#stark

You couldn't remember the last time you had felt this bone-deep tired, perhaps the birth of baby Aemon, not even six months ago. That had been exhausting in a different way, more than your previous births.

Thankfully, both your husbands had been as supportive as always, but still.

There was a six-month-old Aemon who demanded your full and constant attention.

There was Aerion, who followed you everywhere like a small, extremely confident shadow.

There was Matarys, who always had something to show you and dragged you everywhere, trying to outbest Aerion in that regard.

And then there were your eldest, Valarr and Daeron, who were at that age where their fathers had become the whole world, gone before you'd finished your morning tea, swallowed up by training yards and council antechambers and whatever else their fathers deemed important for the making of men. You were proud of them. You also hadn't seen them since breakfast, and you missed them with a dull, quiet ache you hadn't quite expected motherhood to produce.

You stood near the window of your shared chambers, little Aemon cradled in your arms, bouncing him gently in the way that seemed to please him.

He squealed and you looked down at his round, cherubic face, wrapped in soft northern linen, a gift from Benjen and his wife, pale blue and so light that the southern heat wouldn't trouble him and felt the tired loosen slightly in your chest.

His small arms reached toward your face and you caught both his little hands and pressed them against your cheek, kissing them. He squealed again.

The chamber doors opened and Aerion strutted in, his short hair bouncing with each step, the full weight of his nearly six years of life behind him. He moved like he owned the palace.

"Aerion, my sweetling, what did I tell you about knocking?"

"I know, mother, but I had to show you something." He opened his cupped hands. Inside sat a beetle, its shell a deep, jewel-bright blue.

"Aerion."

"I know you said no insects inside." He looked up at you, utterly unrepentant. "But it looked very pretty. Like a dragon scale."

"My sweet little pup." You looked at the beetle seriously, giving it its due.

"I am very impressed with your find." Aemon squealed upon hearing his brother's voice and stretched his chubby hands toward him, grasping at air.

"Look, mother, even Aem thinks it's a dragon scale."

Aerion stepped closer and held the beetle up toward Aemon's face. Aemon went very still for a moment, studying it and then squealed so enthusiastically that you had to tighten your hold on him.

You shook your head softly.

"Aerion, my sweetling, put the beetle back outside before your father sees it." You fixed him with the look.

Aerion pouted magnificently. It was a Targaryen pout, you had decided long ago. No Stark had ever looked quite so aggrieved at being told no. "But mother—"

"Outside. Now. And gently, it hasn't done anything wrong."

The pout deepened, but Aerion cupped the beetle carefully and shuffled back toward the door. He pulled the door shut behind him with a decisive little click, not quite a slam, but close enough to make his feelings known.

Aemon made a sharp, displeased sound at his brother's retreat and you bounced him once, twice.

"He'll be back," you promised. "He always comes back."

Aemon did not seem convinced. His little face scrunched magnificently.

The chamber settled into quiet then, briefly, the way it only ever did in the stolen moments between one small disaster and the next. You pressed your lips to Aemon’s temple and breathed in the warm milk-and-soap smell of him.

"Your brothers cause so much trouble, little one," you whispered.

Aemon cooed softly in response, and you turned to look out at the afternoon sun, burning bright and golden over King's Landing the way it never quite did up north.

The gardens were visible from your shared chambers, and you watched a procession of courtiers and planners making their way along the paths below.

At their head walked Baelor, composed, calm, every inch the prince with Valarr close beside him, eagerly drinking in every word. Daeron walked to his left, and even from this height you could tell he was somewhat less enraptured with the proceedings.

Baelor stopped and gestured toward a cluster of trees, said something, and walked on. Then one of the planners stopped in front of the weirwood tree, the one both your husbands had gifted you on your wedding day, still small and slender, but its leaves already red as fresh blood and lingered there a moment too long.

Baelor turned back and shook his head with quiet, unmistakable disapproval. Both your sons fixed the man with identical glares before falling back into step behind their father.

You laughed softly to yourself.

Then, as though you had somehow sensed it coming, the chamber doors flew open and Matarys and Aerion crashed through them, hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs, Aerion's fist knotted in Matarys's dark hair and Matarys's fingers digging into his cheeks, both of them shrieking at each other in High Valyrian.

A chambermaid stumbled in after them, flushed and desperate, and dropped into a curtsy while simultaneously attempting to pull them apart.

"Y-Your Grace, I am so sorry, they were, I couldn't— "

Your sons continued to brawl on the floor, indifferent to her efforts. You caught fragments between the screaming, you put that in my hair and other things rather less fit for polite company.

You looked at them and looked at Aemon, who was watching the chaos with wide, violet fascinated eyes.

I wonder how mother put up with my brothers and me.

"Boys," you said. Softly. Evenly.

They stopped.

Matarys's dark hair stood in every direction, his nails were dirty, and his robes were half pulled from his shoulder.

Aerion had scratch marks across one cheek and looked no better.

They both stared up at you from the floor with the particular expression of children recalibrating very quickly.

You said nothing. You simply looked at them.

"What happened?" you asked, when the silence had done its work.

Matarys scrambled upright and immediately levelled a finger at Aerion, who was gingerly patting his scratched cheek. "He put the beetle in my hair. He knows I don't like them."

"Matarys was being mean to me first! He made fun of me for catching it."

"He's lying!"

"He's lying!"

You sighed, quietly, to yourself. Aemon had begun to fuss at the screaming, his small face crumpling with displeasure, and you gestured the chambermaid over and settled him carefully into her arms. Then you crossed to your boys, crouched down, and let your linen dress pool around you on the floor.

"Boys."

