and all I loved, I loved alone

Wincing, fingers massaging your aching head, you refuse to open your eyes. You’re sore all over, as if you ran a marathon whilst asleep, and you smell like a bar, hair matted under you as it sticks to your clammy skin. Plus you can still taste the booze on your tongue last night as you smack your lips together with a grimace.

But then there’s the smell, not the alcohol permeating around the bed, but a familiar cologne amidst the awful stench, a heavy musk, manly, smelling like a mix of petrichor and burgundy. You can smell your best mate, Lyonel on you. But that’s impossible when he’s supposed to be halfway around the world by now for work when you’re here in Vegas partying your heartbreak away with your girlfriends. Maybe you just miss the guy?

Ever since you got engaged, well not anymore, you haven’t seen him in a while. It was a whirlwind engagement when you and your ex have only been dating for six months. Which Lyonel clearly did not approve of but bit his tongue because he has known you since middle school when he was still just a neighbor who became best mates with your older siblings and you were just their annoying sibling. He always included you though, always listened to you when they didn’t care enough to stop and listen to you talk. He’s always been like that to you, kind, thoughtful, always trying to get you out of your shell with his charms and sheer energy alone.

Lyonel could sometimes be too much, but not to you, to you he’s just right.

Sighing, heart feeling lonely once again, you crack an eye open despite the blooming headache. You face the floor to ceiling windows as the Las Vegas strip greets you down below. In the morning, the place doesn’t feel like the same city you went gallivanting around, it feels quieter. Warmer even without the flashing neon signs.

Yawning away the sleep, you pull the covers over your bare self. You have no idea how you got back to your hotel room, or why you’re naked, well, you’ve been told numerous times that whenever you’re drunk off your ass you tend to shed your clothes off, a horrendous side effect of drinking. To your friends’ ire and to Lyonel’s amusement, he would laugh before taking off his jacket and placing it around you and hauling you away before you flash anyone. You guess sleeping naked isn’t much of a mystery to you now that you think about it. Maybe one of your friends yanked you back to your room so you could strip naked all on your own and crawled into bed yourself.

But as the blanket gets snagged by something behind you, you pull harder at the hem, then some more when it doesn’t budge. The blanket still doesn’t move and your hand slips from the silk and you accidentally punch yourself.

“Ow, fuck…” wincing, you cradle your cheek.

The blanket moves on its own, not to cover your bare thigh, no, it moves further away from you.

Your heart drops in your stomach. You might be hungover and can barely remember anything from last night but you know you’re not sharing a room with your friends. Or anyone for that matter.

Slowly you turn around to face whoever’s hogging the blanket.

A bare freckled back greets you, a back that is so awfully familiar that you have seen numerous times during warm summer beach days with him. “Lyonel?”

Eyes wide, pulse thrumming, you lift the cover upwards, taking a peek inside, only to see what you’ve only seen in one of your dreams that you refuse to tell anyone even under torture. He’s as bare as the day he was born. His ass, also freckled, and plumper than you thought would be, wiggles beside you as he stirs in his sleep.

“The others take me…” You mumble, unable to look away. You let go of the blanket, heaving as you finally realize why you were so sore. But you need more evidence so you turn towards the trash can beside the bed, and you had to clamp your mouth shut before you could let out a shriek from your warm chest. There’s three, no, five fucking rubbers in there. What the fuck did you do? And were you that insatiable?

Your head falls back into your pillow, and you flip the blanket away once again just to make sure that you’re actually seeing Lyonel’s ass with a very red handprint on it that is coincidentally the same size as your hand and not a hallucination.

Sighing, taking deep breaths, you rub a hand over your sweaty face. Then you feel it, the cold metal on your ring finger that you’re sure you got rid of when you threw it at your cheating ex-fiance’s face.

You have a new ring on you, and it’s not just a simple golden band, there’s two— an engagement ring with a sizable yellow diamond in the middle, one that you were ogling on a magazine months ago, and a wedding band engraved with stag antlers all around it.

“Gods.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you’re about to look at Lyonel’s hand just to check, until he turns in his sleep, an arm thrown over your middle as he embraces you, nuzzling his face against your chest comfortably. “Oh…” this feels right. This feels perfect.

With his hand on your hip, you can see an identical ring on his ring finger. Gold with the same engraving.

You can’t keep quiet forever, so you tap his back, slowly, gently until he hums against your skin, breath fanning over your chest.

“Lyonel, wake up.” Your tapping increases.

“Five minutes…” he waves you away, cuddling further into your warmth as something on your thigh pokes you. You don’t have to look down to know.

“In the name of the seven wake the fuck up!” Your patience wears thin, that Lyonel always laughed at. Now he’s the receiving end of that patience, you wonder if he still finds it amusing as he wakes up with a start.

“What?! What is it, doe?” He blinks the sleep in his eyes, voice gravelly and deeper than usual as he lifts his head away from your sternum, chin resting on it as his eyes narrow at your face. “I was having a nice fucking dream.”

“What did we do last night?!”

“Stop screaming.” His heavy head falls right back on your sternum, as bare as the rest of you as his nose nuzzles way too close to your chest. “It’s too early for you to be so annoying.”

“Open your damn eyes, Lyonel.”

Sighing, he does what he’s told, and you watch in real time as his eyes widen, face greeted by your chest. You swear you could hear his heart thump wildly against your stomach before he flinches away and takes the blanket to cover himself.

“Seven hells!” He looks down at your bare self, whilst you look at him with nonchalance, before he looks at himself then tosses the blanket over your form. “Did we just—?”

“Yeah, check the trash.” Your whole face is aflame as he hides his groin with a throw pillow. You don’t even try to cover yourself up anymore. What’s the point when he has seen and felt everything, just like you have with him? You can feel the memory of his touches on you, how he was gentle, albeit as drunk and giggly as you.

Lyonel takes a peek over the bed and to the bin, eyes wide, face contorting into amusement. “Five?!” You could feel it before he could let out a booming laugh. “Fuck me, and I don’t remember it? That’s fucking cruel.” Wincing, you kneads at his aching forehead. “Gods, this bloody headache.”

“Lyonel! Be serious!” And yet you let out a chuckle in between your words.

“I am!” He mirrors your expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes!”

“Fine!” He rubs a hand over his messy curls, feeling the ring around his finger. Blinking, he makes a befuddled face that you find endearing. He brings his hand over to his face as you watch the same realization flicker on his expression. “Oh, we definitely have to talk about it.”

Your attention flicks over to the tea and coffee on the kitchen counter. “Over tea and ibuprofen?”

—

You’re now in an oversized shirt, too hungover and sore to wear something else or to even wash off the night’s revelry as Lyonel makes the two of you a cup of tea. He knows your tea preference by heart as you hear him tap the spoon against the rim of the mug twice like he always does.

The curtains are closed, blocking the bright sun of Sin City. As you slowly exhale out to stave off the headache. Lyonel looks better than you, he’s always better in hiding his hangovers and aches better than you could. His cheeks are flushed, albeit his eyes look as tired as yours. It seems that you two did not get enough sleep on account of well, all the drunken love making. Juniper’s either going to kill him, or perhaps kill you, or maybe the both of you for marrying without her as the witness just like you promised when you were both just little girls. You can’t even imagine what your shared best mate, Duncan, will say about this.

“Here.” He hands you a cup of warm tea and some ibuprofen as he now walks around with a hotel towel wrapped around his waist. “You look like warmed over shit.”

“You look like warmed over shit, my wife.” Your hands wiggle in front of his face as you show off your rings. You then drink the medicine, gulping down some tea along with it. It tastes perfectly, just how you like it.

Lyonel scoffs out a laugh, pushing your leg away from the edge of the bed as he sits beside you. The bed dips as he sits, sipping at his drink, drinking the same meds, whilst the two of you process everything.

The hum of the AC bounces off the hotel walls that have palm tree wallpaper all around it. Your mind wanders as you see the scratches on his back and arms, ones that you couldn’t see before that are most definitely from your nails. Flashes of last night appear in your head, the sounds you two made, your fingers in his hair, and the love between the two of you, not just on the bed, but also whilst you two casually strolled around the Vegas strip, hand in hand, grinning at each other whilst you two smelled like a bar.

Lyonel watches the far away look in your eyes and he gulps down at his tea with trepidation, trying to rid of the lump in his throat. He might’ve ruined his relationship with you. He’d rather live a life of loneliness than live the rest of his life without you in it. He would’ve stayed just friends with you forever if it meant that he could stay by your side forever. He loves you, ever since that one camping night where everyone else was asleep and you two gazed at the stars all night long just talking. But if what happened last night meant losing you today, then he’d rewind time to stop this from ever happening.

“Nice ring by the way.” He jests, rolling his aching shoulders and knees as he scrubs away the sleep in his eyes.

“Thanks,” you admire the sparkling diamond with a smile. “I think you chose it. You’ve got great taste.”

“I bought it too.” Lyonel chortles, “I saw the receipt.”

“Do you want to go halfsies?”

“Fuck no, love.” He replies, almost offended. “It’s a gift, I bought it for you.”

“Thank you, I love it and I wasn’t planning on giving it back by the way.” A grin tugs at your lips. And he looks at you like, ‘as if I want you to give it back.’ Smacking your lips together, your mind goes back to the kisses shared last night briefly before going back to the present. “What are you even doing here, Lyonel? I thought you would be in Essos by now.”

“Juniper called me for help, she said that they can’t wrangle you anymore. You were traipsing all over the strip like a depressed duck, her words not mine.” He recalls the memory in his hungover mind. “I was just at the airport when I answered her call and coincidentally my flight was delayed.” With one leg over the other, the towel falls away from his toned thigh, revealing more skin, that you have to unstick your gaze from it. “I got here forty minutes after she called.”

Your heart squeezes. “Your flight wasn’t delayed.” You know him too well, including his tells.

“No, it wasn’t.” He confesses, dark eyes gazing at you with softness.

“Do you remember anything?”

“Bits and pieces.” Lyonel answers over the rim of his cup, watching you with tender eyes. “You good? I didn’t— I didn’t go overboard on you last night?” His lips smack together, brows furrowed with concern, as he lets out a shuddered breath. “Are we good?”

“A bit sore, a good kind of sore though.” He swallows thickly at your confession. “But you’re worse off honestly. And we’re good, don’t worry about it.”

“I am?” He scratches at his beard, then over to his sore neck, why is his neck so sore? But Lyonel feels lighter after your answer. “Well I do feel like I ran a thousand miles.”

“My handprint was on your ass when I woke up.” You smile over your cup as he actually turns around to take a peek under the towel. “Oh, Lyonel, come on, don’t actually check it.”

“You said it, of course I’m going to bloody check!” He shimmies out of the towel, craning his neck down and around, looking like a dog trying to chase his tail.

“It was there! It’s faded now!”

“I took off my towel for no reason just to give you a show?”

“I didn’t ask you to take it off, idiot.”

“You implied it.” Scoffing, he sits back down, rubbing his hands on the back of his neck. After a beat and with you taking huge gulps of your tea, he finally speaks. “What if I got you pregnant?”

“Fucking hell, Lyonel.”

“What? It’s a genuine fucking concern! I mean I guess it wouldn’t be so bad but how the fuck do we explain it to them?” Fully turning to you, he clicks his tongue and sighs once again. “‘Yeah, your mum and dad got drunk in Vegas and decided to get married on a whim and have you after pining for each other since high school.’” He shrugs and makes a face. “That would scar the fucking kid!”

You don’t mean to laugh, you really don’t. But he painted such a clear picture for you that you just couldn’t help it. Plus the declaration of love makes your heart tumble inside your chest as your whole body floods with warmth. “Gods, that’s…I don’t know what to say.”

“Our kid will think they’re a mistake, love.” He moves closer, trying to look serious. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny.” You say with a soft smile as you place your mug on the bedside table, sitting up closer to him just to push his wild curls away from his face. Your hand stays on his cheek, and unsurprisingly, he holds your hand there, a thumb running along the inside of your wrist lovingly. Whilst his other hand rests on your knee, cupping it tenderly. “Especially about the pining part. Has it been that long?”

“Ever since I could remember.”

“Well shit.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s going to be too surprised if we tell them about this.”

“That’s true. We weren’t very slick about the whole being in love with each other thing.” Your voice lowers, a half whisper as your eyes drift to the ring around his finger. “Do you want to get divorced?”

“No,” his answer is immediate, no uncertainty laced in his tone. “Do you?”

“I don’t want to either.” There’s no lie in your words either. “And it’s not because there’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”

“You do hate paperwork.” Lyonel moves closer, hip to hip as his arm cages your side, dark eyes gazing into your own most ardently. “So what now?”

“This wasn't a mistake. Not really. I think we can both agree on that.” He nods, eyes softened, head tilted to gaze down at you tenderly. Your voice lowers some more, a whisper, words dedicated just for him. Deep inside, even in your subconscious, even in his, you both wanted this. “I just wish I could remember all of it.”

“We could always get married again.” He says matter-of-factly, so sure, so certain as a smile tugs at his lips. “Not by an Elvis impersonator this time around.”

“Was it an Elvis impersonator?”

“I definitely remember a sparkling man with big hair marrying us.”

Your laugh warms him as he beams at you. “Gods, Lyonel. I can’t believe we got married, that we’re both confessing to each other after the marriage.”

“Who said we have to do it step by step, hm?” He’s leaning so close that you could see yourself in his eyes. “I really do adore and love you, you know?”

“I know. I love you too, my drunk self knew that too.” You’re the first to lean closer, a hair’s width away, eyes closing as your lips brushes along his own.

“Our drunk arses got us together.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling in the corners as his warmth ebbs over to your chest.

“We should thank our drunk selves.” You mutter atop his lips.

Lyonel kisses you back, breathing you in, smiling through the kiss as his shoulders ease from the kiss. He could melt against you whilst his hands cup your face lovingly, like he always wanted to do. It’s a relief to him, relieved that this didn’t ruin anything between you. Relieved to find out that you love him back, enough to continue being married to him. This kiss is slow, loving, saccharine, as if you two are still mapping out each other’s lips. It’s so tender that you could feel every warm peck in your heart.

After the slow loving kiss, the first of many, you pull away reluctantly for air. Lyonel looks at you like you hung the stars, like you’re his reason for living, like a great love should. And you gaze at him with so much love that memories of last night flashes in his mind, all tender, all saccharine, with you smiling and giggling through it.

After a beat of just gazing into each other’s eyes and coming down from the high that was the kiss, Lyonel clears his throat, pecks you one more time, then another, and another before pulling away. Then he immediately decides not to move away from you, as if leaving the vicinity of your lips will cause him to perish.

“I have an idea.” You utter above his lips as he moves the blanket away from your lap to loom over you with a needy gaze aimed right at you.

“Yeah?” His fingers tilt your chin up gently, peppering kisses upon your throat as his humming reverberates through your chest. “Mrs. Baratheon?”

“Maybe I took pictures.”

Lyonel stops in his tracks, remembering a few snapshots of you in his memories where you’re clearly filming through the night of revelry. But the sensation he remembers the most is your lips on him, on his skin, and the lovely sounds you made. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

He loves intensely, purposefully, an obsession. A love that could have been made into a ballad that people misinterpret as pure saccharine love when the truth is that he loves with his claws sinking into your flesh, never letting go. You should scream, flinch from his touch, or push him away with damning words, instead, you turn your head at his throat, take his chin in hand and bite down just as hard, tasting him on your tongue. Like two dragons— no, a falcon tearing at a dragon hatchling.

He has his moments, those soft days where he would lie down upon you, letting his weight fall on you with his hands underneath your chemise, palms right on your stomach as it lays there, resting, content, feeling your warmth. He always seeks your warmth, warm-blooded, with those purple heat seeking eyes. During feasts his hand is around yours underneath the table, a thumb brushing along your pulse point, drawing ancient runes upon your skin. Valyrian runes, you’ve come to know after keenly studying his movements and drawing it on a piece of parchment under the cover of darkness and flipping through old texts to understand them. One is for protection, sweet and caring. A few for life, wishing for longevity. And one for fire, all consuming, death and searing flames.

One day this man will kill you with his love, or mayhaps you end up killing him first.

There were tears in your eyes when you wed him, lips tightly pursed as you mumbled the vows that echoed around the sept. “I am his and he is mine.” You wish it wasn’t true.

When you kissed him, you wished, imagined that it was someone else holding you, someone else who wouldn’t draw blood, someone who would love you just as you love him— softly, tender, and unabashed love. And that someone is Lyonel Baratheon.

No matter how much you protested, cried, kneeled before your father and the Lord hand, but the union persisted, you had no say, you had no power. But now you do, you are now a princess by marriage, married to a prince, who thinks he is a dragon reborn, a dragon you have tamed despite the teeth marks left on your skin.

You did your duty, married him, kept your honour despite your want— your need to be with the Laughing Storm instead. With every kiss granted by your husband, with every touch, every whispered words in your ears, you all wished it was Lyonel kissing you, holding you and whispering at the shell of your ear. Like you always thought it would be. You can’t keep beating yourself up over for wanting a better life for yourself.

You wanted a gallant husband, someone kind and loving. And yet you got a man who struck a knight’s horse and he broke his legs in the process. Thank the seven that it was all he did during the tourney, but you wish that he did something worse, something that would break the betrothal. You feel horrid for wishing it so. But you’re stuck in your gilded cage, holding your husband by the scruff of his neck whenever his father’s eyes are turned away from him, which is almost always.

You’ve been told that you’ll learn to love him, and the ladies of the court giggle and whisper about how much your loving husband dotes on you, always so caring, caressing you, eyes never straying too far from you. But you only tolerate him, and yet somehow, in some odd misshapen way, Aerion Targaryen is utterly devoted to you.

He’s in love, but you wouldn’t call it that when you’ve seen real love from your father and mother, and you’ve felt it with Lyonel. Whatever Aerion feels for you, it’s lust, an obsession. He’s obsessed with you, desiring you. A year of marriage with him and you thought it would wane, but no, it only grew.

He’d whisper atop your sweaty skin, pupils blown, swallowing the sounds you make and kisses you right above your pulse to say, “mine, all mine.” His grip never loosened, nor his kisses ever felt light. As if he’s trying to carve his name inside of you, right in your very soul. Trying to have you forget every other hand that has touched you.

But there’s a part of you that knows his obsession would soon fade because you are not Valyrian, you do not share his features, and you do not have his blood. One day he’ll get bored of you. What would he do to you once he’s grown tired of you? Would he discard you? Would he forsake you for another? Bring shame to your name?

After the wedding, your husband would not leave you at peace, when dawn breaks he’s already on you, pawing at your small clothes, panting in your ear, breath fanning your cheek, asking for your warmth. And after every supper, without fail, he’s immediately on you, ripping his doublet off, eyes staring right into your soul. And you’d take him in your bed, let him unravel you, devour you whole, sometimes, you’d devour him too, you take him as he is. You made it your mission to tame him, to not let him bend you to his will, to never bend over for him. It wasn’t easy, but you learned, you learned how to push his buttons right, where to touch, what to say, and the moment you saw his eyes soften, lips agape, breathing into you and pleading for your touch with tears in his purple eyes, you won. But now he wants more.

Aerion wants a dragon he said, a child born from the union of a falcon and a dragon. A child who will surpass the conqueror himself. A child whose blood runs thick with old Valyria and the Andals. He’s obsessed with the prospect of having you swell with child, to hold onto your belly and whisper high Valyrian prayers onto your skin before the babe is even born.

A year into the marriage and it hasn’t happened yet. You thank the mother for not letting his seed take, when you know he’ll inherit his father’s delusions of grandeur. That you would truly be shackled to his side if you would have a child with him. Because despite everything, he would still be yours, half a falcon, your child.

Aerion is kind enough, a smile here and there, and the conversation is easy with him. An intelligent chat over a game of Cyvasse where he never lets you win, and yet you beat him in a few rounds, knowing his moves already. You two would make fun of a Lord at the great hall, whispering japes in your ear as you stifle a laugh. He’s quite charming, a disarming kind of charm that if you didn’t know better would’ve made you think that he’s not the same man who gazes into the fire at the dead of night whilst muttering a valyrian prayer.

You’d think to yourself, “he isn’t so bad.” But then Aerion does something cruel to someone, he tends to ruin lives that he thinks are insignificant to him. A poor stable boy, who didn’t ready your horse fast enough, a handmaiden, whose only crime is dressing you in your Arryn colours, or a Lord of no renown who looked at you too long. He’s overprotective, to the point that it’s stifling, he has forgotten, or ignores the fact that you could wield a sword just like him.

You could call him a companion at least, but definitely not the husband you always dreamed of.

Where Lyonel has the easy kind of charm, where you find yourself laughing easily around him, where every smile from him is genuine, Aerion isn’t any of that. It’s like pulling teeth with him. Perhaps it’s because your heart is with another that you can never love him the same way, but Aerion was never the right man for you, even if you have met him first, even if you learned to love him, somehow, he does not fit well with you. As if there is something wrong with the union, that you are meant to be somewhere else with someone who isn't him. Before the wedding, the wheel of your carriage broke apart. Your gown was ripped at the hem, the wedding cloak went missing. And during the wedding feast the old king grew ill and collapsed mid-feast. It’s as if fate didn’t want any of this to happen, as if something went wrong and you were not supposed to be here.

Everything feels wrong around the red keep. You shouldn’t be walking these halls, wearing Targaryen colours as you walk arm in arm with your Aunt, as she reassures you that it is not easy to grow heavy with child when she had troubles with it as well with her own Targaryen prince.

“It will soon take.” She says softly, eyes shimmering with sympathy. “Soon you will have heirs of your own. And they shall grow with their cousins.” Her finger fixes a strand of your hair, smiling sweetly at you as you two stand over the balcony overlooking the courtyard.

The sky is gloomy, breeze cold against your skin, freezing the golden rope around your neck that is laden with rubies and two curled dragons meeting in the middle, a gift from your dear husband. It seems that there is a storm coming.

“Heirs to what exactly?” You bluntly answer, you found that dancing around your words doesn’t always go inside the thick skulls of the people at court. You’d rather fling yourself through the moondoor than skirt around them just to try not to offend them. You love your aunt, and she’s great company, but she has spent too much of her time at court that she hasn’t truly lived for herself in a long time. She’s just trying to survive to see the next moon with her children.

Her brows knit together, giving you a pursed look as she squeezes your arm. “Do not say that out loud, niece.” She warns, and you see the real her. Not the polite princess smile, not the smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must refrain from saying such things, understand?”

“But, aunt—”

“Promise me.” Leaning close, she whispers, talking amidst the cover of the whistling wind that flutters the skirt of your gown. “The court is volatile, soon it’ll be Baelor on the throne and you and your husband will need to stand in front of him when his older brother can barely see through the fog of wine. I know you do not wish for children, but do not let your wishes be heard by another.”

“This isn’t the life I wanted.” Is all you could muster, too tired to pretend, too exhausted to argue.

You don’t want a perfect love, that is nigh impossible to obtain and you know it so. You just want something that is better than this, something that isn’t volatile, a love that you can be yourself with, a love that is bone achingly real.

“Do you think I wanted this too?” Her voice falters, before clearing her throat and standing upright. As if a curtain fell over her face, your aunt smiles like nothing happened. “Now, shall we have tea in my solar—?”

The heavy doors open in the courtyard, and the unmistakable sound of hooves echoes around as a whole caravan enters the keep. People turn their attention at the arrival, some bow, some look with a pensive expression. One of them is your platinum haired husband, Aerion comes out of the stables, wind swept hair from his afternoon ride that he invited you to come but you declined his offer, citing that you have a headache. He rolled his eyes at you then, scoffing under his breath and yet he gave you a kiss to your cheek.

As always, Aerion manages to find you within the crowd, head tilted up to look at you on the balcony. He gives you a smile, that smile he only gives you across the room, it could be genuine, or it could be feigned, you still have a hard time recognizing which one most days. His boots are already moving to climb up the steps over to you.

You don’t pay your husband heed when a familiar golden banner flusters in the strong wind.

