He wants his child to understand that their home is more than just a court—it’s a living, breathing place, one that needs to be cherished.

Tamlin carries a lot of guilt from his past, and becoming a father only makes those feelings more complicated.

He’s haunted by the mistakes he’s made, the lives lost under his leadership, and he worries that he’s not good enough for his child.

He often stands by their crib late at night, watching them sleep, his mind swirling with doubts. “You deserve better than me,” he whispers into the darkness, his voice barely a breath.

But when his child wakes and reaches out for him, clutching his finger with a sleepy smile, Tamlin feels a flicker of hope, as if maybe he still has a chance to make things right.

Tamlin isn’t always great with words, but he shows his love through small, thoughtful acts.

He’ll carve little wooden animals and leave them by his child’s bedside, each one carefully shaped to resemble the creatures of the Spring Court.

He’ll braid flowers into their hair or weave a crown of ivy for them to wear during their adventures through the garden.

On warm afternoons, he’ll take them down to the riverbank, showing them how to skip stones across the water, even if their tiny hands only manage to make a few splashes.

Slowly, as the years go by, Tamlin finds that his child’s presence has brought a bit of warmth back into his life.

He begins to smile more often, his laughter echoing through the halls of his estate. He finds himself hopeful for the first time in a long time, dreaming of a future where his child can grow up in a world free of war and bitterness.

He plants new flowers around the estate, hoping that one day his child will run through the fields of wildflowers with a carefree spirit.

Above all, Tamlin’s love for his child is like the Spring Court itself—wild, fierce, and enduring.

He would go to any length to protect them, standing between them and any danger that might come their way.

As much as he’s determined to keep them safe, he’s also learning to let them grow, to let them explore the world at their own pace, even if it means letting them wander a bit further into the woods each day.

He’s far from perfect, but he’s willing to try, and for his child, he’ll keep trying for as long as it takes. Because to Tamlin, his child represents a new beginning, a second chance to build a life worth living—not just for himself, but for the one he loves most.

Tarquin

When Tarquin first holds his newborn child, his heart swells with a joy that he didn’t know he could feel so deeply. He cradles them in his arms, looking down at their tiny face, and he can’t help but smile, a soft, awed expression taking over his usually calm demeanor.

He strokes a finger along their cheek, marveling at how small they are, and whispers, “You’re the most precious treasure the sea has ever given me.”

It becomes a sort of ritual for him, holding them close each night before bed, breathing in the sweet scent of their hair as if to remind himself that this isn’t just a dream.

Tarquin’s child is never far from the water, just like their father.

From the moment they’re old enough to toddle, he takes them down to the beaches of the Summer Court, their small hand held securely in his as they dip their toes into the warm, gentle waves.

He shows them how to find seashells along the shore, turning over rocks to reveal the tiny crabs and starfish hiding beneath.

As they grow older, he’ll teach them to swim in the clear blue waters, catching them in his arms whenever they dive in with a laugh that echoes across the beach.

The sea becomes their shared sanctuary, a place where they can be free and unburdened, where the worries of the court fade away with the tide.

Tarquin uses his magic to bring a bit of ocean wonder into his child’s life. He’ll create miniature whirlpools in their bath, making little water creatures dance in the currents, or conjure glowing fish to swim through the air at bedtime, casting soft blue light across the walls.

Sometimes, he’ll use his powers to shape the water into a gentle wave that rocks them to sleep, the motion like the gentle swaying of a ship.

Tarquin is fiercely protective of his child, but he has a calm, steady way of showing it. He makes sure the waters around their home are free of any danger, setting wards beneath the waves to keep away the creatures that lurk in the deep.

He also wants his child to understand that the sea, like life, is both beautiful and wild. He teaches them how to respect the ocean’s power, how to listen to the rhythm of the tides and understand the signs of a coming storm. “The sea can be our friend,” he tells them as they walk along the beach at sunset, “but only if we respect it.”

Bedtime is always a special time in Tarquin’s household, filled with stories of the ocean’s mysteries.

He’ll sit with his child on his lap, wrapped in a blanket, and tell them tales of underwater kingdoms, mythical sea creatures, and the great ships that have sailed through Summer Court waters over the centuries.

He paints pictures with his words of merfolk who sing to the moon, of hidden caves filled with pearls, and of daring adventures across the waves. His child listens with wide eyes, always begging for “just one more story,” and Tarquin is happy to oblige, his voice carrying the cadence of the waves as he speaks.

Tarquin is determined that his child will understand the importance of kindness and generosity, just as he strives to embody those qualities as High Lord.

He teaches his children to not view other children as lesser just because of their status. In fact, he encourages servants of the palace to bring their children to play with his own.

He’ll hold his child’s hand as they distribute baskets of fresh fruit to the workers in the fishing villages, explaining, “A good ruler is one who understands the citizen's needs.” He wants his child to see the beauty in giving back, and to grow up knowing that the strength of their court lies in the bonds between its citizens.

One of Tarquin’s favorite ways to unwind with his child is to dance with them under the stars, where the sea breeze whispers through the trees and the moonlight glistens on the waves. He’ll lift them in his arms and sway gently to the sound of the ocean, their laughter mixing with the soft rush of the surf.

As they grow older, he teaches them the traditional dances of the Summer Court, their small feet stepping clumsily alongside his at first, but growing more graceful with each passing season. “You’re a natural,” he’ll tell them with a proud smile, twirling them around until they both collapse onto the warm sand, breathless with laughter.

He brings them to the coral reefs where rainbow fish dart through the crystal-clear water, holding them up so they can look through the enchanted glass of the Summer Court’s underwater grottos.

He teaches them how to sail, guiding their hands on the ropes and showing them how to read the direction of the wind. When they stand on the deck of a ship together, feeling the wind in their hair and the salt on their lips, Tarquin can’t help but feel a surge of pride at the way his child’s face lights up with joy.

He makes a point of telling them every day how much he loves them, whether it’s during a quiet moment on the beach or when he’s tucking them into bed.

He believes in the power of words, and he wants them to know without a doubt that they are cherished. “You are my greatest treasure,” he tells them with a smile, ruffling their hair as they look up at him with adoring eyes.