They both turned away from each other simultaneously, arms crossed, chins lifted, pouting in a way that was so perfectly matched it almost made you smile.

You waited.

The silence stretched. And then as it always did when you simply stayed close and said nothing, the argument began to lose its shape. Aerion slid a sideways glance at his brother. Matarys kept his chin up a moment longer, then let it drop.

"I did not mean to put it in your hair," Aerion muttered, grudgingly, at the floor.

Matarys considered this with great seriousness.

"You still did. But I accept your apology."

He extended his arm, and Aerion grabbed it, and they performed the northern clasp with all the solemn ceremony of men three times their age. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

They had watched your brothers do it so many times, and they had never once done it without looking deeply, earnestly proud of themselves for knowing how.

You looked at them both and felt something soft and tired move through your chest.

"The last few weeks have been very hard on everyone," you said gently. "I am sorry, my sweetlings, that I haven't had more time for you."

They both turned to you with identical expressions of outrage, as though you had said something deeply unreasonable.

"Mother—" Aerion began.

"Don't be silly—" said Matarys at the same moment.

And then Aerion's arms were around your neck, warm and a little too tight, and Matarys piled on top of him a second later, and the three of you swayed together on the floor in a heap of rumpled linen and unwashed little boy smell, and you held them both as tightly as you could and breathed them in.

"You are the best mother," Aerion announced into your shoulder, with great authority.

"The very best," Matarys agreed. "Better than anyone else's."

"You haven't met anyone else's mother," you pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," said Matarys firmly. "I know."

You laughed then, quietly, your face pressed into the tangle of their hair, one silver-pale, one dark and for a moment the exhaustion lifted just enough to let the warmth underneath it show.

Then you became aware of a presence in the doorway.

Maekar stood there , in his dark robes, watching the three of you with an expression that was something close to tender.

By the time Aerion and Matarys noticed him and scrambled upright, straightening their backs with the automatic posture of boys who knew better than to slouch in front of their father, it had already settled back into its usual strictness.

"I wondered where the two of you had gone," he said, his eyes moving over them both with the calm, unhurried assessment of a man cataloguing exactly how dishevelled his sons had managed to become since he last saw them.

"I lost you in the gardens."

He crossed the room and took your arm and drew you to your feet with a firmness that allowed no argument. "And do not kneel on the cold floor," he added, directing this at the boys rather than you, his tone making it very clear whose fault your kneeling had been.

Aerion and Matarys looked down.

"Husband," you said mildly. "They were simply keeping us company." You nodded toward the chambermaid, where Aemon had spotted his father and erupted into immediate, happy chaos, both arms outstretched, grabbing fistfuls of air trying to reach him.

Maekar looked at him, something in his expression shifted, that same softening, there and gone, like light moving across water.

He lifted Aemon from the chambermaid's arms without ceremony and settled him against his chest, and Aemon immediately seized his beard with both hands and pulled at it.

"Their septa could not find them this afternoon," he said, looking at you. "Apparently they missed their lessons."

You turned to your sons slowly.

Matarys and Aerion were both suddenly discovering something very fascinating about the pattern on the floor.

"You had lessons today?" You let the words sit for a moment.

"No wonder the two of you have been causing mischief since midmorning." You shook your head, pressing your lips together to keep the smile from showing.

"What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Aerion looked up with the expression of someone assembling a very reasonable explanation. Matarys, wiser, said nothing at all.

"We were going to go," Aerion tried. "We simply... forgot. Briefly."

"Briefly," Matarys confirmed.

Maekar looked at them over the top of Aemon’s head, and the look alone was enough. They both straightened another inch.

"You will apologize to your septa in the morning," Maekar said, "And you will attend every lesson this week without fail."

"Yes, father," they said, in unison, with the particular tone of boys who were very relieved not to have received a worse verdict.

You caught Maekar's eye over their heads. He said nothing. But there it was again, that brief, quiet softening and you knew it for what it was. You turned away before he could see you smile.

"Now. Return to the library." His voice dropped half a register. "Or I will take you there myself."

They nodded, inclined their heads with the hasty propriety of children who had pushed their luck far enough for one afternoon, and fled. Maekar watched them go, then turned to the chambermaid. "See that they arrive."

She curtsied and followed without a word, pulling the door shut behind her.

The chamber settled into quiet again. Maekar turned back to you, Aemon still bundled against his chest, and the baby celebrated his father's full attention by lifting both hands and patting Maekar's jaw with the confident imprecision of someone who had not yet mastered the difference between a pat and a slap.

Maekar did not so much as blink. After four children, you suspected very little could rattle him physically anymore.

He studied your face with the same attention he gave everything.

"You look tired. Have you seen the maester today?"

"I don't feel unwell enough to trouble him."

He made a low sound in his throat and reached out to tilt your chin, turning your face one way and the other, closely examining you. "If you will not go to him, I will bring him here."

"That is completely unnecessary—"

"Then go to him."

"Maekar—"

"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known."

"You say that as though it surprises you still." You laughed softly and stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest, careful of Aemon between you. You could feel the steady warmth of him through the fabric.

"You worry too much."

"I will always worry." He said it the way he said most true things, plainly, without decoration, as though it were simply a fact of the world.

You tilted your head and looked up at him. "I remember a time when you told me you would never love me." You let that sit for a moment. "And now look at us. Five children. Two husbands who cannot seem to let me out of their sight for more than an hour."

"We have obligations to you," he said. "It is our duty to—"

"The last time you told me it was merely duty," you said, dropping your voice, "little Aemon was born."

The tips of his ears went red.