“Seven hells—” the curse dies in your throat as you see the crowned stag on a golden field. “Gods…” Lyonel. His name echoes inside your head, saying it over and over again in a chorus, like a prayer, wishing, hoping it is truly him walking through those doors.

Your hands grip the bannister, leaning over it to look through each face that passes through. There, in the middle of the caravan, wearing the same gold cloak that he draped over your shoulder that night, is your Lyonel. He looks just the same as before, grinning that same grin you fell for, but his eyes, it doesn’t have the same shine to them, as if the light in his eyes were taken from him.

“Wife.” Aerion appears by your side, smelling like grass and the perfume he always asks you to help put on him every morning, which in turn makes you smell like him. His hand immediately finds yours above the bannister, intertwining his fingers with your own. “I thought you were too ill to come outside.”

“Hm?” You had to unstick your gaze from Lyonel as your neck turned to Aerion, eyes still lingering on the stag drenched in gold before finally looking back at your husband. “The maester gave me a tincture to help.”

He doesn’t look too convinced, jaw set, grip tightening around your hand. “Is that so?” He shifts his weight, eyes glancing at the man before flicking over to you. Does he know? Aerion is many things, but he isn’t an idiot. “Sweet aunt, thank you for bringing my wife out for some air. She prefers the comfort of our chambers and less company nowadays.”

“Of course, my prince. I was about to have tea with her, do you wish to accompany us—”

“Not today, aunt.” He flashes her a false smile, before taking you away from her. “I must rest, the ride took the wind out of me. Come.” Tugging you away, you look back at your aunt as she gives you an apologetic look.

You only wish to see Lyonel again, but as you go further into the keep, you could only see a glimpse of his sigil fluttering in the wind. Just like that fateful day on Ashford.

If only you could’ve seen him look up at the balcony just as Aerion took you away.

The walk to your shared chambers was in silence, but you didn’t falter beside him, keeping pace with his longer strides until you reached the doors of your chamber.

Aerion’s hand leaves yours, shutting the doors right behind him.

“Did you really have to embarrass me in front of my aunt like that?” Your arms cross over your chest, facing him head on. “Aerion—”

“I wanted to take a ride with you.” He says, still facing the door as his jaw clenches. “I wanted to bring you to the lake.”

“To drown me perhaps?”

Turning to face you, his expression falls, shoulders tensing. “Do you think of me cruel? No, I wanted to see the sunrise with you.”

“Why?” You blink, hands falling to your side, twisting towards the table to pour yourself a cup of wine. A familiar companion for you nowadays.

“Why?” He lets out a scoff, taking the cup from you as the drink sloshes on the rim. “Is it a crime to want to spend time with my wife?”

“No, it isn’t. But you’re only sweet when you have done something or want something. Which one is it?”

Aerion’s eyes turn away from you, before taking a gulp of the wine. “The latter.” He says lowly, eyes flicking dangerously to yours. “You, I want you.”

This is desire, not love, an all devouring desire that encompasses the prince. It’s all gnashing teeth and nails digging into your hips, not the soft gentle love that has your heart aflutter, not the kind of love you want or deserve.

Nevertheless warmth pools in your stomach. Desire has everyone in its grip, not even you are an exemption. “Why the lake?” Your fingers bring your skirt to wring, trying to tamp out your desire as your eyes rake upon his corded neck.

“Change of scenery.” Shrugging, he puts the rim of the cup over to your lips. “Drink.”

You’re drained, longing for that kind of love that you’ll take whatever warmth is in front of you, and that warmth is Aerion. In his own twisted kind of love, he gives you warmth, arms to hold you when the nights grow cold, a voice that is sometimes tender in your ears, a voice that is real, not a memory. And those intense eyes that never glance away from you, never turning towards another. He may not be the husband you wanted, nor the man you chose to love, but you stayed anyway. Because the alternative is destruction, loneliness, a dishonourable end. And disappointment, you don’t want to disappoint your father. But a year into the marriage, you’re not the same woman you once were, the same woman who wore a threadbare cloak and danced barefoot around Lyonel and a hedge knight like there is nothing else happening in the realm. Now you’re the woman who stays in her seat, nursing a cup in her hand and watches the revelry from far away when you want to join and dance and to laugh carefree again.

“You are insufferable.” And yet you take a drink, and yet you welcome him in your warm embrace. Still, you kiss him with hunger, hold him like he’s about to fly away. And yet your thoughts were on Lyonel the whole time.

—

“Do you know why he’s here?” You blurt out, warm and sweaty under the covers as he lays his head on your chest like always.

“Who?” His cheek is pressed on your skin, cheeks flushed and red, still panting atop you. His index draws the rune for life over your stomach, a prayer.

“Baratheon.” You simply say, if you said his name he would know from how sweet you uttered it.

Aerion hums, a deep rumble you could feel in your ribcage. “Oh, him, his lord father passed.” His breath tickles your bare skin. “Perhaps he was called to bend the knee to grandsire.”

“Why is that needed?” Your fingers rake through his platinum hair that he always melts at the act. “His late father already did that years before.”

His head turns to you, chin resting right on your sternum as his purple eyes tries to gaze into your mind. “He despises us, that’s why.” Us, not him, or his house, us. He believes that you are a part of his house as much as he is, you’re starting to think so too. “Why are you so curious about this Baratheon, hm?”

Why this specific Baratheon? Why this specific man? When there have been plenty of Lords who have walked through the keep and you did not pay them any heed.

“I saw him at the tourney at Ashford. And I will not lie to you but he was almost betrothed to me. He was a suitor.”

“Almost.” Moving, he looms over you, elbows perched on the side of your head as he smugly smiles down. “Almost. But you ended up betrothed to me,” his knee parts your legs under the covers, leaning down to press a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. “Married to me. In bed with me.”

Jealousy is worse than a cup of wine. He’s drunk off it.

“Oh, Aerion.” Taking his face in your hand, you make him look at you. “Are you jealous?”

“A dragon doesn’t concern himself with a mere stag.” Leaning against your touch, he pecks the inside of your palm, all the while gazing into your eyes tenderly.

And yet that mere stag still holds your heart.

—

You hate it when Aerion is right.

The great hall is buzzing with life, it seems that everyone got the news of the new arrival at court. From the Lords and Ladies of the court, to the Baratheon bannermen drenched in their house colours, the great hall is filled with nobles. On the right side of the throne are mostly Targaryens and their kin, watching the other side with pensiveness, some with intense gazes full of suspicion.

You stand beside your husband, staring at Lyonel’s squire whose eyes lingered too long on your face. And yet the young man didn’t flick his gaze away, he even looked at the prince with the same intensity. You surmise that he was staring at you because he recognized you from the tourney, the same girl who was in a raggedy cloak, smiling and dancing with his Lord liege, who is now holding hands with a prince of the blood, clothed in black and red.

Your father settles beside you, face weary, he’s always weary around the red keep after getting the position as master of coin the moment you married Aerion. That was the deal, an exchange, but he now wonders if it’s a worthy one when he sees the weary look on his daughter’s face. The same expression his sister has as she stands alone, her children too young to participate in court, her husband too engrossed in his own mind to ever notice her gone.

The Arryns in the Red Keep are stuck in a gilded cage they have locked themselves in.

You miss your brothers, you miss your mother, and you miss Juniper, who Aerion dismissed without your say when she didn’t bite her tongue when she saw your tear stained cheeks and the love marks all over your skin.

The old King sits on the throne, back hunched, skin pulled taut around his bones. He wheezes, but tries to keep his composure as his son and heir stand beside the throne as the hand pin on his lapel catches the light.

Someone coughs amidst the awkward silence, waiting for the double doors to open as you twist a strand of your hair around your index.

“The gall of this man.” Aerion hisses in-between his teeth, fingers digging into your hand tenderly. “Mayhaps we shouldn’t have wasted our time coming here.”

“We were called upon, Aerion.” Sighing, your eyes are glued to the doors, waiting impatiently, feet shifting, hair pulled by your index.

“Stop that.” He takes your wrist away from your hair, pushing it back to your side. “It’s unbecoming.”

“I cannot help it.” You bite back, eyes steely at your husband instead of unabashed love.

You feel your father’s guilty eyes bore into your back.

“Then try to, my sweet.” Aerion tugs your hand to his side again, weaving his long fingers around your own, engulfing your palm.

You tug back, harder, until his hip hits your own. “No.” Taking your braid, you twist it around your finger, adding to his frustration.

“Now who’s being insufferable?” His breath brushes along the shell of your ear, you could feel his desire roll off him from your petulance.

“We both are,” your head cranes to look into his eyes, not backing down, nor folding underneath his gaze. “guess we are in fact perfect for each other, husband.”

The corner of his lip curls, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. Then the doors open with a loud creak, announcing his arrival.

Murmurs bounce off the stone walls as the herald thumps his cane against the floor.

There, standing like he owns the castle, in all his glory, sun shining on his back, drenching him in more gold, is Lyonel himself.

“Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, the Laughing Storm.”

The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.

Your heart cinches in your chest, tighter than how Aerion is holding onto you. You haven’t seen him in a year, you’ve longed for him for a year, said his name in your head for a year so you would not forget it, so you wouldn’t forget his face. He looks just the same as you remembered, more handsome than you imagined in your mind at the dead of night.

Seeing him this close is guttering, when you thought you have controlled your longing for Lyonel, it rears its head whenever your thoughts grow heavy, stronger, more heart wrenching than the last good bye. Gods, you missed him, you still love him.

He still has his cloak on, draped over his shoulders, a golden river dragging right behind him. The same earring you felt in-between your fingers dangles in his lobe, and those dark eyes, the eyes you’ve gazed into lovingly, tried to imagine in your year long longing is finally right in front of you.

Lyonel isn’t wearing his stag crown, he isn’t an idiot, and he doesn’t have a death wish when it could be seen as traitorous in front of the King. He doesn’t wish to see the stranger just yet when his eyes subtly glance around the crowd looking for you.

There, right beside the bastard he loathes, is you. Still the same woman he danced with through the night, the same woman he talked to beside the river and laid your heart for him as he showed you his soul. You’re the same woman he fell madly and deeply in love with. Lady Arryn, he should’ve known from the start it was you, no longer in a threadbare cloak, no longer having the same smile he always looked for in the crowd.

It’s cruel how they took the light from your eyes. How cruel it is to subject you to this shackled life when you should’ve been soaring freely.

Lyonel couldn’t help the scowl from appearing on his face the moment he sees Aerion’s hand wrapped around your own in a bone crushing hold.

You interpret his expression as fury, anger towards you, and what’s left of your heart shatters.

A year at court and nothing has fazed you, nothing threw you off guard, whatever Aerion says bitingly never truly hurt you in a way that matters. But Lyonel’s anger, his thunderous fury, is the one thing that pained you so.

Aerion’s eyes glances at you, fingers loosening around your hand for a moment. “Wife, you look sickly.”

“Headache.” You simply say with the lump in your throat. “I feel ill, Aerion.” You watch as his intense eyes turn tender, the edges of his face softening as his grip turns loving. “Take me away from here.”

He inhales deeply, arm curled around your back. His purple eyes flashes with something. Was that sympathy? “Come.”

The prince leads you away, parting the crowd for the both of you just as you hear the King greet Lyonel.

If only you saw how his head moved, following you as you walked away from his life once again.

—

“Is there a chance that you are with child?” Aerion asks as he places a cold damp cloth over your forehead. His touch is gentle and caring, a glimpse of a better man.

“No, I am not.” Eyes shut, you don’t see his face tighten at your words. “I may be barren, Aerion, you mustn’t hold up hope.”

Water splashes on your face as you crack an eye open.

“Don’t talk like that, my love.” He calls you that as if it is true. Perhaps it is true in his mind, but you don’t see it. You never felt it, only glimpses of that love when he’s soft and pliant after a coupling, or when the morning sun shines on his face as he slept. Just a glimpse of what could’ve been. “We shall have a dragon, I’ve seen it.”

“They’re dreams, my prince. Nothing more.” Shaking your head, you feel his sword roughed hand cup your stomach. “I’ve heard the whispers, you know, from your grandsire’s men.”

His jaw tightens, moving at the hinges as he huffs a breath. “What kind of whispers?” He knows.

“That you should just annul our marriage when there hasn’t been a child born from our union.” His head falls, and yet hope blooms in your chest as you give him the idea, planting it in his head. “The high septon would allow it so—”

“But I do not.” His tone lowers dangerously, his hand gripping onto the blanket over you. “I will not. You are my wife until the stranger comes for us. And I know we will have a child soon, that is not cause for an annulment. We do not heed the words of men beneath us.” He utters it with absolute certainty.

Perhaps this is Aerion’s version of love. And it’ll be your undoing.

“It’s this fucking air.” He vaults from the bed, a hand raking through his hair as the sun shines on him. He faces the opened window, shutting it with a slam. “We are not the only ones having trouble having a child, Valarr and his wife, my uncle…” exhaling, his nostrils flared with frustration. “It’s this damned keep.” You could practically see his head churning.

“Aerion—”

“We shall move to Summerhall. Where the air doesn’t smell like piss and death, and there will be no annoyance there apart from my father and siblings.” With quick strides, he moves over to you, taking your hands, and laying his head on your stomach, cheek pressing upon your skin, hearing your insides curl and groan. Under the light, he looks lovely, so innocent, so in love. “It’ll just be us.”

“Just us.” You mutter back, chest feeling tight, eyes wide as he leans for a kiss upon your shocked lips. “What if I die in my birthing bed? That you have to choose between me or the babe just like King Viserys did with his Queen Aemma.”

“No,” his palm cups your face, heavier than before. His desperation and fear ebbs from his hold. “That will not happen, you are healthy and still young, if it comes to that I…” Aerion falters, Aerion doesn’t falter. But he does in this instance, chiseled face contorting right in front of you. “It will not happen. Say it back to me, my love.”

“It won’t happen.”

—

The feast the King held in honour of the Laughing Storm came as a surprise to everyone, but not to you. You always knew that Lyonel could befriend anyone, even the people he hates.

He’s performing, quite well in fact as he sits beside the King on his left, laughing and conversing with the old man, whom you haven’t heard laugh this hard ever. Baelor has this polite look on his face, he always has that expression, a retrained face that he never lets slip in front of anyone.

The music is jaunty and happy, the same music that was playing in Lyonel’s pavilion the day you danced with him. Perhaps he asked for it to be played, or perhaps it’s fate mocking you.

You’re at the end of the long table in the great hall, seated beside your aunt and her mumbling husband as Aerion picks at his food. You wish to look at Lyonel, but you’re afraid that once you do, you’d sob and break.

“You must eat, niece.” Your aunt piles another piece of ham onto your plate. “Having an empty stomach won’t do you any good.”

“You need to keep your strength up for when the babe comes.” Aerion declares as if you are already with child. You know you are not when all your illnesses were feigned.

“What babe, Aerion?” Your spoon twists in your hand as you turn pointedly at him. “The maester confirmed it, I am not with child.”

Aerion’s jaw clenches, biting his lower lip as he chuckles dryly above the rim of his cup. “Then why are you always ill, hm? Or was it all feigned?” He knows, Aerion has always been good at reading people, but not always with you. You keep to yourself, a closed book that he’s desperate to read.

“Would you even love the child?” You ask, heart already broken as it lies beside your feet. “Or do you just love the prospect of having one before your cousin does?”

His goblet slams against the table as wine spills over the glass. The conversation around the hall silences, heads turning towards the source.

Head lowering, a hand grasping at your skirt in a grip, his eyes narrow at you. “The child is mine, ours, do you think me so vain and cruel to not love my own? The proof of our love?”

Taking his hand atop your skirt, you unfurl his fist, taking his fingers slowly until it’s around your hand instead. “Do you actually love me, Aerion?”

His narrowed eyes blink, twisting into softness, irises blooming, lilac eyes turning almost black. His breath hitches in his throat, a thumb brushing along your palm, as his jaw is unclenched, features softer, kinder. “Why would you even ask me that?” You’ve never heard his voice sound so small, so delicate, a tone broken at the edges with hurt. “Am I still not enough?”

“What—?”

“Why did you even marry me?” Hurt flashes across his face, a brief moment of vulnerability before his jaw clenches, fisting your skirt, lashes clumped together, before he abruptly stands up, fuming.

He’s hurting, why is he hurt?

“Aerion—” You vault from your seat to follow him, but a hand stops you, rough, sword calloused familiar hands. Following the source of the ringed hand, you see the Laughing Storm himself. “My Lord Lyonel…”

“My Lady.” Lyonel appears in front of you like in your dreams, giving you that same sweetened smile that has doomed you to love him forever. “If your husband permits it, may I have this dance?”

“Lyonel…” You take a deep inhale, air stuck in your throat as you gawk at him. “I’m— I’m afraid my husband is feeling quite ill. He left.”

Everyone has their eyes on you and the Lord of Storm’s End, whispering amongst each other, keenly watching the interaction. It does not help when the king and Baelor are keeping watch also, making sure that you and Lyonel act that is befitting your station. They know that he was once your suitor.

“How…unfortunate.” And yet his amused smile betrays his words. Lyonel’s hand slides down from your wrist and over to your hand, a thumb brushing along your palm tenderly. “Then, may I have this dance, my Lady Arryn?”

You let out a choked laugh, a genuine one as you go around the table and over to him. “It’s Lady Targaryen now actually.”

“Oh, yes, my apologies.” He doesn’t mean it as he guides you towards the middle of the room with the rest of the court as they dance to the beat of the drums and harpsichord.

The crowd parts for the two of you, bowing down respectfully, whilst sharing glances with each other from the delicious gossip happening right in front of them.

Your gaze flickers down to the joined hands, a sight you never thought you’d ever see again. You feel for his callouses, the same one you tried to recall in your head whenever Aerion held yours in his slender hand.

“You need not worry, my Lady.” Lyonel whispers to you, smirking underneath the candle lights as his familiar earring catches the light. “I will stay at a perfectly respectful distance.” Just as he says it, he pulls you in against him, a hand on your waist, fingers pressing gently. Whilst the other glides across the length of your arm, touch lingering until his fingers intertwine with yours. “Comfortable?”

“Very much so.” You shudder, breath stuck in your throat as you gaze at the joined hands, feeling the familiar warmth blossom in your chest. “Hello, Lyonel.”

“Hello, my doe.” His eyes are soft, a lopsided smile that has you chuckling under your breath.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“Gods, I cannot believe that I’m standing in front of you again.” He utters just for your ears only, the Laughing Storm, who prides himself in his loud voice, whispers to keep you safe in the wandering eyes and ears of the court. A bright grin spreads across his rakish face, bottom lip bitten to stifle a laugh bubbling in his throat as his eyes sparkles with mirth. Lyonel says your name, saccharine and honeyed, as if no time has passed between you, as if he has been practicing saying your name during your absence so as to not forget the taste of it on his tongue.

“You look quite well, Lyonel.” Your voice is as tender as his hold upon your waist. Whilst you two dance along the memorized practiced steps like the crowd around you, you see his mask fall.

“For a man so heartbroken, I do look quite handsome, hm?” He starts to lean against your face to nuzzle at your neck, until he remembers where he is. He’d give anything to hold you affectionately again, like that day in Ashford where he danced through the night with you until you were laughing in his arms and saying his name like a lover would.

Your brows furrow, guilt flashing in your eyes, regret marring your pretty face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder—”

“None of that.” Shaking his head, earring dangling with every movement, a curl falls over his face that you intensely want to move away to see his eyes fully. Lyonel’s smile falls, dark eyes glossing over with the same grief as he tips your chin up with his index and thumb. “None of that, my love. There was naught to be done. I would’ve fought tooth and nail for you but when I awoke from my injuries after the tourney to announce you as my queen of love and beauty as rightfully so, you were gone with the blonde headed bastards.”

“The princes wanted it to be done quickly to rein in Aerion. They thought I could do that, pull him away from unchivalrous deeds or perhaps change him.”

“Well, did you?” Brows knitted together, his steps glide across the floor as your skirts whirl around the two of you. “You’re quite good at that but you’re not a miracle worker.”

“I tamed him at most. Smooth out his edges but…” shutting your eyes tightly, he waits, Lyonel has always been patient with you, unlike Aerion who pulls and tugs at you towards what he wants, but not towards what you need. “I don’t think you’d like to hear how I managed it.”

Stormlander fury bursts in his eyes. “Has he hurt you in any way?”

You purse your lips, giving him a wobbly smile. “Not in a way that matters.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Your tone breaks in the middle as the crowd continues to dance around the two of you, obscuring you from your kin. “I’d give anything to be away from here. Aerion has his moments, where I could see his love, but not always…not always.”

“I scarcely recognized you in these colours, I scarcely recognize you at all, my doe.” Lyonel, strong, defiant Lyonel, who would face the storm himself with a booming laugh breaks in front of you.

“And you, you look just like in my dreams.” His face cracks at your painful confession. “I thought you had forgotten about me, Lyonel.”

“I would never.” What have they done to his falcon? They’ve taken your talons and cut your wings, so much so that it has taken the warmth from your eyes. “I did promise you, haven’t I? That I’ll come looking for you, if only you have made it easier for me by telling me of your true nature.”

“That was quite foolish wasn’t it?” You look at him apologetically. “I did plan on telling you the next day, or mayhaps run far away with you if you would have me but that was also a maiden’s foolish desire.”

“Very much so, my Lady.” Lyonel twirls you gently, before you meet with him again in the middle. “But not the latter. When was the last time you danced?”

“At my wedding feast.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you feel the back of your eyes warm, tears threatening to spill over. Whether from sheer relief and happiness or grief, you do not know, but you don’t let it spill.

“Tell me that isn’t so.” His heart breaks for you one more time whilst his hand squeezes you.

“Unfortunately it is.” Sniffing, you blink away the tears. “My husband isn’t one for dancing. Nor revelry.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“I know. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.” His hands lift you by your waist briefly, keeping up with the crowd. Keeping face when there are far too many eyes around.

“What have they done to you?”

“I’ve told you, nothing that would matter.” Your gaze roams around warily.

Lyonel stops abruptly, hands still on your body as his shoulders tighten, jaw clenching as he breathes out a shallow breath. “It matters when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, when you flinch at loudness, when you don’t look like yourself. They made you into this…this shackled thing and clipped your wings.”

“I’m surviving.”

“Not living.” Lyonel’s anger isn’t pointed at you, but at the people seated at the highest table. “This isn’t the life you deserve, my love.” When he calls you that, you truly believe him that he does love you, as simple as that. As easy as that.

“Lyonel,” a tear escapes from your eye as you quickly wipe it away. “It gladens me to see you here but why are you here?” Your voice cracks, terrified for his sake. “You said you came to look for me but here I am. What now?”

“To ask you what you want. To give you a choice that they took away from you.”

“Lyonel…”

“Do they know of the story at the lake with the fire? Do they know what you are capable of?” His grip onto your hands turns bruising before loosening, thumbs caressing along your skin as an apology. “Not just being their pretty princess to bring more half baked dragons into this world. The real you, the one who fought a man twice as large as her and lived, the version of you who challenged me from across the room without faltering. The woman who wedged herself in my heart and clung there as I fell for her. You do not deserve this life, you’re supposed to soar, not to be kept in this cage.”

You finally break in front of him. Tears stream down your face as he brings his sleeve over to your cheeks, wiping the tears away gently.

“My love, my doe.” His hands cup your face gingerly in his hands, not because he’s afraid that you will break, but because he’s afraid that they will take you away from him if he holds on tighter. “What do you want? Your wish is my command.”

You meet with his eyes, finding no lie nor jest in those dark eyes you dream about, eyes that you adore so much. Your next words break you. “Will— will you take me away from here?”

It’s what he wanted to hear from your lips, it’s what he predicted you would ask of him. He didn’t bring a whole army with him for no reason. He might have kneeled before the King and swore a vow, but what is that vow worth to be with his great love? Knights have traded their honour for far worse things, unchivalrous things, but this, saving you and taking you away from this wrenched place is part of his vow as a knight. Protecting the innocent. For him that is the most consequential vow, not the one he swore to a bloodline that has done worse to his realm.

