WolfieMarley

Across the room, Smurf held a glass of bourbon that caught the dim lights every time she laughed. It was a prop, you knew so. It was the same as the huge gold chain she wore around her neck. It was a prop like the arm she drifted around whichever son drifted into range. You’d watched her do it to Craig twice tonight. You’d watched Andrew watch her do it, hands in his pockets with his spine so straight and rigid.

Deran had told you that, “You’ve been lookin’ so fuckin’ sad recently.”

He’d looked half-worried through his grin, and you had your answer ready. “Work’s just been a lot.”

He’d nodded and clinked his can against yours. You stood there an accumulation of your little lies, calendar lies, where-were-you-Saturday lies, each one costing a coin of something you couldn’t stop spending. You were getting better at that than you would’ve liked. Work had been a lot, and no you weren’t seeing anyone.

You’d said the latter to some girl making conversation by the pool. The “no” had come out before she’d even finished her question while thirty feet away stood the man whose bed you’d woken up in this morning. No. You weren’t seeing anyone.

You needed a minute. Craig was high off his shit – or, maybe, someone else’s – telling a story. Your mouth curved when his did. But the noise pressed in from all sides – the house made it possible to feel like you were within twenty walls instead of four – and you needed just about thirty seconds where you could stop pretending you weren’t in love with the eldest Cody in this house. How many seconds could you steal with him? Ninety, maybe. You’d take forty. 

Andrew’s door stood open, and it was a hand’s width of a gap. Through it, your eyes fell onto the gold lamplight laid down across the runner and that was the second you saw the shadows of movement play inside it. 

It’d irked you, the fact that the house he grew up in – the house where you’d flocked into with Deran and circled around Andrew for years before you knew you were circling – had never once held the two of you the way you were. You’d been safe in this house your entire life, in the shadows where Smurf registered you as a mindless stray. And then you’d gone and fallen in love with the eldest son, and converted yourself into the only contraband ever smuggled through this house without Smurf sniffing it out. 

You wanted – very badly – to hold Andrew. You wanted to get your hand around the back of his neck where he ran hot and press your thumb into that knot of muscle that never once in his life had come loose. You wanted to tell him that you loved him against his collar so his mouth would curve up just a degree like it always did. 

Your hand was on the door and then the gap was wider. It was when the gold of his lamp spilled fuller that you saw Andrew’s rigid posture at the edge of his bed, his back to the door. With a girl.

You could’ve sworn you’d seen her just earlier. She was someone from the party’s outer rings, someone Smurf had summoned out of the general dark. Andrew had told you she did that – “She brings girls around when she thinks I’m stressed.” 

You’d thought it was history when he told you, something she used to do. You supposed the past tense had been your invention – your brain cradling you unknowingly – and that he’d never conjugated it that way. 

Your breath came out heavy through your nostrils once, and you couldn’t be sure if you took a breath after that. 

She was talking to Andrew; you could see her mouth moving close to the side of his face. You could see the little nods she gave herself between words. Her hand was on his shoulder, and then it moved up the side of his neck to the place your own hand went.

You knew what that patch of skin felt like from the outside, warm as bread. You knew what your hand looked like there, you’d thrown your head back against the couch and watched as his shoulders lowered as your fingers worked into it. Hers looked the same. It made you sick, that it looked no different when she did it. 

Her fingers spread against his jaw and drew his face around toward her. It turned. A head is a heavy thing – Andrew’s had phantom in it besides, whole cemeteries of weight, Julia and everything this home had taken and done – and it came around under four of her fingers, easy as a door. All that weight, and she moved it with a wrist. 

You had to swallow down a lump so your voice wouldn’t yell out. Andrew’s secret, you had to tell yourself. You were Andrew’s secret, and if you did anything that showed you knew him better than the guy you sometimes talked to – if the space allowed it – then Andrew wouldn’t be happy.

His profile came into the lamplight and his hands closed on his lap, knuckles blanching, then opening again. He pressed them flat against his thighs. His shoulders were up around his ears. 

He shook his head once, the action so small you might have made it up. It was a fossil of a refusal.

She smiled – like he was growling at her from inside a kennel, fenced and adorable – at him. She kept her palm in your place and said something else, and his head stayed shaking its tiny trembling current of no, no, no. 

She shifted closer to the mattress. For some awful reason, you heard the bedsprings creak even though you could hear none of what she was saying.