You remembered that afternoon in vivid detail. The solar of the Hand of the King, the late light coming gold through the narrow windows, both your husbands with their careful composure thoroughly dismantled, and you pressed between them with absolutely no complaints about your circumstances.

Aemon was very much a testament to how little duty had to do with it.

Aemon blissfully unaware of the subtext, slapped his father's chin again and cooed with satisfaction.

Maekar's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "See the maester tomorrow," he said, his voice returned to its usual steadiness, "and I will stop fussing."

"You will never stop."

He said nothing to that, which was as good as an admission.

He turned and carried Aemon to the crib at the foot of the bed, settling him down with a gentleness entirely at odds with the rest of him, and drew a soft linen blanket over the baby's small, round body.

Aemon blinked up at his father and decided this was acceptable.

Maekar straightened and turned back to you. "Rest. And if he gives you trouble," a small tilt of his head toward the crib, "call your lady-in-waiting. You are no use to anyone if you run yourself into the ground."

"How very romantic," you said.

The look he gave you was deeply unimpressed. Then he crossed to you, tipped your chin back with two fingers, and kissed you, deep and passionate. You sighed into it and brought your hands to his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the soft scratch of his silvery beard beneath your fingertips.

He pulled back. Pressed his lips once to your temple, firm and brief. And then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the warm afternoon light for a moment, your fingers still resting at your lips, and smiled to yourself like a complete fool.

The sun set quickly after that. Little Aemon fell into a deep sleep, and you used what remained of the afternoon working through a considerable pile of letters from the northern houses. Questions about grain stores, disputes over borders, requests for guidance that only you could answer in the particular way they needed answering. The north had not forgotten you were theirs, and you had not forgotten either.

Your lady-in-waiting helped you dress as the last of the light left the sky, easing you into your nightgown. A gift from a Lyseni merchant, silk so soft it felt like cool water against your skin, in a deep, warm red that pooled around your feet when you stood.

You had settled back at the writing desk with the last of the letters when a knock came, and Baelor stepped in. He had changed from his day clothes, his beard freshly trimmed, dark red robes falling neatly around him, and he looked at you the way he always looked at you, like finding you in a room was the best part of whatever he'd been doing before.

He crossed to you and pressed a kiss to your hand with a small, courtly little bow that was entirely sincere and entirely him.

"My love." He dropped into the chair across from you, "How are you faring? Maekar said you felt unwell."

You gave him a look. "Maekar decided I looked unwell. The conclusion was entirely his own."

Baelor smiled, warm and slow. "Ah." He reached across and plucked one of the letters from the pile, turning it over idly. "So you are well."

"I am tired. There is a difference."

“Hmm.” He didn’t comment further, but you immediately sensed the same worry your other husband shows, only softer, more gentle in its expression.

He set the letter down and leaned back, watching you with that particular fond attention of his.

"I heard a whisper this afternoon. From several very curious sources." He folded his hands. "That Aerion and Matarys were seen causing what might generously be described as a scene somewhere in the east wing."

"They argued over a beetle," you said, without looking up from your letter.

A pause. "A beetle."

"Aerion caught one. It was, admittedly, very beautiful. He put it in Matarys's hair. Matarys took issue with this." You set down your quill. "By the time they reached me they had already conducted a full trial by combat on the floor of my chambers."

Baelor pressed his lips together very firmly.

"And what became of the beetle?"

"Released, unharmed. Aerion was very careful about that part, at least." You shook your head, but you were smiling.

"He is so rough and then so gentle, that boy. I never quite know which one I am getting."

"He takes after you," Baelor said.

"Everyone keeps saying that." You gave him a look. "He takes after Maekar in that regard and you know it."

Baelor smiled and said nothing, which meant he agreed entirely.

He stood then, unhurried, and crossed to the crib at the foot of the bed. He stood over it quietly, watching Aemon sleep, the small chest rising and falling, the baby's lips slightly parted, one fist curled loosely beside his cheek.

Baelor's face in profile was still and unguarded, that particular proud softness he never tried to hide the way Maekar did.

You watched him for a moment. Then you stood up and went to him slipping your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He covered your hands with his without looking away from the crib.

After a while he turned, and took your face in both his hands, his mismatched eyes warm, the way they always were when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else either of you needed to be.

"Has he been giving you trouble?"

"Never," you said honestly. "He is the easiest of all of them."

"Don't tell the others that."

"I would never."

Baelor kissed gently the tip of your nose. Then he drew you close, tucking your head against his chest, your hand pressed flat over his heartbeat.

"How have Valarr and Daeron been faring?" you asked against his chest. "These past weeks must have been a great deal for them."

"They have been exceptional," Baelor said, and you could hear the quiet pride in it, "Better than I expected, if I am honest. Valarr has taken to everything with that terrifying focus of his. He asked questions today that made two of the council's planners look at their feet." A warmth crept into his voice. "I was very proud of him."

"He gets that from you," you said.

"He does," Baelor agreed easily. "And the charm he uses to soften it, that is yours."

You smiled against his chest. "And Daeron?"

Baelor was quiet for a moment, "Daeron keeps pace. He always keeps pace. But he is quieter than usual these past days." A pause. "His headaches have been troubling him lately but he does not speak to me about it. "

You lifted your head to look at him. "You noticed too."

"I notice everything about our children," he said simply. "I simply don't always say so."

You held his gaze for a moment, something settling between you, that quite understanding that didn't need words, the kind that came from years of watching the same people and loving them the same way.

You opened your mouth to answer but was interrupted by the chamber door opening.

Maekar came in like a weather front, already unbuckling his doublet, muttering something under his breath.

He shed the doublet, then his outer shirt, until he stood in only his linen shirt and trousers, and ran a hand through his silver hair with the expression of a man who had spent the last several hours in the company of people he found profoundly trying.