“I know it’s too much of an ask, please forgive me, just forget it—”

“Yes.” Lyonel’s eyes spark with determination. “Why do you think I came all this way?”

—

In the dead of night, you stare at your husband’s sleeping face. He almost looks angelic under the moonlight, peaceful, pleasant. With your letters shoved under your father’s chamber door, explaining to him what you’ve done and telling him to go back home if he was smart. And with ravens flying towards Storm’s End and the Vale, you lean down to Aerion’s sleeping face and kiss his forehead.

He smells of wine, he drank himself to sleep after the feast, he never does that. You may never know why he acted that way, or why he said those words to you, as if you were his great love and not just someone to breed and call his own. But you don’t care enough for his reasoning when he has already carved his name into your ribcage. It’ll forever be there like a scar that won’t heal, but it’s a reminder of your family’s failings, a reminder that you survived it, a reminder that you lived to be with the one you were supposed to be with.

You’ve got a lot of regrets, maybe you should’ve accepted Lyonel’s proposal the moment the letter landed on your table instead of whinging about it. Perhaps you would already be married to him, save yourself some hurt. Or perhaps fate weaved another path for you and Lyonel to be together instead, one of those paths lay before you now as you grab your cloak and clasp it over your shoulders.

You’ve shed every Targaryen heraldry from your body as you wear your house colours once again, a brilliant blue with a soaring falcon right on the bodice. Mayhaps you may wear Baratheon colours one day. For now, you must leave all this behind.

Turning away, you stop abruptly at the weak tug on your skirt.

Aerion’s holding onto the silk of your gown, eyes half lidded and fogged from the wine as it dulls his senses, weakens his façade.

“My wife…” he sighs out, collar stained with wine, fingers curled weakly around your gown. “Where…where are you going?”

Taking his hand, you slowly unfurl his fist. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Don’t— Don’t go.” You almost falter at how soft and tender he is. “Please…my love.”

Taking a shuddered breath, you kneel before him on the settee, placing a kiss right on his knuckles. He’s awfully drunk, he will never remember this conversation.

“Did you really love me, Aerion?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He licks at his dry lips, brows furrowed, face contorted into hurt. “I did— I do. I do love you.”

“Then let me go peacefully.” You don’t cry for him, instead you mourn what could’ve been.

He could’ve been good to you if he showed his love that doesn’t leave bite marks, a love that you only see briefly whenever he lays his head against your chest, a strand of your hair curled around his finger as he listens to the beat of your heart. He loves like he’ll never love ever again, a love that he’s afraid would be taken away from him forcefully. So he loves fiercely, agonizingly devout, a terrifying desire to be loved back. He loves with dragon fire that ended up burning you. And it’ll burn him too if he doesn’t change.

Aerion hums, something in him wants to hold on tighter, to fight, to yank you back to his side. But the wine warms his insides, the wine hinders his thinking. His eyes close again, he must be dreaming an awful dream.

Soft breaths fill the shared chambers once again. And you finally pull away, placing his hand atop his chest as you hitch your skirts and flip the dragon tapestry away to reveal the hidden passage out of the castle.

Lyonel greets you in the dark together with his bannermen that are all armoured up with their swords at their hips, ready to fight beside their liege Lord if need be.

His beaming grin could light the way for you as he holds a hand up for you on his horse.

“Was there trouble?” He asks, voice laced with concern as he yanks you up on the horse.

“No,” you sit behind him, arms curled around his middle as you lay your cheek against the cool steel of his armour. “No trouble, let us go, Lyonel.”

The Laughing Storm doesn’t need another confirmation as he rides away with you. Just like he dreamed of. Just like he once promised.

—

The noise from Aerion’s chambers wakes the whole castle when he found out about your treachery. He wields his sword, swinging it around the room as he breaks everything inside. And on the other, he grips your necklace, the one he has fashioned just for you. He holds on it so tightly that it draws blood upon his palms.

No one could calm him down. The one person who could is now miles away from him, riding away with another man.

Shards of glass fling away, broken wood lay littered across the floor where he once had you. The bed wasn’t spared, goosefeathers fly around him as he stabs and slashes at the bed that still smells like you.

“I want Lyonel Baratheon’s head!” His guttural screams carry around the keep.

To Aerion, you were kidnapped, taken from him while he was at his most vulnerable. To him, you loved him just like he has loved you. To him, Lyonel Baratheon is malignant, a vile and evil man. And the prince has cursed his name, and named him as the sworn enemy of the crown for what he has done.

The heir and the Lord hand himself writes an urgent letter to his younger brother, and another asking Lyonel to give you back to your husband before anything untoward happens, before a war breaks between the noble houses that were once kin.

Your father and aunt left the red keep before Aerion’s anger flooded the castle. They’re headed over to you and plead with you to go back to your husband. Lyonel has closed his borders to them and anyone that allies with the crown.

Ser Duncan greeted you and Lyonel at the door of Storm’s End, he did not look quite happy at the turn of events, but once he met with your eyes and saw the grief and pain underneath them, he understood why Lyonel had to take you away. He has sworn his sword and shield to him, and in turn, before he was in Lyonel’s care, he swore to you first.

And as you lay beside Lyonel in Storm’s End, with your hand in his curls as he lays upon your chest, smiling and telling you stories of what you missed. You ignore the lightning and thunder outside, and you tuck away the looming conflict around the realm as you laugh and smile with your great love with a lighter heart. The light in your eyes slowly comes back, and Lyonel finally feels that he is complete.

And yet, despite all the happiness that you could feel in your bones, there’s a war coming. And you started it.

You peek through the crack in the door, listening for something, anything, footsteps, wood thumping on carpet, or even a scream, something to indicate that you weren’t followed; or better yet, a sign that Bobby’s two companions made it out alive.

You can feel your pulse thump, straining against your skin, beating, beating, pounding, thrumming like the heartbeat within the walls.

But there’s nothing but silence in the corridors. The air is still, and the droning whir of the familiar lights are steady above you. It’s eerily quiet, with nothing but Bobby’s shuddered breath behind you. And the warmth calling to you from the walls. You ignore the latter for now.

You close the door quietly and place a chair under the doorknob like always as you glance at the half melted sailboat to look for the copy of your grandfather. You see him at the helm again, standing still, unbothered. His eyes don’t trail right behind you as you move, you don’t know if that hurts more than being watched by the ghost of him.

The song of the walls greeted you inside the moment you stepped foot, like an old friend with its arms open for you. The humming calms you, easing your sore body as you take in the familiar room.

Crossing the short distance over to Bobby, you finally feel the adrenaline ebb out of you in aching waves. One by one you start to feel heavy with fatigue, knees creaking, your side blooming with a dull ache and your muscles beating like a pounding heart.

Bobby looks at the map on the wall that you drew. Through his tearful eyes, as blue as the ocean, as blue as the walls of your childhood room. His throat bobs up and down, chest heaving as his hand weakly grasps at his ankle. Now that you look at it, and at his expression filled with trepidation, the mural looks like the scribbles of a madwoman.

His eyes turn to you, swallowing thickly, wary of you.

“It’s a map of the place.” You explain simply, standing like a tree that sways in the wind as your feet shuffles underneath you.

“I figured.” He answers, sweat dribbling off his face, drenching his white crop top. He’s a guy probably into fashion you think, like the influencers you see flaunt their style on their page. “You’ve been alone all this time?” His eyes shift all over you, not ogling, just taking you in, truly seeing you like it’s the first time and not through the lens of the camera.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You put them behind you at first, then you must’ve looked like a timid schoolgirl in front of him so you tuck it in your pockets, but it’s too casual. So you resign to wringing your hands together, fingers playing with the cold zipper of your bomber jacket.

“Sort of.” Your hand grazes at your neck before bringing them down in front of you with a shuffle of fabric from your jacket. “I have him, but he’s not much of a conversationalist.”

“What, who?” You watch in real time as Bobby notices your grandad standing on the sailboat, while he grasps onto the helm like usual. There’s an unnatural stillness to him, like a man in a photograph and somewhere in Bobby’s brain recognizes it as inhuman. “Is he—” He tries to stand up, only for you to gently hold him down by his shoulder.

“He’s harmless.” You explain, searching his eyes, trying to convince him. Your hand flinches above his shoulder after feeling how warm he is, and how his muscles tighten underneath your touch. Taking your hand away, you bite the inside of your cheek, rethinking the interaction like you always do. “He won’t hurt us.”

His eyes glance between you and the old man. “What—” his tongue brush along his dry lips. “What is he?”

“I— I don’t know.” You’ll never tell him that you know him, or knew him more like, unless he asks you. “But he wasn’t like the one that attacked us. He’s dormant, sort of. He sometimes moves.”

Bobby runs a hand through his hair, yanking his shades off and tossing it haphazardly to the side as it slides towards the mural. “What the fuck is happening?”

“I don’t know, Bobby—”

“You should know, you’ve been here for more than twelve fucking days, you said it yourself. Fuck, Kat, where the fuck—” His anger rolls off him in waves, he lets his words out without a thought, and he regrets it the moment it leaves his lips. Bobby heaves, crumpled, afraid. “I— I’m—”

You wince, eyes closing as your finger picks at your hangnail. “I’m sorry, I really don’t k–know. All…” Clearing your throat, you stare at him with the same fear in his eyes, the same uncertainty. “All I know is that we have to get out of here.”

“Not without Kat.”

“Not without Kat.” You repeat, reassuring him with a nod. “We’ll find her, we’ll go out and find her but you can’t go anywhere with your ankle like that.” There’s a pebble lodged in your throat. “I’m sorry but you’re…you’re dead weight.” Guilt immediately eats at your ribcage.

“I can’t—” his hands gesture wildly, eyes wide and frantic. His face is blanched like he’s about to throw up all over the damp carpets. “I can’t just fucking wait here!”

“What do you want to do?” You step closer, looming over him with the same fear in your eyes. “Limp on out of here? The moment that thing comes after you, you’re dead.” His expression falls, jaw tightening at your words. Inhaling, you crouch down, eyes softening. You remember how terrified you were the first time, you wished someone was here with you to comfort you or at least keep you company. The walls were that comfort for you, even though it wasn’t a person, a living thing, just some tacky yellow wallpaper. Bobby is too late to be that person, but you can be that person for him. “I’m sorry but that’s the truth.”

“Well, you’re a goddamn downer.” He hisses in between his teeth, a hand raking through his tresses, and head thumping against the boat. Deep down he knows that you’re right, but he refuses to say it out loud. Because saying it for the yellow walls to hear is making it come true.

“Just a realist.” You manage a joke, sitting down crossed leg beside him whilst giving him space to breathe. “May I? I have meds with me, but they’re only for the pain.”

Taking your backpack off, you open the zipper as the sound echoes around the room. Your food and water supplies are scarce with nothing left but a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits. But the fortunate thing is that you have enough pain meds to last him a few days and your first aid kit is still unused. You can’t say the same thing for your hammer as it dangles on your hip all bloodied.

Bobby licks his dry lips, an open palm reaching for it. “Just give them to me.”

Handing him a pill, he pops it in his mouth as you open up the bottle of water for him. “Don’t drink it all.” You instruct him before he could down it. “That’s the only water we’ve got.”

Wiping his mouth with his wrist, Bobby gives you back the bottle, eyeing your movements as he takes a peek inside your backpack. “You don’t have enough?”

You could only shake your head. Inhaling, you take out the first aid kit and shut the backpack, changing the subject. “It doesn’t look like it’s broken.”

“You a doctor? A nurse?”

“No, I just watch a lot of TV.” The plastic clicks as you open the first aid box. “Lots of medical shows.”

“That’s reassuring.” Sniffing, his cheek rests against the cold side of the boat. “Are you sure this place is safe?”

“So far it’s been safe. No other entity has been here except for him.” Your head gestures to your grandpa still at the helm. Hands unfurling the brown cohesive wrap, you ask for permission with a glance. “This’ll help relieve the pressure.”

“You know how to do it?” He’s unlacing his shoe, before yanking it out, hissing between his teeth when it jostles his injury.

“Yeah, I was a clumsy kid.” You chuckle lightly, memories flickering in your mind. “May I?”

He nods, slowly twisting around and lending you his ankle. He’s closer to you now, and you could smell his cologne on him, something heady with manly musk amidst sweat and a faint smell of weed on his clothes. His blue eyes watch you fold the wrap around his ankle, with your pinky brushing along his heel so gently that he barely felt every tug.

“I won’t break, y’know.”

Your movements pause, eyes flicking to meet with his eyes. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m guessing it won’t work if you don’t make it tight enough.” Bobby manages a small smile to reassure you. “I’ll be alright. Just do it, the faster I get back on my feet the faster we find Kat.”

“Okay,” nodding and taking a deep breath, fingers grazing his skin, you feel him shiver underneath your touch. Something so human, a reaction that you never thought was possible to miss during your solace here. You cinch the wrap tighter as you see him take a breath between his teeth. You don’t ask him if he’s good in case you annoy him. “Is this okay?” You finish the wrap, palm cupping at his ankle before moving away. “It’s not too tight?”

“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” Bobby tests his ankle, turning it slowly around the joints before wincing and putting his foot back down slowly. He then looks at you, blue eyes staring right into your own as you fidget in place. “You’ve got blood on your face.”

“Oh,” you blink, brows rising to your forehead as you blindly wipe at your face with your sleeve. The fabric of your bomber jacket is now stained with dried blood, dyeing the poppies on it even more red. “Thanks.” You give him an unsure wobbly smile. “Your chin is bleeding. You want me to get that for you?”

Bobby touches his chin, the pads of his fingertips are reddened as he winces. He nods and you start to disinfect his wound with precise movements, cleaning it and putting a gauze and tape over it to keep it clean. He still shivered under your touch, maybe it’s his adrenaline wearing off.

“So, what now?” Touching his chin, he then tilts his head back and he stares at the door on the ceiling, brows folded together as his hand mindlessly fiddles with the chain around his throat. “This place is fucking weird.” You can just tell that his mind is on a lot of things, running a thousand miles per second just behind those ocean eyes of his.

“You haven’t seen weird yet.” You have a lot of stories to tell him, but he probably doesn’t want to hear any of it when he’s still in shock.

“Where did you even get those stuff?” His index points at your bag then over to you.

“I brought it here.”

“What? You said you fell in, that you got trapped here, not bringing camping shit and intentionally staying.” His brows furrow, agitated, terribly guarded because of you. “No sane person would want to stay here.”

“I didn’t want to stay, Bobby.” You muster up the courage to speak up, years ago you would’ve collapsed under his gaze. But not this version of you, this one survived the impossible over and over again. Not even his piercing eyes could make you keel over when you’ve stared death in the eyes. “I brought this so I could explore, just like you wanted, remember? You grabbed me and brought me down with you. Curiosity got the best of us.”

He glances away from you, an arm perched over his knee as he stares at the map before him. “Was everything you said real? Because I just met you and— I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“I just took care of your ankle for you, let you drink from my last water and saved you from that thing.” You collect your things and shove them inside your backpack. “But I get you, you don’t know me, I don’t know you. It’s your choice to trust me but everything I’ve told you so far is real. I fell, got chased, and I got lost. All I want right now is to get home just like you do.”

Bobby remains silent as he looks up at you whilst you stand up on wobbly legs.

You zip everything back in your pack before slinging it over your shoulder. “You should rest, there’s a bed inside the boat if you need it, and here.” You take half of a granola bar from your jacket pocket. “When you get hungry.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Bobby gingerly takes the snack from you, brows knitted.

“To find Kat and Clark.”

He lets out a scoff akin to a chuckle. “Alone?”

“Perks of being here for more than twelve days is that I know the layout, at least some of it.” You fix your hold on your pack as it hangs over your shoulder. “I’ll be back, I’m not planning on leaving you here.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just—” he gestures all around him like it’ll finish his sentence for him. “Go explore all alone when that thing is still out there.”

“I have to while they could still be nearby. This place is a fucking maze, Bobby, they’ll get lost. And it’s better to have at least one person to look for them than to have the two of us doing nothing.”

“Will…will you be okay? On your own, I mean?” There’s genuine concern in his tone.

“Yeah,” you don’t believe your own voice as you nod your head, and pat the hammer by your side. “I’ve got this.”

“Still, it won’t kill it.”

“I know, but it’ll be enough to stagger it.” Inhaling, you take a look at the map and then over to your grandpa before zipping your jacket around you. “I’ll be fine. If not then, try to retrace your steps back to where you got in.” You let out a humorless laugh. While his expression doesn’t change as you clear your throat at the attempt at a joke. “Don’t put pressure on your ankle and keep it elevated.” Turning around, you make it to the door as you take the chair away under the doorknob quietly.

“Wait—!” He stops you, standing up with a struggle as his hand braces against the boat. “Just—if you find Kat first, bring her here then we’ll all get out together.”

“What about Clark?”

Bobby shakes his head, fingers curling around his palm. “He knows this place too, he can get out by himself.”

“That’s a…a loaded sentence if I know one.” You utter dryly as his lips tugs in the corners. “Don’t bother him,” your eyes glances at your grandpa at the helm. “And he won’t bother you.”

The door closes behind you with a click, leaving Bobby behind with the copy of your grandpa. Bobby stares at the environment around him, he’s so sick of the yellow wallpaper already.

—

You stare at a severed hand on the floor.

Your ragged breathing bounces off the yellow wallpaper. The hammer dangles from your fingertips as you feel your limbs go numb.

It took you a while to get here, hours perhaps, and you followed all the signs, a drop of blood in the hallway, a splatter of deep crimson on the wall amidst the sickly yellow. And the stench of mold staying in the still air. You kept to the wall, almost hugging it as you left your mark on it as always to find your way back to Bobby. Your legs were aching even more when you smelled it— decay.

There’s no blood on the hand anymore, left to curdle and dry as the skin over the severed bone has rotted like it’s been here for weeks. There’s a singular fly on it, weakly flapping its wings over the rot, feasting on the cleaved flesh. You know it’s hers, who else could it be when there are only four people inside this place? The beaded bracelet with pink and white beads still hanging on around the wrist tells you it’s really her.

You think of Kat and her grisly end, she was kind to you, or at least civil when the two men only stared at you in disbelief as if you spawned and crawled out from the walls itself. She deserved better than this.

You’re no stranger to death, you’ve seen it before, out in the raging waters in a storm, and as it gripped your neck before the rope broke. You’ve seen it, you’ve felt it, you’ve heard it through the strange hum in the walls, but that doesn’t mean it gets easier, the grief, the bone aching pain in your chest still rumbles and claws right at you. Death is permanent, you know this, and yet you attempted this, you once felt it as the sound of a swinging rope echoed in your ears whilst you dangled. Seeing the remnants of it, what it leaves, even from a person you barely knew, still leaves you in this human pain, this grief that you wish to never feel ever again. But it stays, it always stays, it leaves a mark, pointing and mocking you with the memories that remind you of that heart wrenching grief. You don’t know Kat well, and you’ll never know her. A whole person with memories filled with joy and sadness, someone with dreams and fears, just gone, decimated, damned to a fate worse than anything outside these yellow walls.

It should’ve been you instead. At least no one would miss you.

There’s a sudden pinching pain in your neck, you lift your hand away from your skin, finding blood underneath your fingernails. You’ve been scratching at your throat the whole time, trying to cut into the skin, trying to claw away at the gnawing feeling of death.

The pads of your fingers pat at your neck, wincing when you feel the stabbing pain of the cuts around your skin. Your lips wobble as you sob for a woman you never got the chance to know.

You never wish this on anyone, but you’ll be the bearer of it, the messenger of this grief to Bobby.

“I tried.”

A voice says from behind, so unfamiliar, so broken.

The hammer falls from your fingertips as it clangs loudly on the carpet.

You whirl around and you see him— Clark. He looks exhausted, starved, skin pulled taut around his bones, clothes hanging loosely on his body. Under the yellow reflection of the walls, he looks as sickly as the wallpaper. The light above him flickers wildly before the bulbs burn and he’s draped in darkness.

He couldn’t possibly look like this, not yet anyway when it’s only been a few hours since the separation happened. You understand the exhaustion, but not the hunger in his eyes, the crack in his dry lips and the crackling breath in his lungs. This is the face of a man who was abandoned on a mountain for months without food or water.

“What?” Your brows wrinkle together, eyes raking worriedly at his form. “What happened to you, Clark? Are you okay?”

“Can you come with me?”

‘Can you come with me?’ Not, ‘do you have food?’ or ‘Do you have water to spare?’ or even ‘do you know the way out?’ It’s an invitation, an invitation to somewhere you really don’t want to accept.

There’s something off with him.

“Is this…” you point at the hand laying just behind the heels of your shoes. You ask even though you already know the answer. But you still do, a confirmation, closure for Bobby. “Is this her?”

“My assistant manager.” His voice is heavy with fatigue and you feel like clawing at your throat again. “Can you come with me? I know a safe place.”

You blink at him, breathing heavily. There’s something wrong with him. His eyes are the same as the last you saw him, just tired, heavy with sleepless nights. But he doesn’t talk the same, he talks robotically, like he rehearsed the words in front of the mirror beforehand in case he runs into you, or Bobby for that matter. You expected for him to be frantic or hysterical after what happened, not this, he’s calm, too calm for someone who has seen horrors beyond human comprehension.

“You said… you said that you tried.” Slowly, you move your way down to pick up the fallen hammer. “What did you try, Clark?”

“Tried to save her. But she just…I couldn’t get to her in time.” Clark takes a step forward and you flinch out of instinct. Something shifts in his eyes. “There was a pool and a wall. And she said she could see me but I couldn’t see her.” He swallows thickly. “Are you afraid of me? Like last time? Your hand looks much better.”

“My–my hand?” You shake your head, taking slow deep breaths. “No, this place it…it keeps you alert. I’m not scared of you.” Your foot nudges at the hammer as it clangs lightly. “I’m sorry for what happened. About Kat, about all of this. I tried to tell you.”

His eyes flicks towards the hammer.

“Clark, how long have you been here?” You distract him, jaw tight as you keep your eyes on him.

“A while.” His tone cracks at the edges from his dry mouth. Still too calm, still too normal.

“It’s only been a few hours, Clark. How–how could it be a while since then?” You must’ve picked up something from the numerous doctors you’ve spoken to when you use their own tactics against him. You say his name in a calm manner, telling him that you see him, that you’re staring at him and not through him. That you understand his words, his plights, instead of instigating him. You try to comfort him, this is a man who has been alone here for far longer than you have with no food, no water, and no humming in the walls to keep him company. He has become the very thing he called you. “Where have you been staying? If you’re injured I have meds and first aid. I have a bit of food, and some water if you—”

“I’ll show you where I’ve been staying.” He smiles, skin tugging in the corners. “It’s safe there, and I have food, plenty of it.”

“Where do you get the food, Clark?” Your fingers inches closer to the hammer by your feet as you slowly bend your knees.

“You’ll see, come.” He gestures behind him, still smiling. Still off.

“Where is this place? You can tell me which direction and I’ll just go there with Bobby later.” Your lashes clump together from the unshed tears in your eyes as you feel his eyes on you whilst you crouch down to grab the hammer. You’re inches away from the wooden handle as he takes two steps forward, frantic, worried.

“You’re still with Bobby?” His hand holds out to you as you stop short, fingers mid curled around the handle. “Where is he?”

“Somewhere safe.” With a shuddered breath, looking up at him, refusing to leave your gaze from him, you finally get a hold of the hammer. “Clark, do you know the way out of here?”

Blinking, like a deer in the headlights, he stares at the hammer in your hand whilst you’re still crouched.

“I do.”

“Can you tell me where it is?” You’re careful with your words.

“You’ll tell everyone about this place.” He chuckles with no ounce of humour laced in it.

“No, no, I won’t, Clark.”

“Yes, you will.” He takes a step forward and you’re forced to stand up abruptly, clutching onto the hammer. “I like this place. I know you do too.”