"Absolute bloody fools, the lot of them—"

"Brother." Baelor's voice was perfectly pleasant. "Trouble seems to follow you as well this evening?"

"Shut it, Baelor. I didn't ask." Maekar crossed toward the hearth, paused, and looked at it with an expression of fresh outrage. "And which one of these useless servants—"

"Maekar." You stepped forward, your voice firm, "Aemon is asleep."

He stopped. Looked at the crib. Looked back at the hearth. The outrage didn't leave his face entirely but it compressed itself, folded down into something more manageable. He crouched and began building up the fire himself.

A beat of quiet. Then his eyes landed on your writing desk, and the considerable stack of letters still waiting there.

"Seven hells," he said, with feeling, though quieter now. "I will personally write to every one of these lordlings and explain, in plain terms, that you are not their personal—"

"Maekar," you said again.

He pressed his mouth shut. The look on his face suggested the letter-writing remained very much on the table.

Baelor caught your eye from across the room. His expression was one of deep, barely contained amusement. You pointed at him once in warning and he looked immediately at the ceiling.

You shook your head at the both of them and crossed to the bed, pulling back the covers and settling in with the particular relief of someone whose body had been waiting for this moment since approximately midmorning.

You pulled the blankets up to your chin and watched them from the pillows. Baelor had taken the chair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other, perfectly at ease, a letter from your desk open in his hand. Maekar was still standing, because Maekar always needed several more minutes of being upright and aggrieved before he could contemplate sitting down.

"Do you know what one of them asked me today." It was not a question.

"I imagine I'm about to," Baelor said, without looking up from the letter.

"Whether Aemon could be dressed in red lamé and placed in a basket." A pause that contained multitudes. "To look like a dragon egg."

Baelor lowered the letter.

"I nearly relieved him of his head on the spot," Maekar continued, with the tone of a man who considered this response entirely proportionate.

"That does sound like something Desmor would suggest," Baelor said, after a moment. "That man has always had a weakness for the theatrical." He folded the letter and set it down. "Though I will say, in fairness, that Aemon is round enough to pass."

"We are talking about our son, Baelor."

"Yes, I know. I'm simply saying—"

"Not a decoration."

"Agreed. Completely agreed." Baelor pressed his lips together in a way that suggested he did not entirely disagree with the visual, but had the good sense not to say so.

Maekar resumed pacing. A full circuit of the room, then half of another. Then Baelor spoke again, his voice dropping to something more measured.

"I was asked today by one of the planners whether the weirwood tree could be moved." He let that sit for a moment. "Aesthetically inconsistent with the rest of the arrangements, apparently."

Maekar stopped pacing.

"I will personally relocate his hands," he said, "if he goes anywhere near that tree." Maekar spat.

"I thought something similar." Baelor's voice was mild. "I told him it was not open for discussion." A beat. "Valarr, for his part, found the man in council this afternoon and embarrassed him rather thoroughly in front of the others."

Maekar's expression shifted, the hard lines of it easing into something that was not quite a smile but was adjacent to one. A short exhale through his nose. "Good boy."

"Very good," Baelor agreed, and there was real warmth in it.

Maekar finally dropped into the chair across from Baelor with the heaviness of a man setting down something he had been carrying since dawn. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Have you spoken to Merser about the seating arrangements?"

"Not yet."

"Half the lords are refusing to sit within ten feet of the other half. It landed on my desk this morning as though I have nothing better to do than arbitrate the wounded pride of men who cannot manage a banquet without supervision." He leaned back. "I told them to sit down and be grateful for the invitation."

Baelor considered this. "How was that received?"

"Poorly."

"Mm."

"Baelor, these people have been in this Keep for four days." Maekar looked at him with complete seriousness. "I have aged four years."

"You look the same to me," you offered from the pillows.

They both looked at you.

"You are supposed to be resting," Maekar said.

"I am resting. I am resting and listening. It is entirely possible to do both."

He made a sound that communicated his position on this without requiring any further words. Baelor looked back at the fire, the corner of his mouth tucked in with quiet amusement.

They kept talking for a while after that. Maekar listed all the annoying things that had happened to him that day, and Baelor listened with his usual calm patience, occasionally offering a dry observation that made Maekar's mouth do that thing it did when he was trying not to find something funny.

At some point the fire became embers.

Baelor set aside the last of the letters. Maekar rolled his shoulders and both stood up.

They went to the crib first. You watched them from the pillows, this thing they did every night without discussion or ceremony, each of them leaning over to press a kiss to Aemon's small head, careful not to wake him.

Maekar straightened and looked down at the baby for a moment longer before stepping away. Baelor tucked the corner of the blanket back with two gentle fingers.

Then they came to bed.

Maekar settled in front of you, solid and warm. Baelor curved in behind you, and for a moment you were simply aware of being entirely enclosed, the warmth of them on both sides pressing out the last of the noise and the endless weight of the day.

Maekar said something low and indistinct. Baelor made a sound of agreement.

Then Baelor's hand settled over your hip, his fingers drawing slow, idle circles against the silk of your nightgown. He pressed his lips once to the back of your neck, warm and unhurried.

Maekar found your hand beneath the blankets and lifted it, kissed your knuckles, and tucked it back down again, his fingers loosely threaded through yours.

Both of them stilled.

"Goodnight," Baelor murmured.

You closed your eyes and let the warmth of them pull you under.

You surfaced from sleep gradually, pulled up from the dark by something quieter than sound. A moment passed before you understood what had woken you.

Then you heard it.

The small, fussy catch of Aemon's breath from the crib at the foot of the bed, not yet a cry but heading there.

You were already moving before you were fully awake.

Both your husbands hands were on you, you noticed it as you began to stir. Maekar's hand lay heavy across your stomach, and Baelor's rested just below it, their fingers nearly touching. As though even in sleep the two of them had known you might try to leave and had unconsciously, decided against it.

You smiled in the dark and began the careful work of extracting yourself.

Maekar had rolled onto his stomach at some point in the night, one arm flung wide, his face pressed into the pillow, breathing with the deep, slightly aggrieved cadence of a man who even in sleep managed to be annoyed. You lifted his hand by the wrist, slow and deliberate, and set it gently down against the mattress. He didn't stir.

Baelor had stayed exactly as he'd fallen asleep, on his side, his expression smoothed into something younger and unguarded. His hand you moved with equal care, and he made a small sound, his brow creasing briefly before releasing. You held your breath. He settled.

You slipped out from between them, bare feet finding the cool floor, and stood for a moment in the dark making sure neither of them had woken.

Maekar snored once, softly and with heavy breath, you moved to the crib.

Aemon's eyes were open and fixed on the dark as if he was searching something, his mouth was working.

Another few moments and he would have announced himself properly, but for now he only looked up at you as you leaned over him, and his whole small body seemed to relax at the familiar shape of you against the dark. He smiled at the sight of your face and softly cooed.

"Hello, little one," you breathed. "I heard you."

You lifted him with effortless care, settling his small weight into the crook of your arm before lowering yourself into the chair by the window.

When you loosened your gown, he latched at once at your breast and the quiet rhythm of his feeding filled the room.

Your gaze drifted upward, past the glass, to the sky beyond. It was impossibly clear, one of those deep, breathless hours of night when the world seemed to pause, when even the city surrendered its noise.

Nothing stood between you and the stars. They burned sharp and steady, scattered across the dark like something eternal and watchful.

And just like that, you were thinking of Winterfell, of home.

The cold came first, not just the bite of it, but the way it settled into stone and bone alike. Grey walls rising stark against the sky. In winter, sound behaved differently there, softened and drawn close, as though the castle itself were holding its breath. You could almost walk those halls again; the vast stretch of the Great Hall, the quiet hush of the godswood, the warm, waking scents that drifted from the kitchens at dawn.

You saw your mother in motion as she passed through torchlit corridors. Heard your father before you ever saw him, his heavy steps echoing through the stone, as if the walls themselves knew him and answered back.

You had been five, perhaps.

Benjen eight, already carrying himself with a kind of quiet responsibility. Rickon seven and utterly chaotic in all matters. It had been his idea, of course. He’d shaken you awake in the middle of the night, finger pressed to his lips, eyes alight with the fierce excitement of a plan long decided.

The kitchens, he had mouthed. Old Nan made blackberry tarts today. I saw them.

You had been out of bed before he’d finished.

At night, the kitchens felt cavernous, strange and unfamiliar, swallowed in shadow in a way they never were by day, when they roared with heat and voices. The three of you had paused in the doorway, small and silent, simply staring into the darkened space as if you’d crossed into something sacred.

Then Benjen spotted them, the tarts, set out along the long table, hidden beneath a cloth and that was the end of hesitation.

You’d eaten them sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. By the second, Rickon’s face was stained deep with blackberry juice, his triumph as vivid as the mess. Benjen had tried, with grave seriousness, to portion them out evenly, calculating what could be taken without notice. And you had eaten yours slowly, carefully, stretching each bite for as long as you could. You always did, when you loved something.

The stone had been bitterly cold beneath you. The air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and sugar. And you had felt it then, with the fierce, unquestioning certainty only children possess, that this was one of the best nights of your life.

Your father had known, of course. He always did.

He said nothing the next morning. Only looked, across the breakfast table, at Rickon’s still-stained mouth with an expression of deep, enduring patience.

Benjen had bent over his porridge.

And you had found the ceiling endlessly fascinating.

Aemon’s suckling slowed, softened, until it became little more than a drowsy rhythm. You looked down at him, eyes fully closed now, his cheek warm and heavy against your arm, the small fist at your breast finally loosening, uncurling. Something in your chest shifted, slow and deep, a warmth that settled and stayed.

You bent your head and pressed your lips to his hair, breathing him in.

And then a thought rose, clear and sudden.

A memory from only a few days past. A kitchen maid, flour on her hands, curiosity bright in her voice:

“My lady, why blackberry tarts specifically?”

“There will be many northern lords present. Blackberries are something of a delicacy in the North. Hardy fruit. They thrive in the cold.”

Your gaze lifted, drifting to the bed where your husbands slept, two shadowed forms, their breathing slow and even in the dark. Then back to Aemon.

Half-asleep as he was, he seemed determined not to be entirely forgotten. A faint shift, a soft sound, as though he sensed your attention slipping.

The corners of your mouth curved.

“What do you say, little one,” you murmured, voice barely more than breath. “Shall we go and find your brothers?”

Aemon blinked, slow, uncertain, but present.

You gathered him closer, snug against your arm, then reached for the robe draped over the chair by the door. The fabric whispered as you pulled it on. Carefully, quietly, you eased the chamber door open.

The guards outside startled.

One of them actually stepped back.

“Y—Your Grace.” The taller recovered first, though his voice came out a touch too loud for the hour.

You lifted a finger to your lips and inclined your head toward the chamber behind you.

Both men stiffened at once, voices dropping to urgent whispers.

Their eyes flickered downward and then snapped resolutely upward again, fixing somewhere far above your head with the rigid concentration of men who valued their continued existence.