“No, I don’t.” Your hand trembles around the hammer. He’s scaring you. You don’t want him to come closer. “Clark, tell me where the exit is and we’ll leave you alone.”

“I still need you here. You and Bobby.”

The thumping of wood against carpet echoes from a hallway on his left. Clark turns his head at the sound and you take the opportunity to sprint away.

“Hey, no!” He tries to grab at you, managing to grab at your backpack as you’re hauled backwards onto your back with a harsh thud. “I said stay!”

You know this is Clark, not some copy of him like your grandpa or like Janet. He feels real as he looms over you, he’s warm, not cold like the pirate that chased after you, nor does he smell like mold and decay. He’s tangibly real as he drags you by the handle of your backpack towards the clambering sound of a wooden peg leg.

“Clark, no!” Shrieking, you watch as the ceiling moves quickly above you as you’re being dragged. You feel the rug burn against your back as you kick and scream and try to get a hold of his hand.

Your hammer has fallen down on the ground from the struggle, getting smaller and smaller as you’re dragged away.

There’s a chair half embedded into the wall, and you grab it, fingers curling and digging into the wood as you feel the rough edges of it.

“Let go.” He says too calmly.

“No!”

Clark looms over you, leaning down to wretch your hand away from the chair leg. “I said let go!”

With all your strength, you bring your fist to his face, punching him right on his nose as he staggers back, letting you go.

“Ah, fuck!”

You scramble away, crawling on the carpet and getting back on your wobbly feet. You shouldn’t have turned around, maybe it was your morbid curiosity, maybe you just wanted to see if the sounds weren’t from your imagination alone.

But then you see it, real, lumbering from the dark depths of the yellow hallway as it holds onto the sides of the walls, too tall, too long to go through it quickly. It fills the whole corridor with its lanky body.

Pirate Clark has its sights on you.

The light flickers, and you run.

You take the fallen hammer on your way out, bolting out of there as you hear Clark, not the wrong one, the real one, screaming your name gutterally. His scream bouncing off the monotonous yellow walls.

The signs guide you, and the song of the walls turn at an ear piercing dissonance, overwhelming you with the sights and sounds of the backrooms.

You turn a corner, more yellow wallpaper, more ringing.

There’s a junction in front of you, and you stop, hearing the mix of rushed footsteps and the wooden thumping just right behind you.

On your left is unmarked, unexplored by you. On your right has your arrow pointing right down the hallway.

With your breath stuck in your throat, fist throbbing with a dull ache and a stitch blooming on your side, you draw a bigger arrow on the wall to your left with a sharpie from your pocket as it points right at the place you have no idea what it leads to. It’s a stretch, they could still follow you so you mark the right one with an X right over the arrow, before running in that direction.

Clark isn’t stupid, you might not fool him with that alone but fighting a human being is easier than fighting an entity that could rip into you. At most it would disorient whatever pirate Clark is. So you run, keeping the same pace as you make as little sounds as you could whilst drawing fake arrows leading to nowhere right on the walls you pass by.

The best you can do is to keep Clark away from the sailboat room and far away from Bobby.

For a moment you take a breather, holding onto your knees as you pant and breathe in the still air. There’s no sound of running behind you anymore, nor the peg leg knocking on the carpets. It’s just you as you inhale and exhale, watching the sweat drip from your brow and over to the carpet below.

Lifting your head, you hear it first— the shuffling of fabric, a faint rustle. Then you see it, a glimpse of a familiar flowery bomber jacket peeking from the hallway in front of you.

It moves away, replaced by a long hand, too long fingers, long nails with blood matted underneath its fingernails as it grips at the edge of the wall.

It peeks over it, a forehead, then a pair of reddened eyes.

You don’t wait around to see the rest as you run away.

The moment you see the door to the sailboat room you feel lighter. Opening the door frantically, you shove yourself inside, startling a sleeping Bobby as you shut the door as quietly as you could and place the chair right under the doorknob.

“Hey, you okay?” Bobby glances at you as you keel over on the floor, head resting against the wall while you heave. “Did you see Kat?”

You shut your eyes tightly, a hand wiping at your sweaty face as you swallow down the bile rising in your throat.

“...No.” You utter softly, too soft for a blatant lie. “No, I didn’t see her.”

The hope on his expression falls. “What happened then?”

“I—” Bobby reaches for you, taking hold of your elbows as he pulls you back up to your wobbly legs. “I saw Clark.” You’re face to face with him as you watch his brows furrow. “He’s not…fine. There’s something wrong with him.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes search for yours as you look anywhere but him.

You look at your grandpa, or a ghost of him, as he stares up at the drawing of the sun in the corner, looking up at it as if he could just feel its warmth if he could just come closer. Your vision warbles, legs going numb under you, as if you’ve been running around for days. Your stomach grumbles, and your mouth is dry as your eyes fall in the back of your head.

“Shit! Hey!” Bobby catches you in his arms before you could hit your head.

—

The walls take you within itself.

You wake to the sound of fabric ripping and your flesh tearing at the seams. You’re surrounded by the same yellow wallpaper, from the walls to the ceiling, it warps around you, moving, breathing as it absorbs you into the sickly yellow.

You try to scream, call out for help, but no words come out of your mouth, just a guttural wheeze from the back of your throat.

Then you realize, the walls absorbs your voice too.

It takes you in, the wallpaper wrapping itself around your limbs, dissolving you into its warmth. It’s warm, so warm, like a late afternoon at the beach where the air smells like the sea and the clouds are turning pink over you. The water lapping at the sand near your feet, the grains of sand in your hair as you watch a small crab climb the length of your bare leg, you stayed on that beach, waiting for the ambulance to come, to see the pink sky be drenched in the red and blue siren lights. Like that day, you sink into the wall like how you were sinking into the wet sand.

The walls around you breathe, warbling right in front of you like the waves as it rolls around you, like you’re drifting underneath the tides.

The yellow wallpaper slithers up your chest, taking you inside the warmth. It laps at your temples, muffling your ears as you hear the hum at a frequency you could hear so clearly. It’s a sorrowful tone made by no instrument you’ve ever heard before, it’s a song made by something older than you, as old as the walls that are currently taking you in its embrace.

It’s a song you will soon be a part of.

You wake to a touch upon your arm, worried, tensed around your skin.

Your eyes open to the ceiling, where the plastic glow in the dark stars are slowly peeling away at the paint on the walls like the real ones. These ones aren’t stars though, just blobs of green tinted plastic that glows wrong in the dark, too bright, too intense unlike the real ones. It’s glowing in that same hue as the curtains are fully drawn to a close.

Turning towards the source of the hand, you see Bobby’s face sigh in relief when he sees your eyes look into his own. As blue as the waters that day, as blue as the siren lights that flooded the whole beach.

“You were screaming in your sleep.” He says, voice taut, tired as he lays his chin atop the edge of the bed, too exhausted to hold it up.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Your throat aches, like you swallowed a pebble, and your whole body still vibrates from the dream.

“No, couldn’t sleep.” His jaw tightens, he was too afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up to the entity that hunted him down, afraid that he won’t wake up.

“I’ll take this watch,” you say, rather than tell him out right to sleep. Sitting up, you see him look up at you with those big blue eyes that feels like it searches for your soul inside those sad eyes of yours. “You take the bed, the floor isn’t comfortable when it’s at an angle.”

“Yeah, I kept sliding down.” Bobby lifts himself up on the bed, back hitting the porthole as he obscures even more light whilst the plastic stars above illuminate the room. “I had those when I was a kid too.” His head is tilted up, the chain around his throat caught in the light.

“Same here.” You answer, unconsciously copying his movements as you rest your back against the wall, watching the fake blob of stars. “Mine kept falling down on my face while I tried to sleep.”

“You should’ve used double sided tape, not the ones that came with it.” Bobby chuckles, a deep rumble in his throat as he runs a hand over his face. “These ones just look weird though. Like someone who has never seen stars tried to draw stars.”

The corner of your lips tug at the corners as you crane your neck to look at him. You find him still staring at the stars, eyes half lidded, back easing with every breath he lets out. “I thought of the same thing too.”

You guess trauma really does bring people together. Even complete strangers who would otherwise never have met.

“Like a kid in kindergarten trying to draw stars.” His head turns to you, giving you the same small smile. You watch as his eyes drift down at your neck, and his face contorts into an expression you know all too well— pity. “Did Clark do that to you? You said you saw him.”

You shake your head, turning away to look at the ceiling again, the same ceiling you gazed at your whole childhood, the same ceiling you placed those stars that never really stuck to the ceiling as you watched each star fall from it, peeling off the paint along with it. You once got so tired of it that you yanked every single star off the ceiling and tossed them right in the bin.

“No,” the fake stars fizzle in and out before glimmering again. “It wasn’t Clark. I don’t think it was Clark.”

“What do you mean? Was Kat with him?”

“He looked…off.” Bobby shuts his eyes and moves his gaze away from the side of your face. “And Kat wasn’t with him.” Not anymore.

“Then,” He shifts on the bed, trying to keep his eyes open. He still smells faintly like weed and cologne. “What was wrong with him?”

Taking a deep breath, you could still feel the rug burn against the back of your thighs when he dragged you across it by the strap of your backpack. “Like he’s been here for years, he didn’t look like himself.”

“Maybe,” his lips smacks, biting the inside of his cheek as he rubs at his injured ankle. “Maybe you imagined it? Like, I don’t fucking know, your mind playing tricks on you? I mean shit, the human mind isn’t built for this kind of stress.”

Your mind has played tricks on you before you fell into this place, you’ve heard things that weren’t there before, you’ve seen things that aren’t truly there, but this, what happened to you in that corridor with the severed hand of Kat laying beside your feet as you felt her severed flesh brush alongside your ankle, was tangibly real. You would know the difference, your doctors taught you how to decipher between what was real and what wasn’t. Clark was as real as the scars along your arms.

“It was real,” you finally turn to face him with a hardened look on your face, fingers scratching at your throat. “He tried to lure me somewhere, but I saw something was up with him and I didn’t go and he just… dragged me on the carpet towards that fucking thing.”

“He did what?” Bobby sits up, face serious and breathing hard. “Clark could be a bit of an ass but he wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought too. That’s why I thought it wasn’t truly Clark.”

“Like what? He’s like the old man outside? One of those things?”

“No, I’ve seen things like him, they’re mostly dormant, curious at most, but never violent. This Clark was.”

“Did he…” he reaches for your neck before realizing what he’s doing, head tilting, hand retracting, visibly grimacing. “Did he scratch you during it?”

“...yeah, I guess he probably did.” Another lie. How long can you lie to the only person alive who is willing to talk to you?

“I’m sorry he did that. I’m sorry you went through that shit. I’d say that I should’ve been there to help but…” he chuckles, leg perched up on the bed as his elbow rests on his knee, head falling into his hand. “I’d rather not have been.”

“We’d probably both be dead.” You utter with a weak chortle. “How long was I out?”

“I have no fucking idea.” Time here moves differently, and you don’t blame him for losing track of it. His voice is muffled under his palm, before rubbing across his face as his hand rakes through his messy strands. “Three or four hours give or take?” The fake stars illuminate his face, drawing sharp shadows on the wall beside him. In this light, he looks like the boy you talked to once at the laundry shop, the boy whose shirt you found in the pile of clothes and decided to keep it that is now hanging on your torso. “You were out of it, I thought I lost you for a second. I kept checking your pulse.”

Bobby doesn’t really want to be left here all alone.

“That’s a long nap.” You scooch away from the bed, sitting on the floor instead as you see your backpack and the hammer laying neatly on the floor beside you. “It’s your turn, you need your rest for your ankle.”

“I don’t think I can sleep when I’m thirsty.”

“Here,” you’re already unzipping the bag and handing him the last of the water. Bobby’s blue eyes rake from the bottle then over to your face. “I’ll find us something, there’s a room here filled with pools, the water might be safe for drinking.” You found the pool rooms on day eleven, it reminded you of an indoor water park complete with slides that start from nowhere and end into a wall. It smelt like chlorine.

“Or it might give us the runny shits.”

“There’s a room filled with toilets too, might come in handy for that. We get to pick our thrones.”

A genuine smile stretches across Bobby’s face, before flickering away, almost guilty of smiling when Kat is still out there all alone. “I don’t even want to imagine what that looks like.”

“Like a showroom of a bathroom like in those furniture places.” You shake the bottle lightly as the water sloshes. “Just take it, Bobby, please.”

“What about you?” He says with a smaller tone, and yet his hand stretches towards the bottle that only has a quarter of water left inside.

“I’ll be fine, I’m like a camel.”

Bobby pops open the lid, tilting his head to look at your back. “I don’t see a hump back there though.” He takes a small sip, enough to wet his lips and the inside of his mouth before handing it back to you.

“It retracts, like wings.” You joke back, taking the water and capping it close, saving it for when you really need it. The corner of Bobby’s mouth tugs up, a small smirk before plopping his head down on the pillow.

“My ankle is better.”

Your eyes naturally drift towards his injury. The skin around it does look better than before. “Yeah? Can you roll it around now?”

Lifting his foot to prove a point, he rolls his ankle around and around, wincing faintly, like nothing ever happened to it as the wrap still stays on around it. It’s almost miraculous. Maybe it’s the same as your shoulder, it healed faster than humanly possible. Or it probably wasn’t as bad as you thought and that your wrap helped him heal.

“I can run now.” ‘I’m not a burden to you anymore.’ He can look for her, with or without you.

“We’ll look for Kat once you wake up then.” Your tone snags at the mention of her name.

“Wake me up in a few hours, okay?” His cheek is squished against the pillow that smells like you as his eyes flutter close. “And don’t you dare leave again. I won’t be there to catch you if you faint again.”

“Thank you for that by the way.” You say softly, too quiet as if it was meant for the walls instead.

“You saved me, and I saved you from a nasty fall. Tit for tat.” And yet he still hears you, rolling over as his back faces you.

“You could just say, ‘you’re welcome’ like a normal person.” Muttering under your breath, your gaze falls towards the hammer with the cloying blood on the steel.

“Shut up, I’m already asleep.” He utters muffledly. You scoff out a laugh through your nose.

You haven’t noticed the hum in the walls until you heard Bobby snore softly. Once you do, you stand up, leave the boat, look at your grandfather at the helm and hop off the boat before pressing your head against the warm wall.

If it absorbed you before Bobby came along you wouldn’t fight back, you would not have any regrets, you’d accept your fate once the yellow walls form around your face and you’re finally part of the structure of this place. But with Bobby here, you have a reason to live through this place, to continue searching for the exit, more determined than before when he needs your help. Before you were doing it begrudgingly, as if you have nothing else better to do, that you never truly thought you’d get out of here and you were just waiting for that moment where you run into the wrong corridor, where the door doesn’t open for once, where the hum lead you to your death. You were waiting for death. But with someone else here, a reason, it’s necessary to find that exit, even if it kills you, even if it means you getting stuck here forever, as long as he gets out of here. Because that means at least one person in the world would never forget you.

That you’ll be remembered. That you saved a life. A repentance.

—

You let Bobby sleep for some time, longer than you should have as you kept watch over the doors. You listened to the hum and felt its warmth like it would be the last time you’ll ever find peace in this place. It could be as you both are ready to leave the sanctuary of the sailboat room.

“I need to tell you something before we go, Bobby.” Your hand rests on the doorknob, eyes glancing at his shoes before rising to look at his eyes that you immediately regret doing. There’s a lump in your throat, heavy and laden with rot.

“Yeah?” He fixes the chain around his neck for the umpteenth time, and there was still nothing wrong with it like before.

Lips pursing together, the pads of your fingertips press at your throat, a motion that doesn’t escape his eyes as every miniscule movement you do is noted by him. You don’t know if he’s still wary of you, or he’s just naturally observant. Either way, it makes you overthink.

What will happen if you tell him that Kat is dead? Will he spiral? Will he take it in stride and continue on and survive for her? You don’t know Bobby that well to know which one, grief doesn’t manifest the same to everyone. Some falter, some are indifferent, some only fall into the depths after some time has passed. For you, you fell head first into the void of grief, with no sign of slowing down. He could be that too, that he’d become a shell of himself as you tug him around the corridors without hope in his heart. At least if he continues on to live in ignorant bliss, he’d have hope, he’d have a chance to ready his mind for the truth, a privilege you didn’t have.

So you lie for his sake. One that you might end up regretting. “I think…I think there’s another entity here other than the pirate.”

“The pirate?” His brows furrow, mouth pursed in a thin line as he shuffles his weight between his footing.

“You didn’t get a good look at the one that attacked us?”

“No, I was too busy being in pain.” He blinks, face contorting into a questioning look. “It was a pirate?”

“Yeah,” you purposely omit the fact that it had Clark’s face, but wrong. Shaking your head, you let out a deep exhale. “And there’s probably another one roaming around. It’s quieter, like a fucking stalker, you can only hear it coming with the sound of shuffling fabric.”

“As if our lives aren’t already fucked.” He runs a hand through his hair, palm bumping onto the shades on his head as he catches it mid fall. “So we keep a lookout on a pirate and the shuffler, easy.”

You snort a laugh, an attempt at stifling it. “The shuffler?”

“What? It has to have a name.”

“The name’s too cute for what I saw.”

“You saw it?” The already small smile drops. “Shit.” He huffs out a breath. “You shouldn’t have left alone.”

“It didn’t attack me like the pirate did, it was more like…” you recall its reddened eyes as it followed you. “observing me.”

“That’s not creepy at all.” Bobby takes another sweep of the sailboat room as if it’ll be the last time to do so. His eyes lands on your grandfather as it gazes blankly ahead. “Rules.”

You stand more straight as he does it and it makes him shake his head with a subtle smile and a roll of his eyes. Taking your mirroring as teasing.

“We need to stay together, no matter what.” His face hardens seriously, jaw tight at the hinges, eyes boring into you. “No splitting up like in the movies. I walk behind you and you’re always up front because you know this place better than I do.”

“...I bet you say that to all the girls.” You say too flatly to be a joke as Bobby tilts his head, looking at you with a ‘really?’ expression. “Sorry, my therapist says I use humor at the wrong time to cope. And yes, I understand, no splitting up. Sorry.”

“You have a shrink?” His brow raises.

“Everyone needs one at this point. C’mon.” You grow antsy under his gaze as you twist the doorknob and open it quietly.

You stop short when something bright on the floor catches your attention.

“I’m not done yet with my rules— is that a box of cereal?”

“And water bottles.” Instead of elation, you’re wary of the supplies literally laid out in front of you. “What do you think, Bobby?”

“You’re asking what I think?” You don’t have to look at his face to know that he’s raising his brows at you.

“Of course,” you don’t take your attention away from the food and water as if it’ll suddenly grow legs and walk away. “We’re in this together now whether we like it or not.”

“Reluctant allies.”

“What?” You unstick your gaze from the food over to his face.

“It’s a movie trope.” He says dismissively. “We can test it on grandpa over there to check if they’re safe to eat.”

“It doesn’t need to drink, Bobby. And how would we even test it out?”

“We shove it into its mouth.”

You blink at him with a flat look. “We’re not doing that.” Crouching down to take the supplies, you quickly shut the door gently with your foot. “We test it now, I’m fucking starving.”

“I thought you were a camel?” Bobby asks, placing the chair under the doorknob before following you.

You plop down in front of the large map you drew, cautious about the unopened box of cereals. It looks ordinary, all the words aren’t garbled like the books in the bookshelves inside the boat. It’s real and normal and it looks like a gourmet meal to you.

There’s a presence beside you as Bobby sits down beside you, legs crossed, chain swinging around his neck as he tilts his head, ducking to meet with your pensive eyes. “Has anyone told you that you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking?”

You consciously unscrunch your nose. “No,” no one ever paid enough attention to notice it.

With a shuddered breath, you break the top of the box, opening it as you take out the plastic packaging of the cereal. It’s as colourful as the picture of it up front, and it has one of those tiny marshmallows that you always took out of the bowl to save it last.

“It looks fine to me. Thank fuck they’re not spiders.” Bobby takes the cereal from your hands with a crinkle of plastic as he opens it. He takes a whiff of it, and the whole room smells like sweetened cereal flakes and processed marshmallows. “Smells fine.” He notices your silence, pausing mid scoop. “Do you wanna have a taste first?”

“No,” you lean back, resting against the boat. “You’ll be my taste tester, my guinea pig.”

“Oh fuck off.” He chuckles, shoving a fist full of the cereal inside his mouth. Chewing, the sound filling the room and adding to the tension, you two wait as he swallows.

“Feel anything?”

“Yeah…” his palm drops to his stomach, covering his midriff that shows up whenever his torso moves in the crop top that he wears well. “I think…” the fear settles underneath your ribcage, until he shrugs and shoves another hand full of cereal into his mouth. Bobby shakes it in front of you, offering it to you with his cheeks puffed and smiling faintly. “It’s fine.”

“I wonder how you manage to get a girlfriend when you eat like that.” Shoving the backpack off your shoulders, you take the cereal from him and eat a few bites full of it. It tastes awfully sweet, like it’s almost entirely made of sugar. It doesn’t taste odd, but it does leave a weird aftertaste on your tongue, like eating a day old bread left in the sun.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” His nose scrunches, as if offended at the mere thought.

“You serious?” Your brow raises to your hairline. “Is Kat not your girlfriend?”

“We’re…” his hand twists around, leg propped up, elbow on his knee as he looks at the map in front of him instead of you. “...We’re undefined.”

“Oh, you’re that type of guy, huh?” You scoff out in between chewing.

“What does that mean?” He finally turns to you, it’s his turn to scoff at you.

“That you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t bother in giving the relationship a label. You know, ‘keeping it open,’” you make air quotes with your fingers. “because you have issues or you’re waiting for the right person to come along.” You have no idea where this is coming from within you but talking to him is easy, maybe the trauma you both shared really did help in breaking the ice. “I mean, just one look at you and your slutty crop top tells it all.”

“This is in fashion.” He lifts it by the hem, his toned stomach showing and a small patch of hair you’ve never noticed before trails down from his belly button down and disappears under his jorts. “Everyone is wearing this.”

“And who are these people exactly?” You avert your eyes, picking out the marshmallows and popping it in your mouth.

Bobby snatches the cereals from you, “you know,” he gestures around him, around the yellow walls and the unusual half sunken boat beside him. “Men, people.”

“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen wear one.”

“Do you live under a fucking rock or something?” He makes a face before eating more cereal. “Just walking around Santa Clara and you’ll see like five people wearing this.”

“You live in Santa Clara?”

“Yeah, me and Kat. And Clark too, I guess.” Something in the room shifts between you, the lighthearted air around fades away like water on a sizzling pan. “Why?”

“I—I used to live there, once upon a time.” You crack open one of the water bottles that were left with the cereal.

“Cool. Where exactly?” His voice drops a timbre, not wary, just curious, like he’s asking you about a secret.

“Near the water.” Your eyes glaze over, looking in front of you and nowhere at the same time. You snap out of it like how you snap the cap off and take a swig of the water. “Not anymore though.” The taste isn’t what you expected as your face contorts into disgust.

“What, what is it?” His hand flies to the bottle, taking it away from you like it’s about to blow up. He takes a sniff at it, making a face. “It doesn’t smell like water.”

“It’s fucking almond water.” Taking a handful of cereal and marshmallows, you eat it just to get rid of the surprise taste on your tongue. It wasn’t as bad as you make it out to be, you were just shocked that the water didn’t taste like water at all. Like the rug was pulled under you.

“What the fuck is almond water?”

“I have no idea. I just know it’s not regular water.” Wiping your hands on your pants, you watch him take a tentative taste, his face morphs into disgust, lips smacking together before he makes a ‘not bad’ look then he’s back to sipping at it. You guess he’s not much of a germ freak when he’s drinking at the same bottle you drank from. “So, you and Kat live together and yet it’s undefined, huh?”

Bobby’s eyes flick to you just as you nudge him with your elbow. “It’s complicated. Rent is expensive.”

You hum, “doesn’t sound like it though.”

For a moment there you thought that you weren’t stuck in some alternate yellow hell with a stranger, instead it felt like talking to an old friend while having a snack at home while you tease Bobby.

He feels the same as he chuckles, rolling his eyes at more of your playful jabs. “Well it is, it’s complicated.”

“She probably didn’t think so.” You say in a sing song.

“And you would know this because?”

“We’re both women.”

“Of course, and because you’re an expert on relationships like mine—”

Wood thumps quietly on the carpet, barely there, almost silent, too far, but you hear it as the walls hum in the same dissonance when it followed you. It’s not the droning hum of the lights, the walls vibrate, turning the room warmer than normal.

The walls warn you.

“Shut up.”

He chortles. “Don’t tell me to shut up—”

“Pack the food, quickly.” The serious look on your face has him panicking.

“What is it?” Bobby sits up, rolls the plastic bag of cereal and shoves it inside the bag together with the water bottles.

“You don’t hear it?” Your head is on a swivel as the song of the walls increases, like a choir harmonizing, slowly rising in volume.

“No, hear what?”

Your grandfather, the copy of him, leaves the helm and runs towards the inside of the boat at a speed that startled you and Bobby. His feet were padding across the floor like a startled deer.

“Take the bag, let’s go.”

The thumping gets closer, and Bobby hears it too as his head turns towards the door where it came from.

“Bobby.” His head whips towards you, finding that you’re on the other side of the boat now, right in front of the other door. You whisper yell, ushering him towards the other side, the door that leads to corridors that you’ve only partially mapped. “Bobby.” You yell louder this time as he freezes. “Fuck.”

Bolting to him, you grab the bag on your way to him and take him by his hand, leading him away at the right moment before the peg leg stops right in front of the door.

It starts off as a knock, tentative, testing the waters. Until it hears Bobby’s staggered breathing, a choke, quiet enough to only be heard by you, but you’re not the only one who heard it as it begins to bang at the door frantically, desperate to get to the both of you.

It splinters the wood in a shower of shattered wood.

“Run.” You practically shove Bobby out of the door, before you take one final look at the boat with your grandfather looking through the porthole with his wrong eyes in his wrong face.

You shut the door behind you, and instead of yellow walls, you’re met with walls of metal rusted pipes as Bobby looks at you with wide blue eyes, waiting for you.

You peek through the crack in the door, listening for something, anything, footsteps, wood thumping on carpet, or even a scream, something to indicate that you weren’t followed; or better yet, a sign that Bobby’s two companions made it out alive.

You can feel your pulse thump, straining against your skin, beating, beating, pounding, thrumming like the heartbeat within the walls.

But there’s nothing but silence in the corridors. The air is still, and the droning whir of the familiar lights are steady above you. It’s eerily quiet, with nothing but Bobby’s shuddered breath behind you. And the warmth calling to you from the walls. You ignore the latter for now.

You close the door quietly and place a chair under the doorknob like always as you glance at the half melted sailboat to look for the copy of your grandfather. You see him at the helm again, standing still, unbothered. His eyes don’t trail right behind you as you move, you don’t know if that hurts more than being watched by the ghost of him.

The song of the walls greeted you inside the moment you stepped foot, like an old friend with its arms open for you. The humming calms you, easing your sore body as you take in the familiar room.

Crossing the short distance over to Bobby, you finally feel the adrenaline ebb out of you in aching waves. One by one you start to feel heavy with fatigue, knees creaking, your side blooming with a dull ache and your muscles beating like a pounding heart.

Bobby looks at the map on the wall that you drew. Through his tearful eyes, as blue as the ocean, as blue as the walls of your childhood room. His throat bobs up and down, chest heaving as his hand weakly grasps at his ankle. Now that you look at it, and at his expression filled with trepidation, the mural looks like the scribbles of a madwoman.

His eyes turn to you, swallowing thickly, wary of you.

“It’s a map of the place.” You explain simply, standing like a tree that sways in the wind as your feet shuffles underneath you.

“I figured.” He answers, sweat dribbling off his face, drenching his white crop top. He’s a guy probably into fashion you think, like the influencers you see flaunt their style on their page. “You’ve been alone all this time?” His eyes shift all over you, not ogling, just taking you in, truly seeing you like it’s the first time and not through the lens of the camera.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You put them behind you at first, then you must’ve looked like a timid schoolgirl in front of him so you tuck it in your pockets, but it’s too casual. So you resign to wringing your hands together, fingers playing with the cold zipper of your bomber jacket.

“Sort of.” Your hand grazes at your neck before bringing them down in front of you with a shuffle of fabric from your jacket. “I have him, but he’s not much of a conversationalist.”

“What, who?” You watch in real time as Bobby notices your grandad standing on the sailboat, while he grasps onto the helm like usual. There’s an unnatural stillness to him, like a man in a photograph and somewhere in Bobby’s brain recognizes it as inhuman. “Is he—” He tries to stand up, only for you to gently hold him down by his shoulder.

“He’s harmless.” You explain, searching his eyes, trying to convince him. Your hand flinches above his shoulder after feeling how warm he is, and how his muscles tighten underneath your touch. Taking your hand away, you bite the inside of your cheek, rethinking the interaction like you always do. “He won’t hurt us.”

His eyes glance between you and the old man. “What—” his tongue brush along his dry lips. “What is he?”

“I— I don’t know.” You’ll never tell him that you know him, or knew him more like, unless he asks you. “But he wasn’t like the one that attacked us. He’s dormant, sort of. He sometimes moves.”

Bobby runs a hand through his hair, yanking his shades off and tossing it haphazardly to the side as it slides towards the mural. “What the fuck is happening?”

“I don’t know, Bobby—”

“You should know, you’ve been here for more than twelve fucking days, you said it yourself. Fuck, Kat, where the fuck—” His anger rolls off him in waves, he lets his words out without a thought, and he regrets it the moment it leaves his lips. Bobby heaves, crumpled, afraid. “I— I’m—”

You wince, eyes closing as your finger picks at your hangnail. “I’m sorry, I really don’t k–know. All…” Clearing your throat, you stare at him with the same fear in his eyes, the same uncertainty. “All I know is that we have to get out of here.”

“Not without Kat.”

“Not without Kat.” You repeat, reassuring him with a nod. “We’ll find her, we’ll go out and find her but you can’t go anywhere with your ankle like that.” There’s a pebble lodged in your throat. “I’m sorry but you’re…you’re dead weight.” Guilt immediately eats at your ribcage.

“I can’t—” his hands gesture wildly, eyes wide and frantic. His face is blanched like he’s about to throw up all over the damp carpets. “I can’t just fucking wait here!”

“What do you want to do?” You step closer, looming over him with the same fear in your eyes. “Limp on out of here? The moment that thing comes after you, you’re dead.” His expression falls, jaw tightening at your words. Inhaling, you crouch down, eyes softening. You remember how terrified you were the first time, you wished someone was here with you to comfort you or at least keep you company. The walls were that comfort for you, even though it wasn’t a person, a living thing, just some tacky yellow wallpaper. Bobby is too late to be that person, but you can be that person for him. “I’m sorry but that’s the truth.”

“Well, you’re a goddamn downer.” He hisses in between his teeth, a hand raking through his tresses, and head thumping against the boat. Deep down he knows that you’re right, but he refuses to say it out loud. Because saying it for the yellow walls to hear is making it come true.

“Just a realist.” You manage a joke, sitting down crossed leg beside him whilst giving him space to breathe. “May I? I have meds with me, but they’re only for the pain.”

Taking your backpack off, you open the zipper as the sound echoes around the room. Your food and water supplies are scarce with nothing left but a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits. But the fortunate thing is that you have enough pain meds to last him a few days and your first aid kit is still unused. You can’t say the same thing for your hammer as it dangles on your hip all bloodied.

Bobby licks his dry lips, an open palm reaching for it. “Just give them to me.”

Handing him a pill, he pops it in his mouth as you open up the bottle of water for him. “Don’t drink it all.” You instruct him before he could down it. “That’s the only water we’ve got.”

Wiping his mouth with his wrist, Bobby gives you back the bottle, eyeing your movements as he takes a peek inside your backpack. “You don’t have enough?”

You could only shake your head. Inhaling, you take out the first aid kit and shut the backpack, changing the subject. “It doesn’t look like it’s broken.”

“You a doctor? A nurse?”

“No, I just watch a lot of TV.” The plastic clicks as you open the first aid box. “Lots of medical shows.”

“That’s reassuring.” Sniffing, his cheek rests against the cold side of the boat. “Are you sure this place is safe?”

“So far it’s been safe. No other entity has been here except for him.” Your head gestures to your grandpa still at the helm. Hands unfurling the brown cohesive wrap, you ask for permission with a glance. “This’ll help relieve the pressure.”

“You know how to do it?” He’s unlacing his shoe, before yanking it out, hissing between his teeth when it jostles his injury.

“Yeah, I was a clumsy kid.” You chuckle lightly, memories flickering in your mind. “May I?”

He nods, slowly twisting around and lending you his ankle. He’s closer to you now, and you could smell his cologne on him, something heady with manly musk amidst sweat and a faint smell of weed on his clothes. His blue eyes watch you fold the wrap around his ankle, with your pinky brushing along his heel so gently that he barely felt every tug.

“I won’t break, y’know.”

Your movements pause, eyes flicking to meet with his eyes. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m guessing it won’t work if you don’t make it tight enough.” Bobby manages a small smile to reassure you. “I’ll be alright. Just do it, the faster I get back on my feet the faster we find Kat.”

“Okay,” nodding and taking a deep breath, fingers grazing his skin, you feel him shiver underneath your touch. Something so human, a reaction that you never thought was possible to miss during your solace here. You cinch the wrap tighter as you see him take a breath between his teeth. You don’t ask him if he’s good in case you annoy him. “Is this okay?” You finish the wrap, palm cupping at his ankle before moving away. “It’s not too tight?”

“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” Bobby tests his ankle, turning it slowly around the joints before wincing and putting his foot back down slowly. He then looks at you, blue eyes staring right into your own as you fidget in place. “You’ve got blood on your face.”

“Oh,” you blink, brows rising to your forehead as you blindly wipe at your face with your sleeve. The fabric of your bomber jacket is now stained with dried blood, dyeing the poppies on it even more red. “Thanks.” You give him an unsure wobbly smile. “Your chin is bleeding. You want me to get that for you?”

Bobby touches his chin, the pads of his fingertips are reddened as he winces. He nods and you start to disinfect his wound with precise movements, cleaning it and putting a gauze and tape over it to keep it clean. He still shivered under your touch, maybe it’s his adrenaline wearing off.

“So, what now?” Touching his chin, he then tilts his head back and he stares at the door on the ceiling, brows folded together as his hand mindlessly fiddles with the chain around his throat. “This place is fucking weird.” You can just tell that his mind is on a lot of things, running a thousand miles per second just behind those ocean eyes of his.

“You haven’t seen weird yet.” You have a lot of stories to tell him, but he probably doesn’t want to hear any of it when he’s still in shock.

“Where did you even get those stuff?” His index points at your bag then over to you.

“I brought it here.”

“What? You said you fell in, that you got trapped here, not bringing camping shit and intentionally staying.” His brows furrow, agitated, terribly guarded because of you. “No sane person would want to stay here.”

“I didn’t want to stay, Bobby.” You muster up the courage to speak up, years ago you would’ve collapsed under his gaze. But not this version of you, this one survived the impossible over and over again. Not even his piercing eyes could make you keel over when you’ve stared death in the eyes. “I brought this so I could explore, just like you wanted, remember? You grabbed me and brought me down with you. Curiosity got the best of us.”

He glances away from you, an arm perched over his knee as he stares at the map before him. “Was everything you said real? Because I just met you and— I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“I just took care of your ankle for you, let you drink from my last water and saved you from that thing.” You collect your things and shove them inside your backpack. “But I get you, you don’t know me, I don’t know you. It’s your choice to trust me but everything I’ve told you so far is real. I fell, got chased, and I got lost. All I want right now is to get home just like you do.”

Bobby remains silent as he looks up at you whilst you stand up on wobbly legs.

You zip everything back in your pack before slinging it over your shoulder. “You should rest, there’s a bed inside the boat if you need it, and here.” You take half of a granola bar from your jacket pocket. “When you get hungry.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Bobby gingerly takes the snack from you, brows knitted.

“To find Kat and Clark.”

He lets out a scoff akin to a chuckle. “Alone?”

“Perks of being here for more than twelve days is that I know the layout, at least some of it.” You fix your hold on your pack as it hangs over your shoulder. “I’ll be back, I’m not planning on leaving you here.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just—” he gestures all around him like it’ll finish his sentence for him. “Go explore all alone when that thing is still out there.”

“I have to while they could still be nearby. This place is a fucking maze, Bobby, they’ll get lost. And it’s better to have at least one person to look for them than to have the two of us doing nothing.”

“Will…will you be okay? On your own, I mean?” There’s genuine concern in his tone.

“Yeah,” you don’t believe your own voice as you nod your head, and pat the hammer by your side. “I’ve got this.”

“Still, it won’t kill it.”

“I know, but it’ll be enough to stagger it.” Inhaling, you take a look at the map and then over to your grandpa before zipping your jacket around you. “I’ll be fine. If not then, try to retrace your steps back to where you got in.” You let out a humorless laugh. While his expression doesn’t change as you clear your throat at the attempt at a joke. “Don’t put pressure on your ankle and keep it elevated.” Turning around, you make it to the door as you take the chair away under the doorknob quietly.

“Wait—!” He stops you, standing up with a struggle as his hand braces against the boat. “Just—if you find Kat first, bring her here then we’ll all get out together.”

“What about Clark?”

Bobby shakes his head, fingers curling around his palm. “He knows this place too, he can get out by himself.”

“That’s a…a loaded sentence if I know one.” You utter dryly as his lips tugs in the corners. “Don’t bother him,” your eyes glances at your grandpa at the helm. “And he won’t bother you.”

The door closes behind you with a click, leaving Bobby behind with the copy of your grandpa. Bobby stares at the environment around him, he’s so sick of the yellow wallpaper already.

—

You stare at a severed hand on the floor.

Your ragged breathing bounces off the yellow wallpaper. The hammer dangles from your fingertips as you feel your limbs go numb.

It took you a while to get here, hours perhaps, and you followed all the signs, a drop of blood in the hallway, a splatter of deep crimson on the wall amidst the sickly yellow. And the stench of mold staying in the still air. You kept to the wall, almost hugging it as you left your mark on it as always to find your way back to Bobby. Your legs were aching even more when you smelled it— decay.

There’s no blood on the hand anymore, left to curdle and dry as the skin over the severed bone has rotted like it’s been here for weeks. There’s a singular fly on it, weakly flapping its wings over the rot, feasting on the cleaved flesh. You know it’s hers, who else could it be when there are only four people inside this place? The beaded bracelet with pink and white beads still hanging on around the wrist tells you it’s really her.

You think of Kat and her grisly end, she was kind to you, or at least civil when the two men only stared at you in disbelief as if you spawned and crawled out from the walls itself. She deserved better than this.

You’re no stranger to death, you’ve seen it before, out in the raging waters in a storm, and as it gripped your neck before the rope broke. You’ve seen it, you’ve felt it, you’ve heard it through the strange hum in the walls, but that doesn’t mean it gets easier, the grief, the bone aching pain in your chest still rumbles and claws right at you. Death is permanent, you know this, and yet you attempted this, you once felt it as the sound of a swinging rope echoed in your ears whilst you dangled. Seeing the remnants of it, what it leaves, even from a person you barely knew, still leaves you in this human pain, this grief that you wish to never feel ever again. But it stays, it always stays, it leaves a mark, pointing and mocking you with the memories that remind you of that heart wrenching grief. You don’t know Kat well, and you’ll never know her. A whole person with memories filled with joy and sadness, someone with dreams and fears, just gone, decimated, damned to a fate worse than anything outside these yellow walls.

It should’ve been you instead. At least no one would miss you.

There’s a sudden pinching pain in your neck, you lift your hand away from your skin, finding blood underneath your fingernails. You’ve been scratching at your throat the whole time, trying to cut into the skin, trying to claw away at the gnawing feeling of death.

The pads of your fingers pat at your neck, wincing when you feel the stabbing pain of the cuts around your skin. Your lips wobble as you sob for a woman you never got the chance to know.

You never wish this on anyone, but you’ll be the bearer of it, the messenger of this grief to Bobby.

“I tried.”

A voice says from behind, so unfamiliar, so broken.

The hammer falls from your fingertips as it clangs loudly on the carpet.

You whirl around and you see him— Clark. He looks exhausted, starved, skin pulled taut around his bones, clothes hanging loosely on his body. Under the yellow reflection of the walls, he looks as sickly as the wallpaper. The light above him flickers wildly before the bulbs burn and he’s draped in darkness.

He couldn’t possibly look like this, not yet anyway when it’s only been a few hours since the separation happened. You understand the exhaustion, but not the hunger in his eyes, the crack in his dry lips and the crackling breath in his lungs. This is the face of a man who was abandoned on a mountain for months without food or water.

“What?” Your brows wrinkle together, eyes raking worriedly at his form. “What happened to you, Clark? Are you okay?”

“Can you come with me?”

‘Can you come with me?’ Not, ‘do you have food?’ or ‘Do you have water to spare?’ or even ‘do you know the way out?’ It’s an invitation, an invitation to somewhere you really don’t want to accept.

There’s something off with him.

“Is this…” you point at the hand laying just behind the heels of your shoes. You ask even though you already know the answer. But you still do, a confirmation, closure for Bobby. “Is this her?”

“My assistant manager.” His voice is heavy with fatigue and you feel like clawing at your throat again. “Can you come with me? I know a safe place.”

You blink at him, breathing heavily. There’s something wrong with him. His eyes are the same as the last you saw him, just tired, heavy with sleepless nights. But he doesn’t talk the same, he talks robotically, like he rehearsed the words in front of the mirror beforehand in case he runs into you, or Bobby for that matter. You expected for him to be frantic or hysterical after what happened, not this, he’s calm, too calm for someone who has seen horrors beyond human comprehension.

“You said… you said that you tried.” Slowly, you move your way down to pick up the fallen hammer. “What did you try, Clark?”

“Tried to save her. But she just…I couldn’t get to her in time.” Clark takes a step forward and you flinch out of instinct. Something shifts in his eyes. “There was a pool and a wall. And she said she could see me but I couldn’t see her.” He swallows thickly. “Are you afraid of me? Like last time? Your hand looks much better.”

“My–my hand?” You shake your head, taking slow deep breaths. “No, this place it…it keeps you alert. I’m not scared of you.” Your foot nudges at the hammer as it clangs lightly. “I’m sorry for what happened. About Kat, about all of this. I tried to tell you.”

His eyes flicks towards the hammer.

“Clark, how long have you been here?” You distract him, jaw tight as you keep your eyes on him.

“A while.” His tone cracks at the edges from his dry mouth. Still too calm, still too normal.

“It’s only been a few hours, Clark. How–how could it be a while since then?” You must’ve picked up something from the numerous doctors you’ve spoken to when you use their own tactics against him. You say his name in a calm manner, telling him that you see him, that you’re staring at him and not through him. That you understand his words, his plights, instead of instigating him. You try to comfort him, this is a man who has been alone here for far longer than you have with no food, no water, and no humming in the walls to keep him company. He has become the very thing he called you. “Where have you been staying? If you’re injured I have meds and first aid. I have a bit of food, and some water if you—”

“I’ll show you where I’ve been staying.” He smiles, skin tugging in the corners. “It’s safe there, and I have food, plenty of it.”

“Where do you get the food, Clark?” Your fingers inches closer to the hammer by your feet as you slowly bend your knees.

“You’ll see, come.” He gestures behind him, still smiling. Still off.

“Where is this place? You can tell me which direction and I’ll just go there with Bobby later.” Your lashes clump together from the unshed tears in your eyes as you feel his eyes on you whilst you crouch down to grab the hammer. You’re inches away from the wooden handle as he takes two steps forward, frantic, worried.

“You’re still with Bobby?” His hand holds out to you as you stop short, fingers mid curled around the handle. “Where is he?”

“Somewhere safe.” With a shuddered breath, looking up at him, refusing to leave your gaze from him, you finally get a hold of the hammer. “Clark, do you know the way out of here?”

Blinking, like a deer in the headlights, he stares at the hammer in your hand whilst you’re still crouched.

“I do.”

“Can you tell me where it is?” You’re careful with your words.

“You’ll tell everyone about this place.” He chuckles with no ounce of humour laced in it.

“No, no, I won’t, Clark.”

“Yes, you will.” He takes a step forward and you’re forced to stand up abruptly, clutching onto the hammer. “I like this place. I know you do too.”

“No, I don’t.” Your hand trembles around the hammer. He’s scaring you. You don’t want him to come closer. “Clark, tell me where the exit is and we’ll leave you alone.”

“I still need you here. You and Bobby.”

The thumping of wood against carpet echoes from a hallway on his left. Clark turns his head at the sound and you take the opportunity to sprint away.

“Hey, no!” He tries to grab at you, managing to grab at your backpack as you’re hauled backwards onto your back with a harsh thud. “I said stay!”

You know this is Clark, not some copy of him like your grandpa or like Janet. He feels real as he looms over you, he’s warm, not cold like the pirate that chased after you, nor does he smell like mold and decay. He’s tangibly real as he drags you by the handle of your backpack towards the clambering sound of a wooden peg leg.

“Clark, no!” Shrieking, you watch as the ceiling moves quickly above you as you’re being dragged. You feel the rug burn against your back as you kick and scream and try to get a hold of his hand.

Your hammer has fallen down on the ground from the struggle, getting smaller and smaller as you’re dragged away.

There’s a chair half embedded into the wall, and you grab it, fingers curling and digging into the wood as you feel the rough edges of it.

“Let go.” He says too calmly.

“No!”

Clark looms over you, leaning down to wretch your hand away from the chair leg. “I said let go!”

With all your strength, you bring your fist to his face, punching him right on his nose as he staggers back, letting you go.

“Ah, fuck!”

You scramble away, crawling on the carpet and getting back on your wobbly feet. You shouldn’t have turned around, maybe it was your morbid curiosity, maybe you just wanted to see if the sounds weren’t from your imagination alone.

But then you see it, real, lumbering from the dark depths of the yellow hallway as it holds onto the sides of the walls, too tall, too long to go through it quickly. It fills the whole corridor with its lanky body.

Pirate Clark has its sights on you.

The light flickers, and you run.

You take the fallen hammer on your way out, bolting out of there as you hear Clark, not the wrong one, the real one, screaming your name gutterally. His scream bouncing off the monotonous yellow walls.

The signs guide you, and the song of the walls turn at an ear piercing dissonance, overwhelming you with the sights and sounds of the backrooms.

You turn a corner, more yellow wallpaper, more ringing.

There’s a junction in front of you, and you stop, hearing the mix of rushed footsteps and the wooden thumping just right behind you.

On your left is unmarked, unexplored by you. On your right has your arrow pointing right down the hallway.

With your breath stuck in your throat, fist throbbing with a dull ache and a stitch blooming on your side, you draw a bigger arrow on the wall to your left with a sharpie from your pocket as it points right at the place you have no idea what it leads to. It’s a stretch, they could still follow you so you mark the right one with an X right over the arrow, before running in that direction.

Clark isn’t stupid, you might not fool him with that alone but fighting a human being is easier than fighting an entity that could rip into you. At most it would disorient whatever pirate Clark is. So you run, keeping the same pace as you make as little sounds as you could whilst drawing fake arrows leading to nowhere right on the walls you pass by.

The best you can do is to keep Clark away from the sailboat room and far away from Bobby.

For a moment you take a breather, holding onto your knees as you pant and breathe in the still air. There’s no sound of running behind you anymore, nor the peg leg knocking on the carpets. It’s just you as you inhale and exhale, watching the sweat drip from your brow and over to the carpet below.