You suspected, with amusement, that if either of your husbands stepped out now and found their guards looking at you, there would be fewer guards come morning.

“My lady,” the shorter one said carefully, gaze anchored above your left shoulder, “where are you going?”

“I need to walk a little. Stretch my legs.” You shifted Aemon lightly on your hip, offering a pleasant, untroubled smile.

They exchanged a look.

“We cannot leave you unguarded. If either of the Princes were to—”

“I order you to remain at this door,” you said, gently but with a finality that had stilled council chambers. “If anything happens, I will scream. You will hear me well enough.”

Another glance passed between them. A conversation entire in its silence.

And then you turned the corner, moving just quickly enough that neither could gather a proper objection before you were gone.

You made your way down the long corridor, your steps soundless against the stone. Aemon gave a soft, pleased coo, catching your finger in his small hand and promptly guiding it to his mouth when you brushed his chubby cheek. You huffed a quiet breath of laughter and let him have it.

The keep slept around you. Tapestries loomed in shadow, doorways dark and still, the air cool against your bare feet as you passed.

At the first door, you paused.

The guards there reacted much the same as your own, startled, eyes widening before darting anywhere but at you once they registered the nightgown. You lifted a hand at once: stay, quiet, not a word. They obeyed without hesitation.

You slipped inside.

Valarr’s chamber was exactly as it always had been, orderly, composed, every detail in its proper place. Even when he was very young, he had kept his space this way. You had always found something quietly endearing in that.

He was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face, dark hair loose across the pillow. That single strand of silver lay against his temple, catching what little light there was.

You crossed the room and rested your hand lightly on his shoulder.

He woke slowly, gently, as though rising through water rather than being pulled from sleep.

He blinked once, then focused on you, taking in the robe, his little brother, the hour. His mismatched eyes, so like his father’s, the very thing that had made half the court catch its breath at his birth, were soft with sleep, warm and steady.

“Mother… is everything all right?”

“Everyone is perfectly well,” you murmured, smiling. “Get up. Put something warm on.”

He studied you for a moment.

“Are we doing something we shouldn’t?” he asked, his voice threaded with genuine curiosity.

“Absolutely not,” you said lightly. “We are simply going for a walk.”

The smile that spread across his face was so entirely his father’s that, for a moment, it caught at your breath

"Give me a moment," he whispered, already pushing back the covers.

He crossed to the chair where his linen clothes were draped and pulled them on, his arm catching in the sleeve. You reached over and guided it through without a word, and he gave you a small, grateful smile.

Leaving his chambers, he simply fell into step beside you as you slipped back into the corridor. Aemon reached out to his brother and Valarr took his small fist and held it for a second. Aemon happily bounced at his brothers attention.

The guards watched you both go with the expression of men who had decided, collectively, that whatever was happening was above their station to address.

Daeron's chamber was next.

The reaction here was considerably less serene. He jolted upright the moment the door opened, already half out of bed before he was fully awake, violet eyes wide and scanning the room for whatever disaster had sent his mother to his door in the middle of the night. You watched his gaze move from you to Valarr to Aemon and back to you, working through the evidence.

You said nothing. You only smiled.

Daeron stared at you for a long moment, his longer silver hair sticking in several directions, looking deeply uncertain about every single aspect of this situation. Then he pressed his mouth together, exhaled through his nose, and reached for his clothes with the air of someone who had decided to reserve judgement until more information became available.

He shuffled out into the corridor still tucking in his shirt, and fell in behind Valarr.

"Any idea what Mothers doing?" he muttered, low enough that he presumably thought you couldn't hear.

Valarr considered this with great seriousness. "No," he said. "But she looks pleased with herself."

"That's what worries me."

You did not dignify this with a response and led them both down the corridor.

Aerion and Matarys's chamber was last. You eased the door open to find them both deeply, thoroughly asleep. Matarys on his back with the composed stillness of a small bat, Aerion face-down and diagonal, one leg hanging entirely off the bed. You went to Aerion first and touched his shoulder.

He was awake in an instant, blinking up at you with those quick, bright violet eyes that never took long to arrive at full alertness. He took one look at your face, the hour, the assembled brothers visible in the doorway behind you and something in him simply knew. He sat up without a word, shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed your hand.

Matarys required rather more encouragement. He surfaced from sleep slowly and with great personal offense, squinting at you with an grumpy expression. For all that he was Baelor’s son, there was no doubt he had inherited something unmistakable from Maekar.

And so you went, down through the long, torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep, all six of you, Aemon riding high on your arm and looking back over your shoulder at his brothers, smiling at them. Every guard you passed did a visible double-take. Every servant you encountered stopped and stared. You smiled at each of them in turn with the serene pleasantness of a woman who had done absolutely nothing wrong and intended to continue doing so.

You stopped at last before a wide, weathered oak door, its edges dark with years of kitchen smoke, warmth bleeding faintly through the wood even at this hour.

You turned to face them.

Four children looked back at you. Valarr composed and curious, Daeron suspicious but present, Matarys still half-asleep and Aerion practically vibrating, feeling something.

You bounced Aemon once and let the silence build just long enough.

"I heard," you began, "that the kitchens have been preparing the most extraordinary sweets for your grandsire and grandmother’s wedding anniversary. Heaps of them. Every kind imaginable." You tilted your head thoughtfully. "Now. You all know how your grandsire feels about things that are too sweet."

A pause.

"It would really be a terrible shame," you continued, "if something were served that didn't suit his palate. Someone really ought to go and check."

The silence lasted approximately one breath.