Lifting your head, you hear it first— the shuffling of fabric, a faint rustle. Then you see it, a glimpse of a familiar flowery bomber jacket peeking from the hallway in front of you.

It moves away, replaced by a long hand, too long fingers, long nails with blood matted underneath its fingernails as it grips at the edge of the wall.

It peeks over it, a forehead, then a pair of reddened eyes.

You don’t wait around to see the rest as you run away.

The moment you see the door to the sailboat room you feel lighter. Opening the door frantically, you shove yourself inside, startling a sleeping Bobby as you shut the door as quietly as you could and place the chair right under the doorknob.

“Hey, you okay?” Bobby glances at you as you keel over on the floor, head resting against the wall while you heave. “Did you see Kat?”

You shut your eyes tightly, a hand wiping at your sweaty face as you swallow down the bile rising in your throat.

“...No.” You utter softly, too soft for a blatant lie. “No, I didn’t see her.”

The hope on his expression falls. “What happened then?”

“I—” Bobby reaches for you, taking hold of your elbows as he pulls you back up to your wobbly legs. “I saw Clark.” You’re face to face with him as you watch his brows furrow. “He’s not…fine. There’s something wrong with him.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes search for yours as you look anywhere but him.

You look at your grandpa, or a ghost of him, as he stares up at the drawing of the sun in the corner, looking up at it as if he could just feel its warmth if he could just come closer. Your vision warbles, legs going numb under you, as if you’ve been running around for days. Your stomach grumbles, and your mouth is dry as your eyes fall in the back of your head.

“Shit! Hey!” Bobby catches you in his arms before you could hit your head.

—

The walls take you within itself.

You wake to the sound of fabric ripping and your flesh tearing at the seams. You’re surrounded by the same yellow wallpaper, from the walls to the ceiling, it warps around you, moving, breathing as it absorbs you into the sickly yellow.

You try to scream, call out for help, but no words come out of your mouth, just a guttural wheeze from the back of your throat.

Then you realize, the walls absorbs your voice too.

It takes you in, the wallpaper wrapping itself around your limbs, dissolving you into its warmth. It’s warm, so warm, like a late afternoon at the beach where the air smells like the sea and the clouds are turning pink over you. The water lapping at the sand near your feet, the grains of sand in your hair as you watch a small crab climb the length of your bare leg, you stayed on that beach, waiting for the ambulance to come, to see the pink sky be drenched in the red and blue siren lights. Like that day, you sink into the wall like how you were sinking into the wet sand.

The walls around you breathe, warbling right in front of you like the waves as it rolls around you, like you’re drifting underneath the tides.

The yellow wallpaper slithers up your chest, taking you inside the warmth. It laps at your temples, muffling your ears as you hear the hum at a frequency you could hear so clearly. It’s a sorrowful tone made by no instrument you’ve ever heard before, it’s a song made by something older than you, as old as the walls that are currently taking you in its embrace.

It’s a song you will soon be a part of.

You wake to a touch upon your arm, worried, tensed around your skin.

Your eyes open to the ceiling, where the plastic glow in the dark stars are slowly peeling away at the paint on the walls like the real ones. These ones aren’t stars though, just blobs of green tinted plastic that glows wrong in the dark, too bright, too intense unlike the real ones. It’s glowing in that same hue as the curtains are fully drawn to a close.

Turning towards the source of the hand, you see Bobby’s face sigh in relief when he sees your eyes look into his own. As blue as the waters that day, as blue as the siren lights that flooded the whole beach.

“You were screaming in your sleep.” He says, voice taut, tired as he lays his chin atop the edge of the bed, too exhausted to hold it up.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Your throat aches, like you swallowed a pebble, and your whole body still vibrates from the dream.

“No, couldn’t sleep.” His jaw tightens, he was too afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up to the entity that hunted him down, afraid that he won’t wake up.

“I’ll take this watch,” you say, rather than tell him out right to sleep. Sitting up, you see him look up at you with those big blue eyes that feels like it searches for your soul inside those sad eyes of yours. “You take the bed, the floor isn’t comfortable when it’s at an angle.”

“Yeah, I kept sliding down.” Bobby lifts himself up on the bed, back hitting the porthole as he obscures even more light whilst the plastic stars above illuminate the room. “I had those when I was a kid too.” His head is tilted up, the chain around his throat caught in the light.

“Same here.” You answer, unconsciously copying his movements as you rest your back against the wall, watching the fake blob of stars. “Mine kept falling down on my face while I tried to sleep.”

“You should’ve used double sided tape, not the ones that came with it.” Bobby chuckles, a deep rumble in his throat as he runs a hand over his face. “These ones just look weird though. Like someone who has never seen stars tried to draw stars.”

The corner of your lips tug at the corners as you crane your neck to look at him. You find him still staring at the stars, eyes half lidded, back easing with every breath he lets out. “I thought of the same thing too.”

You guess trauma really does bring people together. Even complete strangers who would otherwise never have met.

“Like a kid in kindergarten trying to draw stars.” His head turns to you, giving you the same small smile. You watch as his eyes drift down at your neck, and his face contorts into an expression you know all too well— pity. “Did Clark do that to you? You said you saw him.”

You shake your head, turning away to look at the ceiling again, the same ceiling you gazed at your whole childhood, the same ceiling you placed those stars that never really stuck to the ceiling as you watched each star fall from it, peeling off the paint along with it. You once got so tired of it that you yanked every single star off the ceiling and tossed them right in the bin.

“No,” the fake stars fizzle in and out before glimmering again. “It wasn’t Clark. I don’t think it was Clark.”

“What do you mean? Was Kat with him?”

“He looked…off.” Bobby shuts his eyes and moves his gaze away from the side of your face. “And Kat wasn’t with him.” Not anymore.

“Then,” He shifts on the bed, trying to keep his eyes open. He still smells faintly like weed and cologne. “What was wrong with him?”

Taking a deep breath, you could still feel the rug burn against the back of your thighs when he dragged you across it by the strap of your backpack. “Like he’s been here for years, he didn’t look like himself.”

“Maybe,” his lips smacks, biting the inside of his cheek as he rubs at his injured ankle. “Maybe you imagined it? Like, I don’t fucking know, your mind playing tricks on you? I mean shit, the human mind isn’t built for this kind of stress.”

Your mind has played tricks on you before you fell into this place, you’ve heard things that weren’t there before, you’ve seen things that aren’t truly there, but this, what happened to you in that corridor with the severed hand of Kat laying beside your feet as you felt her severed flesh brush alongside your ankle, was tangibly real. You would know the difference, your doctors taught you how to decipher between what was real and what wasn’t. Clark was as real as the scars along your arms.

“It was real,” you finally turn to face him with a hardened look on your face, fingers scratching at your throat. “He tried to lure me somewhere, but I saw something was up with him and I didn’t go and he just… dragged me on the carpet towards that fucking thing.”

“He did what?” Bobby sits up, face serious and breathing hard. “Clark could be a bit of an ass but he wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought too. That’s why I thought it wasn’t truly Clark.”

“Like what? He’s like the old man outside? One of those things?”

“No, I’ve seen things like him, they’re mostly dormant, curious at most, but never violent. This Clark was.”

“Did he…” he reaches for your neck before realizing what he’s doing, head tilting, hand retracting, visibly grimacing. “Did he scratch you during it?”

“...yeah, I guess he probably did.” Another lie. How long can you lie to the only person alive who is willing to talk to you?

“I’m sorry he did that. I’m sorry you went through that shit. I’d say that I should’ve been there to help but…” he chuckles, leg perched up on the bed as his elbow rests on his knee, head falling into his hand. “I’d rather not have been.”

“We’d probably both be dead.” You utter with a weak chortle. “How long was I out?”

“I have no fucking idea.” Time here moves differently, and you don’t blame him for losing track of it. His voice is muffled under his palm, before rubbing across his face as his hand rakes through his messy strands. “Three or four hours give or take?” The fake stars illuminate his face, drawing sharp shadows on the wall beside him. In this light, he looks like the boy you talked to once at the laundry shop, the boy whose shirt you found in the pile of clothes and decided to keep it that is now hanging on your torso. “You were out of it, I thought I lost you for a second. I kept checking your pulse.”

Bobby doesn’t really want to be left here all alone.

“That’s a long nap.” You scooch away from the bed, sitting on the floor instead as you see your backpack and the hammer laying neatly on the floor beside you. “It’s your turn, you need your rest for your ankle.”

“I don’t think I can sleep when I’m thirsty.”

“Here,” you’re already unzipping the bag and handing him the last of the water. Bobby’s blue eyes rake from the bottle then over to your face. “I’ll find us something, there’s a room here filled with pools, the water might be safe for drinking.” You found the pool rooms on day eleven, it reminded you of an indoor water park complete with slides that start from nowhere and end into a wall. It smelt like chlorine.

“Or it might give us the runny shits.”

“There’s a room filled with toilets too, might come in handy for that. We get to pick our thrones.”

A genuine smile stretches across Bobby’s face, before flickering away, almost guilty of smiling when Kat is still out there all alone. “I don’t even want to imagine what that looks like.”

“Like a showroom of a bathroom like in those furniture places.” You shake the bottle lightly as the water sloshes. “Just take it, Bobby, please.”

“What about you?” He says with a smaller tone, and yet his hand stretches towards the bottle that only has a quarter of water left inside.

“I’ll be fine, I’m like a camel.”

Bobby pops open the lid, tilting his head to look at your back. “I don’t see a hump back there though.” He takes a small sip, enough to wet his lips and the inside of his mouth before handing it back to you.

“It retracts, like wings.” You joke back, taking the water and capping it close, saving it for when you really need it. The corner of Bobby’s mouth tugs up, a small smirk before plopping his head down on the pillow.

“My ankle is better.”

Your eyes naturally drift towards his injury. The skin around it does look better than before. “Yeah? Can you roll it around now?”

Lifting his foot to prove a point, he rolls his ankle around and around, wincing faintly, like nothing ever happened to it as the wrap still stays on around it. It’s almost miraculous. Maybe it’s the same as your shoulder, it healed faster than humanly possible. Or it probably wasn’t as bad as you thought and that your wrap helped him heal.

“I can run now.” ‘I’m not a burden to you anymore.’ He can look for her, with or without you.

“We’ll look for Kat once you wake up then.” Your tone snags at the mention of her name.

“Wake me up in a few hours, okay?” His cheek is squished against the pillow that smells like you as his eyes flutter close. “And don’t you dare leave again. I won’t be there to catch you if you faint again.”

“Thank you for that by the way.” You say softly, too quiet as if it was meant for the walls instead.

“You saved me, and I saved you from a nasty fall. Tit for tat.” And yet he still hears you, rolling over as his back faces you.

“You could just say, ‘you’re welcome’ like a normal person.” Muttering under your breath, your gaze falls towards the hammer with the cloying blood on the steel.

“Shut up, I’m already asleep.” He utters muffledly. You scoff out a laugh through your nose.

You haven’t noticed the hum in the walls until you heard Bobby snore softly. Once you do, you stand up, leave the boat, look at your grandfather at the helm and hop off the boat before pressing your head against the warm wall.

If it absorbed you before Bobby came along you wouldn’t fight back, you would not have any regrets, you’d accept your fate once the yellow walls form around your face and you’re finally part of the structure of this place. But with Bobby here, you have a reason to live through this place, to continue searching for the exit, more determined than before when he needs your help. Before you were doing it begrudgingly, as if you have nothing else better to do, that you never truly thought you’d get out of here and you were just waiting for that moment where you run into the wrong corridor, where the door doesn’t open for once, where the hum lead you to your death. You were waiting for death. But with someone else here, a reason, it’s necessary to find that exit, even if it kills you, even if it means you getting stuck here forever, as long as he gets out of here. Because that means at least one person in the world would never forget you.

That you’ll be remembered. That you saved a life. A repentance.

—

You let Bobby sleep for some time, longer than you should have as you kept watch over the doors. You listened to the hum and felt its warmth like it would be the last time you’ll ever find peace in this place. It could be as you both are ready to leave the sanctuary of the sailboat room.

“I need to tell you something before we go, Bobby.” Your hand rests on the doorknob, eyes glancing at his shoes before rising to look at his eyes that you immediately regret doing. There’s a lump in your throat, heavy and laden with rot.

“Yeah?” He fixes the chain around his neck for the umpteenth time, and there was still nothing wrong with it like before.

Lips pursing together, the pads of your fingertips press at your throat, a motion that doesn’t escape his eyes as every miniscule movement you do is noted by him. You don’t know if he’s still wary of you, or he’s just naturally observant. Either way, it makes you overthink.

What will happen if you tell him that Kat is dead? Will he spiral? Will he take it in stride and continue on and survive for her? You don’t know Bobby that well to know which one, grief doesn’t manifest the same to everyone. Some falter, some are indifferent, some only fall into the depths after some time has passed. For you, you fell head first into the void of grief, with no sign of slowing down. He could be that too, that he’d become a shell of himself as you tug him around the corridors without hope in his heart. At least if he continues on to live in ignorant bliss, he’d have hope, he’d have a chance to ready his mind for the truth, a privilege you didn’t have.

So you lie for his sake. One that you might end up regretting. “I think…I think there’s another entity here other than the pirate.”

“The pirate?” His brows furrow, mouth pursed in a thin line as he shuffles his weight between his footing.

“You didn’t get a good look at the one that attacked us?”

“No, I was too busy being in pain.” He blinks, face contorting into a questioning look. “It was a pirate?”

“Yeah,” you purposely omit the fact that it had Clark’s face, but wrong. Shaking your head, you let out a deep exhale. “And there’s probably another one roaming around. It’s quieter, like a fucking stalker, you can only hear it coming with the sound of shuffling fabric.”

“As if our lives aren’t already fucked.” He runs a hand through his hair, palm bumping onto the shades on his head as he catches it mid fall. “So we keep a lookout on a pirate and the shuffler, easy.”

You snort a laugh, an attempt at stifling it. “The shuffler?”

“What? It has to have a name.”

“The name’s too cute for what I saw.”

“You saw it?” The already small smile drops. “Shit.” He huffs out a breath. “You shouldn’t have left alone.”

“It didn’t attack me like the pirate did, it was more like…” you recall its reddened eyes as it followed you. “observing me.”

“That’s not creepy at all.” Bobby takes another sweep of the sailboat room as if it’ll be the last time to do so. His eyes lands on your grandfather as it gazes blankly ahead. “Rules.”

You stand more straight as he does it and it makes him shake his head with a subtle smile and a roll of his eyes. Taking your mirroring as teasing.

“We need to stay together, no matter what.” His face hardens seriously, jaw tight at the hinges, eyes boring into you. “No splitting up like in the movies. I walk behind you and you’re always up front because you know this place better than I do.”

“...I bet you say that to all the girls.” You say too flatly to be a joke as Bobby tilts his head, looking at you with a ‘really?’ expression. “Sorry, my therapist says I use humor at the wrong time to cope. And yes, I understand, no splitting up. Sorry.”

“You have a shrink?” His brow raises.

“Everyone needs one at this point. C’mon.” You grow antsy under his gaze as you twist the doorknob and open it quietly.

You stop short when something bright on the floor catches your attention.

“I’m not done yet with my rules— is that a box of cereal?”

“And water bottles.” Instead of elation, you’re wary of the supplies literally laid out in front of you. “What do you think, Bobby?”

“You’re asking what I think?” You don’t have to look at his face to know that he’s raising his brows at you.

“Of course,” you don’t take your attention away from the food and water as if it’ll suddenly grow legs and walk away. “We’re in this together now whether we like it or not.”

“Reluctant allies.”

“What?” You unstick your gaze from the food over to his face.

“It’s a movie trope.” He says dismissively. “We can test it on grandpa over there to check if they’re safe to eat.”

“It doesn’t need to drink, Bobby. And how would we even test it out?”

“We shove it into its mouth.”

You blink at him with a flat look. “We’re not doing that.” Crouching down to take the supplies, you quickly shut the door gently with your foot. “We test it now, I’m fucking starving.”

“I thought you were a camel?” Bobby asks, placing the chair under the doorknob before following you.

You plop down in front of the large map you drew, cautious about the unopened box of cereals. It looks ordinary, all the words aren’t garbled like the books in the bookshelves inside the boat. It’s real and normal and it looks like a gourmet meal to you.

There’s a presence beside you as Bobby sits down beside you, legs crossed, chain swinging around his neck as he tilts his head, ducking to meet with your pensive eyes. “Has anyone told you that you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking?”

You consciously unscrunch your nose. “No,” no one ever paid enough attention to notice it.

With a shuddered breath, you break the top of the box, opening it as you take out the plastic packaging of the cereal. It’s as colourful as the picture of it up front, and it has one of those tiny marshmallows that you always took out of the bowl to save it last.

“It looks fine to me. Thank fuck they’re not spiders.” Bobby takes the cereal from your hands with a crinkle of plastic as he opens it. He takes a whiff of it, and the whole room smells like sweetened cereal flakes and processed marshmallows. “Smells fine.” He notices your silence, pausing mid scoop. “Do you wanna have a taste first?”

“No,” you lean back, resting against the boat. “You’ll be my taste tester, my guinea pig.”

“Oh fuck off.” He chuckles, shoving a fist full of the cereal inside his mouth. Chewing, the sound filling the room and adding to the tension, you two wait as he swallows.

“Feel anything?”

“Yeah…” his palm drops to his stomach, covering his midriff that shows up whenever his torso moves in the crop top that he wears well. “I think…” the fear settles underneath your ribcage, until he shrugs and shoves another hand full of cereal into his mouth. Bobby shakes it in front of you, offering it to you with his cheeks puffed and smiling faintly. “It’s fine.”

“I wonder how you manage to get a girlfriend when you eat like that.” Shoving the backpack off your shoulders, you take the cereal from him and eat a few bites full of it. It tastes awfully sweet, like it’s almost entirely made of sugar. It doesn’t taste odd, but it does leave a weird aftertaste on your tongue, like eating a day old bread left in the sun.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” His nose scrunches, as if offended at the mere thought.

“You serious?” Your brow raises to your hairline. “Is Kat not your girlfriend?”

“We’re…” his hand twists around, leg propped up, elbow on his knee as he looks at the map in front of him instead of you. “...We’re undefined.”

“Oh, you’re that type of guy, huh?” You scoff out in between chewing.

“What does that mean?” He finally turns to you, it’s his turn to scoff at you.

“That you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t bother in giving the relationship a label. You know, ‘keeping it open,’” you make air quotes with your fingers. “because you have issues or you’re waiting for the right person to come along.” You have no idea where this is coming from within you but talking to him is easy, maybe the trauma you both shared really did help in breaking the ice. “I mean, just one look at you and your slutty crop top tells it all.”

“This is in fashion.” He lifts it by the hem, his toned stomach showing and a small patch of hair you’ve never noticed before trails down from his belly button down and disappears under his jorts. “Everyone is wearing this.”

“And who are these people exactly?” You avert your eyes, picking out the marshmallows and popping it in your mouth.

Bobby snatches the cereals from you, “you know,” he gestures around him, around the yellow walls and the unusual half sunken boat beside him. “Men, people.”

“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen wear one.”

“Do you live under a fucking rock or something?” He makes a face before eating more cereal. “Just walking around Santa Clara and you’ll see like five people wearing this.”

“You live in Santa Clara?”

“Yeah, me and Kat. And Clark too, I guess.” Something in the room shifts between you, the lighthearted air around fades away like water on a sizzling pan. “Why?”

“I—I used to live there, once upon a time.” You crack open one of the water bottles that were left with the cereal.

“Cool. Where exactly?” His voice drops a timbre, not wary, just curious, like he’s asking you about a secret.

“Near the water.” Your eyes glaze over, looking in front of you and nowhere at the same time. You snap out of it like how you snap the cap off and take a swig of the water. “Not anymore though.” The taste isn’t what you expected as your face contorts into disgust.

“What, what is it?” His hand flies to the bottle, taking it away from you like it’s about to blow up. He takes a sniff at it, making a face. “It doesn’t smell like water.”

“It’s fucking almond water.” Taking a handful of cereal and marshmallows, you eat it just to get rid of the surprise taste on your tongue. It wasn’t as bad as you make it out to be, you were just shocked that the water didn’t taste like water at all. Like the rug was pulled under you.

“What the fuck is almond water?”

“I have no idea. I just know it’s not regular water.” Wiping your hands on your pants, you watch him take a tentative taste, his face morphs into disgust, lips smacking together before he makes a ‘not bad’ look then he’s back to sipping at it. You guess he’s not much of a germ freak when he’s drinking at the same bottle you drank from. “So, you and Kat live together and yet it’s undefined, huh?”

Bobby’s eyes flick to you just as you nudge him with your elbow. “It’s complicated. Rent is expensive.”

You hum, “doesn’t sound like it though.”

For a moment there you thought that you weren’t stuck in some alternate yellow hell with a stranger, instead it felt like talking to an old friend while having a snack at home while you tease Bobby.

He feels the same as he chuckles, rolling his eyes at more of your playful jabs. “Well it is, it’s complicated.”

“She probably didn’t think so.” You say in a sing song.

“And you would know this because?”

“We’re both women.”

“Of course, and because you’re an expert on relationships like mine—”

Wood thumps quietly on the carpet, barely there, almost silent, too far, but you hear it as the walls hum in the same dissonance when it followed you. It’s not the droning hum of the lights, the walls vibrate, turning the room warmer than normal.

The walls warn you.

“Shut up.”

He chortles. “Don’t tell me to shut up—”

“Pack the food, quickly.” The serious look on your face has him panicking.

“What is it?” Bobby sits up, rolls the plastic bag of cereal and shoves it inside the bag together with the water bottles.

“You don’t hear it?” Your head is on a swivel as the song of the walls increases, like a choir harmonizing, slowly rising in volume.

“No, hear what?”

Your grandfather, the copy of him, leaves the helm and runs towards the inside of the boat at a speed that startled you and Bobby. His feet were padding across the floor like a startled deer.

“Take the bag, let’s go.”

The thumping gets closer, and Bobby hears it too as his head turns towards the door where it came from.

“Bobby.” His head whips towards you, finding that you’re on the other side of the boat now, right in front of the other door. You whisper yell, ushering him towards the other side, the door that leads to corridors that you’ve only partially mapped. “Bobby.” You yell louder this time as he freezes. “Fuck.”

Bolting to him, you grab the bag on your way to him and take him by his hand, leading him away at the right moment before the peg leg stops right in front of the door.

It starts off as a knock, tentative, testing the waters. Until it hears Bobby’s staggered breathing, a choke, quiet enough to only be heard by you, but you’re not the only one who heard it as it begins to bang at the door frantically, desperate to get to the both of you.

It splinters the wood in a shower of shattered wood.

“Run.” You practically shove Bobby out of the door, before you take one final look at the boat with your grandfather looking through the porthole with his wrong eyes in his wrong face.

You shut the door behind you, and instead of yellow walls, you’re met with walls of metal rusted pipes as Bobby looks at you with wide blue eyes, waiting for you.

Sighing, your lower back aches, still weighing heavy even after the birth. Despite your exhaustion, you grab a cloak to tie around your shoulders and over your slip as you head for your daughter’s nursery. If Lyonel isn’t in the shared chambers, surely he would be there watching over her like usual. Recently, he has taken to watching Juniper sleep for a few minutes after you have placed her down on her cot. With a keen eye, he watches little Juniper’s chest rise and fall protectively, and with his hand gently grasping onto her tiny foot.

But when you enter the nursery, you don’t find him there, nor your daughter inside her cot. Your mind must still be addled by the unbalanced humours from the birth, but you were sure that you have put Juniper to bed. You would ask her nursemaid but she would already be fast asleep. So you take a candle from the table and set off to find your family within the vast keep.

Storm’s End is much gloomier and greyer at night. As if there are ghosts lingering around the halls whilst the storm winds howl outside. But you continue on, a hand hitching the skirt of your slip whilst the other keeps the candle upright. No ghosts will stop you from finding them.

As you go through the winding hallway with numerous sculpted Baratheon ancestors on the walls, you see a light flickering from the open doors of the library.

Slowly, you peek inside, seeing a lone figure hunched over a table filled with dozens of thick tomes as the shadow sways softly like a ship on gentle tides.

“You’re well fed, changed, and thank the seven you’re not ill.” Lyonel’s voice whispers at the bundle in his arms. “Gods be good, Juniper, why won’t you sleep, hm? Have you no mercy for your poor mother and father?”

Your giggle takes his attention. His head immediately moves towards the source, the corner of his lips tugging into the signature Lyonel smile that you adore. “Your daughter is petulant.”

“My daughter?” You slowly walk across the threshold and over to him, tender gaze never leaving him. “She is yours as she is mine. And our daughter is merely a month old, it is impossible for her to be petulant.”

“She takes after you.” He utters affectionately.

“She looks the most like you, my love.”

You expect for him to hand the babe over to you, too tired to carry her or too annoyed, so you reach for her, but instead of giving the babe over to you, Lyonel leans her away from your waiting arms. He pouts, brows furrowed at you, as if you have offended him and his child caring skills.

“No, this is my duty, I shall not hand her to you until she has fallen asleep in my arms.” He even dramatically turns her away from you as you bite your lip to hinder the laugh in your throat.

Meanwhile, Juniper gurgles in her father’s arms, legs kicking about under her swaddle as her tiny hand grasps onto Lyonel’s doublet.

“She was already asleep when I placed her down in her cot.” Raising a brow, you accuse him of waking her up just so he could put her to sleep himself, an act he sees through as a jest.

“I did not wake her up.” Defending himself, Lyonel, points accusingly at you. “Mayhaps you didn’t put her to sleep well enough. When I went to check on her she was gurgling and kicking about happily. Now I’m not a midwife but that was a very awake child.”

“Babes wake up for no reason, my love.” You answer lovingly, taking a good look at the tome he was reading. Some of them have dust on the covers, the books seem to have been there for quite some time. And each one is about childbirth or anything pertaining to raising children. Your eyes glistens with unshed tears when you look back at your husband. “You’ve been reading…”

“Contrary to the whispers, I know how to read.”

“Oh, my sweet Lyonel.” Your hands reach out to him, and he meets you halfway, placing his face in your open palms as you cradle his face. “You were learning how to raise our Juniper.” Cooing, Lyonel feels good when he’s the one on the receiving end of your cooing for once.

“Of course, I have.” He says matter-of-factly, eyes closing as your thumbs run along his cheek lovingly. “I can’t let you have all the glory.”

Grinning, you pull his face closer to your own, nudging his nose with yours sweetly. Gods, you want another babe with him. Especially if they’ll have his nose too and his smile.

“Oh, you’re already doing so well, my stag.” The reassurance fills his chest with warmth, the same warmth he feels whenever you place his head on your chest in bed so he could sleep soundly, the same warmth he feels whenever Juniper holds his finger in her tiny hand. “Juniper is lucky to have you as her father.” Peppering his face with kisses, you kiss every inch of his face until you see him give you a lopsided smile.

Pulling away, Lyonel immediately misses your lips upon his skin. “Tell me more about how good I am.”

“You’re doing marvelously, my love.” A grin spreads across his handsome face, beaming at you as his hand pats Juniper to sleep. “How about I accompany you here whenever you read? We could learn together.” Your hands don’t leave his side, holding him and Juniper close.

“That is a tremendous idea, my wife, but you and I both know that there won’t be much reading when we are left to our own devices.” His dark eyes sparkle with something familiar.

You make a face, chortling under your breath, “that is true.” Chuckling, you go to check Juniper in his arms, only to find that the quiet wasn’t just because she’s safely tucked in and content in her father’s arms, but because she has finally fallen asleep. “Look at that, you did it, she’s asleep.”

Lyonel looks at his daughter and grins from ear to ear, as if he just unhorsed another Targaryen. “I did it.” He says it with triumph, that you want to paint his expression on a canvas to look at it whenever you please. “It’s all because I’ve been reading.”

“I am sure it was.” Taking his hand and the candle on the other, you lead him out. “Now come and put her back to her cot so we may do some reading of our own.”

Who is he to say no? “Yes, my love.” He gladly follows your lead.

Turning to face Hobie’s side of the bed, you see it empty through your sleep heavy eyes. Your hand pats the sheets, feeling it cold underneath your touch. You get a glimpse of the clock, and the glaring red numbers read three AM. Why in the world is Hobie frantically sewing at three in the morning when he could’ve been cuddling you instead?

Blinking away the sleep in your eyes, you wrap the blanket around your shoulders and slowly make your way to the bedroom door. It creaks as you open it, and not even the sound gets his attention away from his sewing project that couldn’t possibly wait in the morning.

“Hobie…” your voice cracks from the slumber, even so, he still doesn’t notice you. “Baby, why are you up?” Shuffling on the cold floor, you cross the distance over to him, a hand reaching for his shoulder.

The cold pads of your fingers against his bare skin shocks him as he flinches away, almost sewing his thumb into the fabric.

“Fuckin’ hell, love!” He jumps in his seat, shutting the machine off as it only lets out a mechanical hum that you’re familiar with. His hand grasps at his bare chest, right where his heart is as he blinks at you. “What are you doin’ up?”

“Why are you awake?” Brow raised, your hip hits his side, and he instinctively curls his arms around you, chin resting against your stomach as he looks up at you lovingly. Judging from his very awake eyes, he’s been awake for at least an hour. “What are you even making?” You giggle when you see the utter love in his eyes.

“Shit, I woke you up didn’t I?” You nod with a soft chuckle as your fingers find his hair, tugging at it gently while you feel him relax against you. “I put a jumper over it and I shut the door. I thought it would be enough to quiet it down. ‘m sorry.” His eyes sparkles underneath the warm yellow lamp.

“Yeah, well, Hobs, that thing is a dinosaur and impossible to quiet down.”

Hobie squeezes you, palms cupping your behind comfortably. You’d roll your eyes with a scoff but you melt under his loving gaze. “‘m sorry, love.” His lips peck at your belly button, before nudging you right there and squeezing you some more. “I had a stroke of inspiration.”

“And what’s so important that you had to lose sleep over it?” Your nails rake over his scalp as he sighs and presses his cheek against your skin. You take a peek over to the machine and see pieces of fabric on an old leather bag you’ve been meaning to mend. “Is that my bag from way back?”

“Yeah,” sniffing, he inhales your strawberry scented lotion. “I wanted to fix it for you so you could use it again.”

Hobie made the bag look more punk, gingham straps instead of the cracked leather straps, there lace trims around it, a few of his patches on the holes, one huge black and red star, and one with a letter H written in cursive. A glint catches your eye beside the machine, and you see your metal scraps on it. It seems that he was in the process of making a charm for the bag too when you could also spot the various random keychains from his collection that are all clipped onto a chain. He made the bag look better than it was originally, and it warms your heart that he was making it just for you.

Cooing, you lean down to kiss the crown of Hobie’s head, letting your warmth seep through his tired body. “Thank you, that is the sweetest thing. And you made it look better than the original, I’ll use it for work.”

“Wait till I finish it.” Looking up at you, he beams, fingers tracing your sides in the usual loving motions that you could feel in your bones. “I have a few more ideas, lovie, I jus’ need some time to finish it for you.”

“Hobs, you’ve been hanging around me for far too long that you became a fashion designer too.” Chuckling, he mirrors your smile. “I love this and I love you but you have to go back to bed. You don’t have eyebags anymore, they’re eye luggages.” Your thumb gently traces underneath his eyes. “Besides, I can help you in the morning once we’re both recharged.”

“Yeah, but, I have the inspiration now.” His tone is soft, sleepy at the edges as he holds you dearly. “You know the feelin’ when you jus’ really want to make somethin’ before the feelin’ goes away?” You nod, knowing the familiar feeling. “That’s me right now, I want to make so much shit, most of it is for you, love.”

Folding yourself to nuzzle his nose as you feel him let out a little lovestruck sigh, you peck his cold cheek and then his nose and after that a kiss on his lips that lingers for too long that his hands were beginning to wander under the hem of your shirt and around your warm skin.

“I’ve got an idea…” you sigh wistfully atop his lips. “We’ll make your ideas right now, together.”

“Together?” Hobie pecks you lovingly, giving you a little kitten lick before pulling away. His eyes are half lidded, and he’s starting to get conflicted. On one hand, he wants to bring you back to bed and snog you until you’re a puddle under him, but at the same time the crafting scissors and the rolls of fabric in the corner of the room are calling his name. Not in the way you would call him breathlessly whilst your nails drag at his back, but more like, ‘you have to make a pair of pajamas to match with your lovie or your burst of creativity will be wasted.’ Kind of way. “Can we really?”

“Yeah, of course. But you have to put on a shirt or else you’ll catch your death out here.”

“Shit, and ‘ere I thought you loved seein’ me like this.”

“That’s also true, but we’ll end up not finishing a project if you look like that.” Your palm splays over his back, fingers dragging along his toned back as you draw patterns on him. He flexes his back muscles to tease you, you know exactly what he’s doing as you can’t help but feel his muscles unabashedly.

“But we’ll be able to finish. Probably twice, or three times—” With a smirk, his cheeky face is suddenly obscured by the jumper he put over the sewing machine.

—

The lights are fully on in the living room of the houseboat. The water outside is gentler, barely rocking the boat as you cut a fabric for the top he drew. It’s a bolero, one made with the same sheer-like fabric he’s using to make a top for himself to wear at a concert you two have been planning on going to with the rest of the band.

The whole floor is littered with scraps of fabric, crafting supplies, dozens of metal grommets he used to up cycle an old shirt of his into a new blouse for you. There are paint splatters all over the floor, and scattered glitters that you’ll surely find for months around the boat. The house is messy, the type of mess that will take you both hours to clean just from the scattered little metal hoops alone. But you don’t mind it all when he looks so peaceful that you have taken a few stolen polaroids of him whilst his tongue peeks in between his lips, concentrating with the most adorable expression.

His sketches are placed all around him, his designs as he hand sews some rhinestones onto a skirt that he said you absolutely *need to model for him after he’s done with it. He was right about the fact that inspiration hit him like a moving truck, he’s fully in the zone, as he sips at his icy cola every now and then for the extra boost of energy.

You know he’s about to crash soon as you could tell from how his sewing gets slower, wobbly, and he keeps redoing a stitch.

“I think you’re in the wrong profession, Hobie.” Your eyes glance over to the pair of jeans he hand painted dragons and fire on it that are still drying atop the worn green couch. “I think you should come to work with me next time to showcase all of these.”

“Don’t have to when you’ll be wearing most of it.” He licks at the thread, trying to thread it through the needle. “You jus’ inspire me, love. You’re my muse.”

Eyes looking up from his work, he finds you smiling lovingly, all tender, like when he holds you the moment you get home, or when he kisses the hinge of your jaw that never fails to make you melt. A soft smile spreads across his face, the warm yellow lamp illuminates him, painting him in a beautiful scene right out of an artsy indie movie.

“Fuck me, to think I missed you being this sweet on me for years.” Feeling the warmth in your chest, you crawl over to him, avoiding the fabrics and scissors on the floor, until you’re pushing away the crafting supplies to sit across him, knee to knee as you take the needle and thread from him.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, y’know? But I wish the absence didn’t take too long.” His head drops to your shoulder with a quiet thump whilst you thread the needle in for him. “I’ve got a whole vault full of sweet words reserved for you.”

“Yeah?” You whisper against his ear as he yawns atop your skin, breath fanning over you. “Just for me, Hobs?”

“Yeah, all for you, love,” his lips kiss your shoulder, a hand moving away your sleeve to peck at your bare skin. “lovie,” he kisses again. “my cherry,” and again, “gromit.” and some more until you’re sighing over his head, thread and needle forgotten on the floor beside you. His arms envelope around you, feeling him lean against you, his warmth spreading through your body from him. “Fuck, missed you so much.”

“Missed you too, Hobie.” You’re fully embracing him on the floor as he tugs you on his lap, just holding you there, letting himself fully meld with you. “Do you want to go back to bed now?”

“No bed.” His legs spread underneath you, pushing away the crafting supplies on the carpet to make space for you as he gently lies you down, together with him atop you. Hobie lays his head on your chest, eyes closing, lashes fluttering against the apples of his cheeks, and arms still holding onto you with a faint smile on his lips. “I’ll sleep right ‘ere.”

“Ow, our poor backs, Hobie.” Chuckling against his hair, you wrap your legs around his own, fully embracing him and you relax, eyes closing as you feel the fog of sleep envelope around the two of you.

“We’ll worry ‘bout that later…” his voice fades as he falls into a dreamless slumber.

Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.

But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.

“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.

Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.

One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.

You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.

Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.

“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”

Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.

Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”

Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.

“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.

“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”

“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”

“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”

“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”

“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”

“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”

“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”

“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.

—

Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.

But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.

Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.

You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.

You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.

Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.

“Careful, my love, she might fall.”

“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”

Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.

“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.

Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.

“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”

“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”

Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”

“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”

“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”

“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.

“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”

“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”

As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.

“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.

There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.

“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”

“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.

Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”

—

It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.

He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.

Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.

“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”

“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.

“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”

You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”

“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”

“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.

“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.

“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”

Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”

Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”

“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”

Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.

—

You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.

Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.

Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.

“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.

You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.

You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.

Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.

Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.

Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.

Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.

You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.

“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”

Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.

“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.

The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.

“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.

“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”

Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”

“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”

You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”

“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”

“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”

“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”

“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.

“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”

“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”

Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.

—

It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.

The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.

The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.

The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.

Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.

You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.

His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.

It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.

Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.

His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.

Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.

‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.

Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.

“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”

Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.

—

The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.

Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.

Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.

Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.

“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.

“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.

“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.

Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.

The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.

“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.

“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”

“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.

You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.

“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.

“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”

“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”

Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”

“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.

“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.

From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.

“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”

“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”

“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”

“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”

His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”

“Three.”

“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.

“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”

“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”

“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”

“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”

“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.

“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.

“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.

—

You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.

Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.

No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.

Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.

It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.

Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.

“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.

—

Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.

With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.

“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”

Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.

Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.

Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.

“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”

You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”

“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”

“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”

Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.

Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”

Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”

“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.

“The old midwife told me.”

Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”

“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”

“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”

You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”

“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.

—

You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.

The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.

They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.

The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.

They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.

There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.

Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.

The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.

Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.

During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.

Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.

“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”

Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.

Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.

—

Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.

He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.

You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.

Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.

When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.

Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.

“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.

Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.

“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.

The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”

“I think so.”

“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”

“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.

Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.

“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.

“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”

Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.

“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.

“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.

“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”

“Yes, father.”

He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.

There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.

People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.

“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”

You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”

The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.

Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.

“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”

You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”

He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”

“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”

Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”

“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”

“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”

“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”

“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”

Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.

The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”

“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.

—

Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.

“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.

His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.

Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.

She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.

When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.

So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.

She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.

So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.

But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.

But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.

—

Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.

The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.

What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.

“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”

Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.

“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”

“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.

His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.

Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”

Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.

“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”

Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”

“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”

“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”

—

You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.

“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.

The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.

Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.

The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.

Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.

“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”

“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.

“Why do you have that with you?”

“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”

“And? What’s the problem with that?”

“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”

The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.

“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.

“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”

“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”

“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”

“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”

“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”

Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”

“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.

“Wish me luck?”

“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”

Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.

“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.

“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.

You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”

Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”

“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.

A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️

Wincing, fingers massaging your aching head, you refuse to open your eyes. You’re sore all over, as if you ran a marathon whilst asleep, and you smell like a bar, hair matted under you as it sticks to your clammy skin. Plus you can still taste the booze on your tongue last night as you smack your lips together with a grimace.

But then there’s the smell, not the alcohol permeating around the bed, but a familiar cologne amidst the awful stench, a heavy musk, manly, smelling like a mix of petrichor and burgundy. You can smell your best mate, Lyonel on you. But that’s impossible when he’s supposed to be halfway around the world by now for work when you’re here in Vegas partying your heartbreak away with your girlfriends. Maybe you just miss the guy?

Ever since you got engaged, well not anymore, you haven’t seen him in a while. It was a whirlwind engagement when you and your ex have only been dating for six months. Which Lyonel clearly did not approve of but bit his tongue because he has known you since middle school when he was still just a neighbor who became best mates with your older siblings and you were just their annoying sibling. He always included you though, always listened to you when they didn’t care enough to stop and listen to you talk. He’s always been like that to you, kind, thoughtful, always trying to get you out of your shell with his charms and sheer energy alone.

Lyonel could sometimes be too much, but not to you, to you he’s just right.

Sighing, heart feeling lonely once again, you crack an eye open despite the blooming headache. You face the floor to ceiling windows as the Las Vegas strip greets you down below. In the morning, the place doesn’t feel like the same city you went gallivanting around, it feels quieter. Warmer even without the flashing neon signs.

Yawning away the sleep, you pull the covers over your bare self. You have no idea how you got back to your hotel room, or why you’re naked, well, you’ve been told numerous times that whenever you’re drunk off your ass you tend to shed your clothes off, a horrendous side effect of drinking. To your friends’ ire and to Lyonel’s amusement, he would laugh before taking off his jacket and placing it around you and hauling you away before you flash anyone. You guess sleeping naked isn’t much of a mystery to you now that you think about it. Maybe one of your friends yanked you back to your room so you could strip naked all on your own and crawled into bed yourself.

But as the blanket gets snagged by something behind you, you pull harder at the hem, then some more when it doesn’t budge. The blanket still doesn’t move and your hand slips from the silk and you accidentally punch yourself.

“Ow, fuck…” wincing, you cradle your cheek.

The blanket moves on its own, not to cover your bare thigh, no, it moves further away from you.

Your heart drops in your stomach. You might be hungover and can barely remember anything from last night but you know you’re not sharing a room with your friends. Or anyone for that matter.

Slowly you turn around to face whoever’s hogging the blanket.

A bare freckled back greets you, a back that is so awfully familiar that you have seen numerous times during warm summer beach days with him. “Lyonel?”

Eyes wide, pulse thrumming, you lift the cover upwards, taking a peek inside, only to see what you’ve only seen in one of your dreams that you refuse to tell anyone even under torture. He’s as bare as the day he was born. His ass, also freckled, and plumper than you thought would be, wiggles beside you as he stirs in his sleep.

“The others take me…” You mumble, unable to look away. You let go of the blanket, heaving as you finally realize why you were so sore. But you need more evidence so you turn towards the trash can beside the bed, and you had to clamp your mouth shut before you could let out a shriek from your warm chest. There’s three, no, five fucking rubbers in there. What the fuck did you do? And were you that insatiable?

Your head falls back into your pillow, and you flip the blanket away once again just to make sure that you’re actually seeing Lyonel’s ass with a very red handprint on it that is coincidentally the same size as your hand and not a hallucination.

Sighing, taking deep breaths, you rub a hand over your sweaty face. Then you feel it, the cold metal on your ring finger that you’re sure you got rid of when you threw it at your cheating ex-fiance’s face.

You have a new ring on you, and it’s not just a simple golden band, there’s two— an engagement ring with a sizable yellow diamond in the middle, one that you were ogling on a magazine months ago, and a wedding band engraved with stag antlers all around it.

“Gods.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you’re about to look at Lyonel’s hand just to check, until he turns in his sleep, an arm thrown over your middle as he embraces you, nuzzling his face against your chest comfortably. “Oh…” this feels right. This feels perfect.

With his hand on your hip, you can see an identical ring on his ring finger. Gold with the same engraving.

You can’t keep quiet forever, so you tap his back, slowly, gently until he hums against your skin, breath fanning over your chest.

“Lyonel, wake up.” Your tapping increases.

“Five minutes…” he waves you away, cuddling further into your warmth as something on your thigh pokes you. You don’t have to look down to know.

“In the name of the seven wake the fuck up!” Your patience wears thin, that Lyonel always laughed at. Now he’s the receiving end of that patience, you wonder if he still finds it amusing as he wakes up with a start.

“What?! What is it, doe?” He blinks the sleep in his eyes, voice gravelly and deeper than usual as he lifts his head away from your sternum, chin resting on it as his eyes narrow at your face. “I was having a nice fucking dream.”

“What did we do last night?!”

“Stop screaming.” His heavy head falls right back on your sternum, as bare as the rest of you as his nose nuzzles way too close to your chest. “It’s too early for you to be so annoying.”

“Open your damn eyes, Lyonel.”

Sighing, he does what he’s told, and you watch in real time as his eyes widen, face greeted by your chest. You swear you could hear his heart thump wildly against your stomach before he flinches away and takes the blanket to cover himself.

“Seven hells!” He looks down at your bare self, whilst you look at him with nonchalance, before he looks at himself then tosses the blanket over your form. “Did we just—?”

“Yeah, check the trash.” Your whole face is aflame as he hides his groin with a throw pillow. You don’t even try to cover yourself up anymore. What’s the point when he has seen and felt everything, just like you have with him? You can feel the memory of his touches on you, how he was gentle, albeit as drunk and giggly as you.

Lyonel takes a peek over the bed and to the bin, eyes wide, face contorting into amusement. “Five?!” You could feel it before he could let out a booming laugh. “Fuck me, and I don’t remember it? That’s fucking cruel.” Wincing, you kneads at his aching forehead. “Gods, this bloody headache.”

“Lyonel! Be serious!” And yet you let out a chuckle in between your words.

“I am!” He mirrors your expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes!”

“Fine!” He rubs a hand over his messy curls, feeling the ring around his finger. Blinking, he makes a befuddled face that you find endearing. He brings his hand over to his face as you watch the same realization flicker on his expression. “Oh, we definitely have to talk about it.”

Your attention flicks over to the tea and coffee on the kitchen counter. “Over tea and ibuprofen?”

—

You’re now in an oversized shirt, too hungover and sore to wear something else or to even wash off the night’s revelry as Lyonel makes the two of you a cup of tea. He knows your tea preference by heart as you hear him tap the spoon against the rim of the mug twice like he always does.

The curtains are closed, blocking the bright sun of Sin City. As you slowly exhale out to stave off the headache. Lyonel looks better than you, he’s always better in hiding his hangovers and aches better than you could. His cheeks are flushed, albeit his eyes look as tired as yours. It seems that you two did not get enough sleep on account of well, all the drunken love making. Juniper’s either going to kill him, or perhaps kill you, or maybe the both of you for marrying without her as the witness just like you promised when you were both just little girls. You can’t even imagine what your shared best mate, Duncan, will say about this.

“Here.” He hands you a cup of warm tea and some ibuprofen as he now walks around with a hotel towel wrapped around his waist. “You look like warmed over shit.”

“You look like warmed over shit, my wife.” Your hands wiggle in front of his face as you show off your rings. You then drink the medicine, gulping down some tea along with it. It tastes perfectly, just how you like it.

Lyonel scoffs out a laugh, pushing your leg away from the edge of the bed as he sits beside you. The bed dips as he sits, sipping at his drink, drinking the same meds, whilst the two of you process everything.

The hum of the AC bounces off the hotel walls that have palm tree wallpaper all around it. Your mind wanders as you see the scratches on his back and arms, ones that you couldn’t see before that are most definitely from your nails. Flashes of last night appear in your head, the sounds you two made, your fingers in his hair, and the love between the two of you, not just on the bed, but also whilst you two casually strolled around the Vegas strip, hand in hand, grinning at each other whilst you two smelled like a bar.

Lyonel watches the far away look in your eyes and he gulps down at his tea with trepidation, trying to rid of the lump in his throat. He might’ve ruined his relationship with you. He’d rather live a life of loneliness than live the rest of his life without you in it. He would’ve stayed just friends with you forever if it meant that he could stay by your side forever. He loves you, ever since that one camping night where everyone else was asleep and you two gazed at the stars all night long just talking. But if what happened last night meant losing you today, then he’d rewind time to stop this from ever happening.

“Nice ring by the way.” He jests, rolling his aching shoulders and knees as he scrubs away the sleep in his eyes.

“Thanks,” you admire the sparkling diamond with a smile. “I think you chose it. You’ve got great taste.”