Aerion's face split into a grin so wide it threatened to leave his face entirely. Matarys, sleep forgotten, straightened with sudden and complete attention. Daeron looked at the ceiling briefly and then looked back at you with the very beginning of a smile pulling at his mouth despite his best efforts. Valarr simply looked at you with his warm, delighted eyes and said nothing, because nothing needed saying.

You put your free hand on the door.

"We are, of course, doing this purely in service of your grandsire," you said gravely.

"Of course," Valarr agreed, equally grave.

You pushed the door open, and the warm smell of sugar and woodsmoke and blackberries rolled out to meet you all.

The kitchens at this hour were vast and still, the great fires banked low, the long tables scrubbed clean and waiting for morning. Copper pots hung in rows along the walls, catching the ember-glow, and the air was thick and warm and sweet in a way that settled in your chest like a memory before you had even fully stepped inside.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, all of you, just looking.

It was Aerion who moved first, naturally, already padding toward the long central table with the focused intent of a hound that had caught a scent. Matarys followed a half-step behind, equally determined.

"Quietly," you murmured after them, though you were smiling.

Daeron drifted in behind you, his eyes moving around the kitchen with the alert. He spotted the far shelf almost immediately. "There," he said, low, and you followed his gaze.

Three wide trays, covered in cloth, sitting on the long shelf above the bread boards. The smell coming from them was extraordinary.

Valarr was already pulling a stool across without being asked, he set it below the shelf and looked at you.

"Allow me," he said, with a small courtly incline of his head that was so thoroughly Baelor it made something squeeze warmly behind your ribs.

He climbed up and lifted the cloth.

The blackberry tarts were arranged in neat rows, small and perfect, their crusts golden, the dark filling catching the low light like gemstones. There were other things too. Honeyed almonds in paper twists, small spiced cakes dusted with sugar, candied orange peels in a shallow bowl, and sugar filled dates; but it was the tarts that held the room.

Aerion made a sound of profound satisfaction.

"Go on," you said again, and sat yourself down on the wide kitchen bench with Aemon in your lap, bouncing him up and down.

Valarr passed out the tarts with careful precision, one to Daeron, one to Matarys, one to Aerion, and then two to you. Aerion, impatient as ever, bit into his before fully receiving it, earning a sharp, amused look.

Then Valarr climbed down and settled beside you on the bench. He handed you one tart, keeping the other in his own hand. Together you sat in the warm, quiet darkness of the kitchens, the great sleeping castle looming above, and ate.

Aemon watched with rapt fascination, reaching toward the tart and fussing a little. You smiled at him, dipped your finger into the center of the tart, and brought it close. He eagerly grasped your finger and suckled, delighted by the sweet taste.

For a few beautiful minutes there was nothing but the sound of quiet chewing and the occasional delighted sound from Aemon, who it seemed loved the sweet taste.

"Well?" you asked, after a moment.

Aerion considered his tart with great professional gravity. "Too sweet," he announced. "Definitely too sweet. Grandsire will hate it."

"Terrible," Matarys agreed, and took an enormous bite.

"We should try another," Aerion said. "To be thorough."

"For grandsire," Matarys said seriously.

"Purely for grandsire," Valarr agreed, already reaching for one.

Daeron said nothing. He was on his second tart and leaning against the table with his ankles crossed and the most relaxed expression you had seen on his face in a fortnight, so you decided that counted as endorsement enough.

Then Aerion reached for the tray and his elbow caught the edge and a tart slid off and landed filling-side down on Matarys pants.

Everyone looked at it.

Matarys looked at Aerion.

"That," Aerion said carefully, "was an accident."

A pause that lasted precisely long enough for Matarys to decide it was not.

He picked up the fallen tart, weighed it for a single, deliberate moment and pressed it firmly into Aerion’s cheek.

The kitchen erupted.

Aerion retaliated instantly, scooping up a fistful of tart and smearing it across Matarys’s shirt with wholehearted enthusiasm.

Matarys lunged.

Aerion ducked under the table and reappeared on the other side.

You were on your feet at once, “boys, boys, boys”, hissed in urgent succession as you turned in a slow circle, keeping Aemon lifted safely above the chaos while the two of them waged war around you, their fierce whispers rapidly abandoning any pretense of quiet.

Daeron, who had withdrawn to the far table with folded arms and the expression of someone firmly committed to non-involvement, took a stray piece of crust to the side of the face.

He went very still.

There was a brief, visible moment in which he reconsidered his position.

He revised it.

Reaching out, he caught Aerion by the collar and, with calm precision, deposited an entire tart squarely atop his head.

“Daeron—”

“He had it coming,” Daeron said simply.

And then Valarr, your composed boy, all grace and good sense, leaned past you, dipped his hand into a jar of blackberry jam, and flung it neatly into Matarys’s face as he rushed by.

“Valarr,” you said.

“It seemed fair,” he replied.

What followed was pure chaos.

There was jam, everywhere.

At some point, an entire tart sailed through the air.

Aerion seized a tray and began distributing its contents on every one of his brothers, sparing only you and Aemon.

Matarys lost a shoe.

A careless flick sent jam across your cheek, your robe marked beyond saving and somehow, impossibly, Aemon, who had remained tucked safely against you, acquired a bold smear of purple across his face. He was delighted by it, shrieking with laughter each time another tart went flying.

All four of them chased each other through the kitchens, shouting and laughing, slipping on stone and grabbing at sleeves. At one point Valarr and Daeron turned on each other, hands in collars, smearing jam across one another’s faces with breathless indignation.

Aerion and Matarys collapsed laughing at the sight.

And you laughed with them, openly and without restraint, forgetting entirely the hour.

You had just opened your mouth to speak—

—and the door opened.