“I bought it too.” Lyonel chortles, “I saw the receipt.”

“Do you want to go halfsies?”

“Fuck no, love.” He replies, almost offended. “It’s a gift, I bought it for you.”

“Thank you, I love it and I wasn’t planning on giving it back by the way.” A grin tugs at your lips. And he looks at you like, ‘as if I want you to give it back.’ Smacking your lips together, your mind goes back to the kisses shared last night briefly before going back to the present. “What are you even doing here, Lyonel? I thought you would be in Essos by now.”

“Juniper called me for help, she said that they can’t wrangle you anymore. You were traipsing all over the strip like a depressed duck, her words not mine.” He recalls the memory in his hungover mind. “I was just at the airport when I answered her call and coincidentally my flight was delayed.” With one leg over the other, the towel falls away from his toned thigh, revealing more skin, that you have to unstick your gaze from it. “I got here forty minutes after she called.”

Your heart squeezes. “Your flight wasn’t delayed.” You know him too well, including his tells.

“No, it wasn’t.” He confesses, dark eyes gazing at you with softness.

“Do you remember anything?”

“Bits and pieces.” Lyonel answers over the rim of his cup, watching you with tender eyes. “You good? I didn’t— I didn’t go overboard on you last night?” His lips smack together, brows furrowed with concern, as he lets out a shuddered breath. “Are we good?”

“A bit sore, a good kind of sore though.” He swallows thickly at your confession. “But you’re worse off honestly. And we’re good, don’t worry about it.”

“I am?” He scratches at his beard, then over to his sore neck, why is his neck so sore? But Lyonel feels lighter after your answer. “Well I do feel like I ran a thousand miles.”

“My handprint was on your ass when I woke up.” You smile over your cup as he actually turns around to take a peek under the towel. “Oh, Lyonel, come on, don’t actually check it.”

“You said it, of course I’m going to bloody check!” He shimmies out of the towel, craning his neck down and around, looking like a dog trying to chase his tail.

“It was there! It’s faded now!”

“I took off my towel for no reason just to give you a show?”

“I didn’t ask you to take it off, idiot.”

“You implied it.” Scoffing, he sits back down, rubbing his hands on the back of his neck. After a beat and with you taking huge gulps of your tea, he finally speaks. “What if I got you pregnant?”

“Fucking hell, Lyonel.”

“What? It’s a genuine fucking concern! I mean I guess it wouldn’t be so bad but how the fuck do we explain it to them?” Fully turning to you, he clicks his tongue and sighs once again. “‘Yeah, your mum and dad got drunk in Vegas and decided to get married on a whim and have you after pining for each other since high school.’” He shrugs and makes a face. “That would scar the fucking kid!”

You don’t mean to laugh, you really don’t. But he painted such a clear picture for you that you just couldn’t help it. Plus the declaration of love makes your heart tumble inside your chest as your whole body floods with warmth. “Gods, that’s…I don’t know what to say.”

“Our kid will think they’re a mistake, love.” He moves closer, trying to look serious. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny.” You say with a soft smile as you place your mug on the bedside table, sitting up closer to him just to push his wild curls away from his face. Your hand stays on his cheek, and unsurprisingly, he holds your hand there, a thumb running along the inside of your wrist lovingly. Whilst his other hand rests on your knee, cupping it tenderly. “Especially about the pining part. Has it been that long?”

“Ever since I could remember.”

“Well shit.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s going to be too surprised if we tell them about this.”

“That’s true. We weren’t very slick about the whole being in love with each other thing.” Your voice lowers, a half whisper as your eyes drift to the ring around his finger. “Do you want to get divorced?”

“No,” his answer is immediate, no uncertainty laced in his tone. “Do you?”

“I don’t want to either.” There’s no lie in your words either. “And it’s not because there’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”

“You do hate paperwork.” Lyonel moves closer, hip to hip as his arm cages your side, dark eyes gazing into your own most ardently. “So what now?”

“This wasn't a mistake. Not really. I think we can both agree on that.” He nods, eyes softened, head tilted to gaze down at you tenderly. Your voice lowers some more, a whisper, words dedicated just for him. Deep inside, even in your subconscious, even in his, you both wanted this. “I just wish I could remember all of it.”

“We could always get married again.” He says matter-of-factly, so sure, so certain as a smile tugs at his lips. “Not by an Elvis impersonator this time around.”

“Was it an Elvis impersonator?”

“I definitely remember a sparkling man with big hair marrying us.”

Your laugh warms him as he beams at you. “Gods, Lyonel. I can’t believe we got married, that we’re both confessing to each other after the marriage.”

“Who said we have to do it step by step, hm?” He’s leaning so close that you could see yourself in his eyes. “I really do adore and love you, you know?”

“I know. I love you too, my drunk self knew that too.” You’re the first to lean closer, a hair’s width away, eyes closing as your lips brushes along his own.

“Our drunk arses got us together.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling in the corners as his warmth ebbs over to your chest.

“We should thank our drunk selves.” You mutter atop his lips.

Lyonel kisses you back, breathing you in, smiling through the kiss as his shoulders ease from the kiss. He could melt against you whilst his hands cup your face lovingly, like he always wanted to do. It’s a relief to him, relieved that this didn’t ruin anything between you. Relieved to find out that you love him back, enough to continue being married to him. This kiss is slow, loving, saccharine, as if you two are still mapping out each other’s lips. It’s so tender that you could feel every warm peck in your heart.

After the slow loving kiss, the first of many, you pull away reluctantly for air. Lyonel looks at you like you hung the stars, like you’re his reason for living, like a great love should. And you gaze at him with so much love that memories of last night flashes in his mind, all tender, all saccharine, with you smiling and giggling through it.

After a beat of just gazing into each other’s eyes and coming down from the high that was the kiss, Lyonel clears his throat, pecks you one more time, then another, and another before pulling away. Then he immediately decides not to move away from you, as if leaving the vicinity of your lips will cause him to perish.

“I have an idea.” You utter above his lips as he moves the blanket away from your lap to loom over you with a needy gaze aimed right at you.

“Yeah?” His fingers tilt your chin up gently, peppering kisses upon your throat as his humming reverberates through your chest. “Mrs. Baratheon?”

“Maybe I took pictures.”

Lyonel stops in his tracks, remembering a few snapshots of you in his memories where you’re clearly filming through the night of revelry. But the sensation he remembers the most is your lips on him, on his skin, and the lovely sounds you made. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.

But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.

“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.

Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.

One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.

You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.

Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.

“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”

Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.

Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”

Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.

“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.

“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”

“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”

“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”

“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”

“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”

“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”

“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”

“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.

—

Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.

But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.

Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.

You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.

You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.

Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.

“Careful, my love, she might fall.”

“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”

Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.

“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.

Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.

“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”

“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”

Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”

“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”

“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”

“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.

“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”

“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”

As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.

“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.

There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.

“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”

“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.

Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”

—

It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.

He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.

Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.

“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”

“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.

“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”

You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”

“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”

“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.

“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.

“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”

Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”

Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”

“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”

Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.

—

You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.

Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.

Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.

“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.

You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.

You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.

Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.

Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.

Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.

Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.

You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.

“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”

Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.

“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.

The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.

“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.

“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”

Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”

“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”

You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”

“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”

“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”

“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”

“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.

“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”

“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”

Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.

—

It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.

The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.

The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.

The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.

Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.

You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.

His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.

It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.

Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.

His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.

Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.

‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.

Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.

“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”

Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.

—

The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.

Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.

Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.

Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.

“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.

“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.

“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.

Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.

The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.

“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.

“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”

“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.

You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.

“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.

“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”

“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”

Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”

“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.

“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.

From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.

“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”

“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”

“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”

“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”

His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”

“Three.”

“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.

“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”

“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”

“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”

“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”

“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.

“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.

“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.

—

You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.

Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.

No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.

Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.

It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.

Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.

“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.

—

Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.

With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.

“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”

Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.

Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.

Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.

“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”

You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”

“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”

“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”

Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.

Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”

Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”

“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.

“The old midwife told me.”

Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”

“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”

“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”

You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”

“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.

—

You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.

The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.

They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.

The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.

They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.

There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.

Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.

The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.

Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.

During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.

Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.

“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”

Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.

Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.

—

Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.

He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.

You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.

Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.

When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.

Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.

“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.

Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.

“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.

The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”

“I think so.”

“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”

“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.

Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.

“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.

“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”

Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.

“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.

“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.

“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”

“Yes, father.”

He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.

There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.

People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.

“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”

You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”

The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.

Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.

“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”

You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”

He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”

“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”

Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”

“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”

“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”

“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”

“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”

Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.

The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”

“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.

—

Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.

“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.

His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.

Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.

She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.

When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.

So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.

She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.

So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.

But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.

But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.

—

Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.

The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.

What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.

“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”

Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.

“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”

“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.

His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.

Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”

Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.

“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”

Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”

“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”

“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”

—

You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.

“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.

The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.

Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.

The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.

Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.

“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”

“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.

“Why do you have that with you?”

“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”

“And? What’s the problem with that?”

“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”

The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.

“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.

“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”

“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”

“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”

“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”

“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”

Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”

“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.

“Wish me luck?”

“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”

Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.

“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.

“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.

You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”

Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”

“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.

A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️

Wincing, fingers massaging your aching head, you refuse to open your eyes. You’re sore all over, as if you ran a marathon whilst asleep, and you smell like a bar, hair matted under you as it sticks to your clammy skin. Plus you can still taste the booze on your tongue last night as you smack your lips together with a grimace.

But then there’s the smell, not the alcohol permeating around the bed, but a familiar cologne amidst the awful stench, a heavy musk, manly, smelling like a mix of petrichor and burgundy. You can smell your best mate, Lyonel on you. But that’s impossible when he’s supposed to be halfway around the world by now for work when you’re here in Vegas partying your heartbreak away with your girlfriends. Maybe you just miss the guy?

Ever since you got engaged, well not anymore, you haven’t seen him in a while. It was a whirlwind engagement when you and your ex have only been dating for six months. Which Lyonel clearly did not approve of but bit his tongue because he has known you since middle school when he was still just a neighbor who became best mates with your older siblings and you were just their annoying sibling. He always included you though, always listened to you when they didn’t care enough to stop and listen to you talk. He’s always been like that to you, kind, thoughtful, always trying to get you out of your shell with his charms and sheer energy alone.

Lyonel could sometimes be too much, but not to you, to you he’s just right.

Sighing, heart feeling lonely once again, you crack an eye open despite the blooming headache. You face the floor to ceiling windows as the Las Vegas strip greets you down below. In the morning, the place doesn’t feel like the same city you went gallivanting around, it feels quieter. Warmer even without the flashing neon signs.

Yawning away the sleep, you pull the covers over your bare self. You have no idea how you got back to your hotel room, or why you’re naked, well, you’ve been told numerous times that whenever you’re drunk off your ass you tend to shed your clothes off, a horrendous side effect of drinking. To your friends’ ire and to Lyonel’s amusement, he would laugh before taking off his jacket and placing it around you and hauling you away before you flash anyone. You guess sleeping naked isn’t much of a mystery to you now that you think about it. Maybe one of your friends yanked you back to your room so you could strip naked all on your own and crawled into bed yourself.

But as the blanket gets snagged by something behind you, you pull harder at the hem, then some more when it doesn’t budge. The blanket still doesn’t move and your hand slips from the silk and you accidentally punch yourself.

“Ow, fuck…” wincing, you cradle your cheek.

The blanket moves on its own, not to cover your bare thigh, no, it moves further away from you.

Your heart drops in your stomach. You might be hungover and can barely remember anything from last night but you know you’re not sharing a room with your friends. Or anyone for that matter.

Slowly you turn around to face whoever’s hogging the blanket.

A bare freckled back greets you, a back that is so awfully familiar that you have seen numerous times during warm summer beach days with him. “Lyonel?”

Eyes wide, pulse thrumming, you lift the cover upwards, taking a peek inside, only to see what you’ve only seen in one of your dreams that you refuse to tell anyone even under torture. He’s as bare as the day he was born. His ass, also freckled, and plumper than you thought would be, wiggles beside you as he stirs in his sleep.

“The others take me…” You mumble, unable to look away. You let go of the blanket, heaving as you finally realize why you were so sore. But you need more evidence so you turn towards the trash can beside the bed, and you had to clamp your mouth shut before you could let out a shriek from your warm chest. There’s three, no, five fucking rubbers in there. What the fuck did you do? And were you that insatiable?

Your head falls back into your pillow, and you flip the blanket away once again just to make sure that you’re actually seeing Lyonel’s ass with a very red handprint on it that is coincidentally the same size as your hand and not a hallucination.

Sighing, taking deep breaths, you rub a hand over your sweaty face. Then you feel it, the cold metal on your ring finger that you’re sure you got rid of when you threw it at your cheating ex-fiance’s face.

You have a new ring on you, and it’s not just a simple golden band, there’s two— an engagement ring with a sizable yellow diamond in the middle, one that you were ogling on a magazine months ago, and a wedding band engraved with stag antlers all around it.

“Gods.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you’re about to look at Lyonel’s hand just to check, until he turns in his sleep, an arm thrown over your middle as he embraces you, nuzzling his face against your chest comfortably. “Oh…” this feels right. This feels perfect.

With his hand on your hip, you can see an identical ring on his ring finger. Gold with the same engraving.

You can’t keep quiet forever, so you tap his back, slowly, gently until he hums against your skin, breath fanning over your chest.

“Lyonel, wake up.” Your tapping increases.

“Five minutes…” he waves you away, cuddling further into your warmth as something on your thigh pokes you. You don’t have to look down to know.

“In the name of the seven wake the fuck up!” Your patience wears thin, that Lyonel always laughed at. Now he’s the receiving end of that patience, you wonder if he still finds it amusing as he wakes up with a start.

“What?! What is it, doe?” He blinks the sleep in his eyes, voice gravelly and deeper than usual as he lifts his head away from your sternum, chin resting on it as his eyes narrow at your face. “I was having a nice fucking dream.”

“What did we do last night?!”

“Stop screaming.” His heavy head falls right back on your sternum, as bare as the rest of you as his nose nuzzles way too close to your chest. “It’s too early for you to be so annoying.”

“Open your damn eyes, Lyonel.”

Sighing, he does what he’s told, and you watch in real time as his eyes widen, face greeted by your chest. You swear you could hear his heart thump wildly against your stomach before he flinches away and takes the blanket to cover himself.

“Seven hells!” He looks down at your bare self, whilst you look at him with nonchalance, before he looks at himself then tosses the blanket over your form. “Did we just—?”

“Yeah, check the trash.” Your whole face is aflame as he hides his groin with a throw pillow. You don’t even try to cover yourself up anymore. What’s the point when he has seen and felt everything, just like you have with him? You can feel the memory of his touches on you, how he was gentle, albeit as drunk and giggly as you.

Lyonel takes a peek over the bed and to the bin, eyes wide, face contorting into amusement. “Five?!” You could feel it before he could let out a booming laugh. “Fuck me, and I don’t remember it? That’s fucking cruel.” Wincing, you kneads at his aching forehead. “Gods, this bloody headache.”

“Lyonel! Be serious!” And yet you let out a chuckle in between your words.

“I am!” He mirrors your expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes!”

“Fine!” He rubs a hand over his messy curls, feeling the ring around his finger. Blinking, he makes a befuddled face that you find endearing. He brings his hand over to his face as you watch the same realization flicker on his expression. “Oh, we definitely have to talk about it.”

Your attention flicks over to the tea and coffee on the kitchen counter. “Over tea and ibuprofen?”

—

You’re now in an oversized shirt, too hungover and sore to wear something else or to even wash off the night’s revelry as Lyonel makes the two of you a cup of tea. He knows your tea preference by heart as you hear him tap the spoon against the rim of the mug twice like he always does.

The curtains are closed, blocking the bright sun of Sin City. As you slowly exhale out to stave off the headache. Lyonel looks better than you, he’s always better in hiding his hangovers and aches better than you could. His cheeks are flushed, albeit his eyes look as tired as yours. It seems that you two did not get enough sleep on account of well, all the drunken love making. Juniper’s either going to kill him, or perhaps kill you, or maybe the both of you for marrying without her as the witness just like you promised when you were both just little girls. You can’t even imagine what your shared best mate, Duncan, will say about this.

“Here.” He hands you a cup of warm tea and some ibuprofen as he now walks around with a hotel towel wrapped around his waist. “You look like warmed over shit.”

“You look like warmed over shit, my wife.” Your hands wiggle in front of his face as you show off your rings. You then drink the medicine, gulping down some tea along with it. It tastes perfectly, just how you like it.

Lyonel scoffs out a laugh, pushing your leg away from the edge of the bed as he sits beside you. The bed dips as he sits, sipping at his drink, drinking the same meds, whilst the two of you process everything.

The hum of the AC bounces off the hotel walls that have palm tree wallpaper all around it. Your mind wanders as you see the scratches on his back and arms, ones that you couldn’t see before that are most definitely from your nails. Flashes of last night appear in your head, the sounds you two made, your fingers in his hair, and the love between the two of you, not just on the bed, but also whilst you two casually strolled around the Vegas strip, hand in hand, grinning at each other whilst you two smelled like a bar.

Lyonel watches the far away look in your eyes and he gulps down at his tea with trepidation, trying to rid of the lump in his throat. He might’ve ruined his relationship with you. He’d rather live a life of loneliness than live the rest of his life without you in it. He would’ve stayed just friends with you forever if it meant that he could stay by your side forever. He loves you, ever since that one camping night where everyone else was asleep and you two gazed at the stars all night long just talking. But if what happened last night meant losing you today, then he’d rewind time to stop this from ever happening.

“Nice ring by the way.” He jests, rolling his aching shoulders and knees as he scrubs away the sleep in his eyes.

“Thanks,” you admire the sparkling diamond with a smile. “I think you chose it. You’ve got great taste.”

“I bought it too.” Lyonel chortles, “I saw the receipt.”

“Do you want to go halfsies?”

“Fuck no, love.” He replies, almost offended. “It’s a gift, I bought it for you.”

“Thank you, I love it and I wasn’t planning on giving it back by the way.” A grin tugs at your lips. And he looks at you like, ‘as if I want you to give it back.’ Smacking your lips together, your mind goes back to the kisses shared last night briefly before going back to the present. “What are you even doing here, Lyonel? I thought you would be in Essos by now.”

“Juniper called me for help, she said that they can’t wrangle you anymore. You were traipsing all over the strip like a depressed duck, her words not mine.” He recalls the memory in his hungover mind. “I was just at the airport when I answered her call and coincidentally my flight was delayed.” With one leg over the other, the towel falls away from his toned thigh, revealing more skin, that you have to unstick your gaze from it. “I got here forty minutes after she called.”

Your heart squeezes. “Your flight wasn’t delayed.” You know him too well, including his tells.

“No, it wasn’t.” He confesses, dark eyes gazing at you with softness.

“Do you remember anything?”

“Bits and pieces.” Lyonel answers over the rim of his cup, watching you with tender eyes. “You good? I didn’t— I didn’t go overboard on you last night?” His lips smack together, brows furrowed with concern, as he lets out a shuddered breath. “Are we good?”

“A bit sore, a good kind of sore though.” He swallows thickly at your confession. “But you’re worse off honestly. And we’re good, don’t worry about it.”

“I am?” He scratches at his beard, then over to his sore neck, why is his neck so sore? But Lyonel feels lighter after your answer. “Well I do feel like I ran a thousand miles.”

“My handprint was on your ass when I woke up.” You smile over your cup as he actually turns around to take a peek under the towel. “Oh, Lyonel, come on, don’t actually check it.”

“You said it, of course I’m going to bloody check!” He shimmies out of the towel, craning his neck down and around, looking like a dog trying to chase his tail.

“It was there! It’s faded now!”

“I took off my towel for no reason just to give you a show?”

“I didn’t ask you to take it off, idiot.”

“You implied it.” Scoffing, he sits back down, rubbing his hands on the back of his neck. After a beat and with you taking huge gulps of your tea, he finally speaks. “What if I got you pregnant?”

“Fucking hell, Lyonel.”

“What? It’s a genuine fucking concern! I mean I guess it wouldn’t be so bad but how the fuck do we explain it to them?” Fully turning to you, he clicks his tongue and sighs once again. “‘Yeah, your mum and dad got drunk in Vegas and decided to get married on a whim and have you after pining for each other since high school.’” He shrugs and makes a face. “That would scar the fucking kid!”

You don’t mean to laugh, you really don’t. But he painted such a clear picture for you that you just couldn’t help it. Plus the declaration of love makes your heart tumble inside your chest as your whole body floods with warmth. “Gods, that’s…I don’t know what to say.”

“Our kid will think they’re a mistake, love.” He moves closer, trying to look serious. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny.” You say with a soft smile as you place your mug on the bedside table, sitting up closer to him just to push his wild curls away from his face. Your hand stays on his cheek, and unsurprisingly, he holds your hand there, a thumb running along the inside of your wrist lovingly. Whilst his other hand rests on your knee, cupping it tenderly. “Especially about the pining part. Has it been that long?”

“Ever since I could remember.”

“Well shit.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s going to be too surprised if we tell them about this.”

“That’s true. We weren’t very slick about the whole being in love with each other thing.” Your voice lowers, a half whisper as your eyes drift to the ring around his finger. “Do you want to get divorced?”

“No,” his answer is immediate, no uncertainty laced in his tone. “Do you?”

“I don’t want to either.” There’s no lie in your words either. “And it’s not because there’s going to be a lot of paperwork.”

“You do hate paperwork.” Lyonel moves closer, hip to hip as his arm cages your side, dark eyes gazing into your own most ardently. “So what now?”

“This wasn't a mistake. Not really. I think we can both agree on that.” He nods, eyes softened, head tilted to gaze down at you tenderly. Your voice lowers some more, a whisper, words dedicated just for him. Deep inside, even in your subconscious, even in his, you both wanted this. “I just wish I could remember all of it.”

“We could always get married again.” He says matter-of-factly, so sure, so certain as a smile tugs at his lips. “Not by an Elvis impersonator this time around.”

“Was it an Elvis impersonator?”

“I definitely remember a sparkling man with big hair marrying us.”

Your laugh warms him as he beams at you. “Gods, Lyonel. I can’t believe we got married, that we’re both confessing to each other after the marriage.”

“Who said we have to do it step by step, hm?” He’s leaning so close that you could see yourself in his eyes. “I really do adore and love you, you know?”

“I know. I love you too, my drunk self knew that too.” You’re the first to lean closer, a hair’s width away, eyes closing as your lips brushes along his own.

“Our drunk arses got us together.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling in the corners as his warmth ebbs over to your chest.

“We should thank our drunk selves.” You mutter atop his lips.

Lyonel kisses you back, breathing you in, smiling through the kiss as his shoulders ease from the kiss. He could melt against you whilst his hands cup your face lovingly, like he always wanted to do. It’s a relief to him, relieved that this didn’t ruin anything between you. Relieved to find out that you love him back, enough to continue being married to him. This kiss is slow, loving, saccharine, as if you two are still mapping out each other’s lips. It’s so tender that you could feel every warm peck in your heart.

After the slow loving kiss, the first of many, you pull away reluctantly for air. Lyonel looks at you like you hung the stars, like you’re his reason for living, like a great love should. And you gaze at him with so much love that memories of last night flashes in his mind, all tender, all saccharine, with you smiling and giggling through it.

After a beat of just gazing into each other’s eyes and coming down from the high that was the kiss, Lyonel clears his throat, pecks you one more time, then another, and another before pulling away. Then he immediately decides not to move away from you, as if leaving the vicinity of your lips will cause him to perish.

“I have an idea.” You utter above his lips as he moves the blanket away from your lap to loom over you with a needy gaze aimed right at you.

“Yeah?” His fingers tilt your chin up gently, peppering kisses upon your throat as his humming reverberates through your chest. “Mrs. Baratheon?”

“Maybe I took pictures.”

Lyonel stops in his tracks, remembering a few snapshots of you in his memories where you’re clearly filming through the night of revelry. But the sensation he remembers the most is your lips on him, on his skin, and the lovely sounds you made. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”