Every child in the kitchen froze.

The silence fell so fast it rang, broken only by Aemon, who had no understanding of consequence and cooed happily into it.

Maekar filled the doorway.

He had come as he woke: linen shirt, linen trousers, bare feet, silver hair disheveled. His expression made it very clear he was not amused.

His gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in everything with deliberate care. The overturned trays. The ruined tarts. Jam smeared across stone and wood alike. Matarys. Aerion. Daeron. Valarr. Each of them marked with evidence. Aemon with purple staining his cheek.

He said nothing.

Baelor stepped in behind him, looking over his brother’s shoulder. His expression followed the same path but where Maekar’s expression became strict and controlled, Baelor’s faltered, catching on something close to laughter.

His mismatched eyes found yours. Moved, one by one, across each of your children. Then returned.

No one breathed.

Baelor stepped forward.

He crossed the kitchen came to your side, and without a word, bent to Aemon, pressing a kiss to his jam-smeared cheek. The sound was soft and distinct.

Aemond squealed.

“Blackberry,” Baelor said, “Excellent. Very good filling. Not too sweet.”

Aerion broke first.

A sharp, breathless laugh escaped him, quickly smothered, unsuccessfully.

“We were,” you began, with impeccable dignity, “conducting a quality inspection.”

“At the third hour of the night,” Maekar said.

“Sweets can change considerably after dark,” Valarr offered, helpfully, from his position of perfect composure at the edge of the bench.

Maekar looked at him.

Looked at the others.

Looked at you.

Something shifted in his expression, he turned away without a word and crossed to the shelf above the breadboards.

He lifted the cloth from a third tray.

Selected a tart and turned back, leaning lightly against the shelf as he took a measured bite.

“Too sweet,” he said flatly and took another bite.

And the kitchen, in one long, helpless exhale of relief and laughter, fell completely apart.

The atmosphere settled like something warm being poured into a cold room. Your sons arranged themselves across the benches in the kitchen, voices dropping to the low comfortable chatter.

Matarys was attempting to explain to Daeron, with great conviction, the precise aerodynamics of a thrown tart.

Aerion had helped himself to another and was eating it untroubled contentment. Valarr sat on a counter in front of you, occasionally contributing a dry observation that sent Daeron into muffled laughter.

You sat in the middle of it and felt something in your chest so full it almost ached.

Baelor settled on your right, Maekar on your left, and the bench, already crowded, the three of you pressed close in the warm ember-lit dark. Aemon drowsing now in your arms, finally running out of night.

You felt fingers at your collarbone.

Maekar, lifted a streak of jam from your skin with two careful fingers and brought them to his mouth. His eyes were on your sons. His expression revealed nothing.

You felt the warmth of it all the way down.

On your other side, Baelor leaned forward and pressed his thumb gently to Aemon’s cheek, collecting the last traces of purple there, and tasted it with the same quiet seriousness he had given his verdict earlier.

Then he settled back and both of them drew closer to you, until you were pressed entirely between them.

Then lips at your ear, warm breath, Baelor's voice dropped to something that was for you alone.

"Don't slip away in the middle of the night like that." The words were soft.

The tone beneath them was not.

"Maekar woke first and found you gone, the bed empty, Aemon’s crib empty. We thought—" A pause, brief but weighted, "The guards told us you had gone yourself, with the children. You cannot imagine what the moments before that information felt like."

You shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen.

On your other side Maekar said nothing. He didn't need to. His hand had found the back of your neck, large and steady, his thumb tracing slow along the nape in a way that made it very difficult to think clearly about anything at all.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, meaning it.

Baelor's lips moved to just below your ear, "You will make it up to us," he murmured, so low it barely qualified as sound. "When the children are back in their beds."

The warmth that moved through you had nothing to do with the kitchen fire.

Maekar's thumb stilled at your neck. "Next time," he said, low and even, "you wake one of us." His fingers pressed fractionally tighter, just once, deliberate enough that it could not be mistaken for accident.

You turned to look at him. He was watching your sons, jaw set, the firelight catching the silver of his hair and beard. But his hand remained at your neck and the tips of his ears were very slightly red.

"Next time," you agreed softly.

He gave a single nod. His hand did not move

Baelor pressed his lips once to your temple, slow and deliberate, and then leaned back and surveyed the kitchen. He exhaled a long quiet breath that had the shape of a laugh living somewhere inside it.

"Your grandsire," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry to your sons, "is not going to be pleased."

All four of them turned to look at him with varying degrees of guilt.

Then Baelor glanced at Valarr and tipped his chin toward the tray. “Pass me one.”

You stared at him.

Valarr, without hesitation, chose a tart with careful consideration and held it out. Baelor took it and bit in as if nothing at all were amiss.

Daeron looked at Maekar.

Maekar, already on his second, a trace of blackberry at the corner of his mouth.

And something in your chest gave way.

You thought of your brother back in Winterfell, stolen nights and sweet desserts.

This, you thought. This is exactly what I wanted.

You did not realise you were crying until Maekar's thumb came to your jaw, tilting your face toward him. He said nothing. He simply looked at you, and then pressed his lips to your forehead, firm and quiet and sure.

On your other side Baelor turned and found your hand under the bench.

You sat between them in the warm dark and let yourself have it, all of it, the laughter still ringing in your chest, the ache of it, the sweetness.

The faces of your children. The weight of Aemon sleeping.

The smell of blackberries and woodsmoke and the particular warmth of the people you loved.

That night you would keep. You would fold it up and put it somewhere safe and take it out again on the days when everything was loud and exhausting and too much, and you would remember it, the way you remembered your childhood.

And you would be alright.

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