His weight tipped just an inch – toward the pull of her hand – one of his hands came up off his thigh, crossed the small dark between their bodies, and found her waist and rested there. 

You found that nothing about his hand looked like the hand you knew, and that thought – the creepy, monstrous thought of something of Andrew’s that you’d thought was only ever yours to know being spent here, on another waist – had teeth. It bit you under your ribs, and there was a physical pinch that wrapped around your body.

Pope, you thought.

The name arrived from everywhere in this house, because the man on the bed wasn’t anyone you’d ever held. He’d never let you. Andrew was yours. Andrew had given you the chain that now felt like it was steaming up against your skin.

It was a little proof-of-ownership tag pressing its details into you at the precise moment his hand certified someone else’s waist. You’d worn it inside your clothes all night, hidden it like everything he gave you. It occurred to you that perhaps the girl’s hands on his neck was more public than anything the two of you had ever done. 

His hand had gone, had done this small obedient thing his mother intended it to do. Some part of you believed – stupidly, tenderly, for months – that you had gotten there. You’d had this dumb little faith that you reached whatever was underneath and embalmed it so thoroughly that Smurf could never truly put her fingers back on it. 

You hadn’t. You saw that now, that you hadn’t reached what lived under and made it yours in some way that predated his mother’s claim, that love didn’t go deeper than training. Andrew could love you when the air allowed it. The moment the air tangled with her breath, the love folded up and waited.

You were the newest thing in Andrew. You’d been pouring yourself into the top inch of a man and calling it the bottom.

You thought about it, nailed it into your stupid, stupid brain as your fingers closed on the steering wheel. You hadn’t even remembered getting into the car. 

If Smurf had him pliant the way you knew she could, Pope would be above the girl right now. 

You wondered if it was silly to carry that small little faith that Andrew wouldn’t fuck her. It felt childish in the face of the monstrosity. It was a girl’s faith. Silly girl, he’s not yours there.

You didn’t know. You’d left, coward you were. Now there was a room behind you that you couldn’t see into, and your brain – quick, disgusting – went right on ahead and finished it for you.

Even under it, you hoped that if it happened, it didn’t hurt Andrew. The enormous, completely ruined, loving part of you hoped that if he was in that room doing what she sent the girl for, then at least Andrew was spared.

You wanted the girl to be gentle with him, wanted her hands to be warm, wanted her to slow the way he needed. Because if his body had to be spent tonight on his mother’s errand, then let it at least be spent somewhere soft.

It had all the footage it needed; it remembered his hands in one fold, knew exactly what they’d do, and how that live wire running through your body would light up when they did. 

That wire was crossed now, the light going somewhere else, curling in on itself like a millipede when it dies. You’d learned that with Andrew on a documentary. You’d been half-asleep against him and he’d been all-awake, and the millipede had done its slow curl on the screen. He’d said, into your hair, “That’s how they go.” 

Now that was ruined, too, wasn’t it? Now that little curling death was with you, in your chest, in the car, everything he’d handed you turning in your grip and pointing back at itself. 

The weight of his mouth on yours. The weight of him going slack on you when he stopped holding himself up with his forearms. The sound, that little soft grunt. Your brain had all the memories, had held it close and swaddled it like something meant to be cherished forever. It was playing them on her, and you pressed the heel of your hand into your eye socket to make it go away. 

Coward. Coward, you could have stayed. You could have stood in the doorway of his childhood bedroom and let him see you. You could have been the thing that stopped his hands for him, and instead you’d taken your stupid soft feet and gone, and bought yourself this reel that you’d never get to see the end of. Your head would have to keep guessing the ending forever, generous with the details, cruel as Smurf herself.

You let out a full-fledged sob, dropping your head against the wheel as you pulled over on some side. You were crying about it and wishing Andrew well in it, hoping a stranger was being sweet to the man she was taking from you.

Your love – somewhere along the way – for Andrew had stopped including yourself. You’d have lain down under the wheels of it if it kept him warm. You think you would’ve given him away nicely, if it was what he had to do.

The waiting sat low and ugly in you and wouldn’t resolve. You were sure it wouldn’t resolve unless you popped something bad for you to go to sleep. You’d swallow just about anything just to feel different.

There was nothing in your apartment for you to swallow. The ceiling was the only thing that was moving – headlights, then gone, then another – and you could feel the sour taste the one drink had left in your mouth. You lay there and hated your own spit. You hated the chain warming against your sternum. You hated, distantly, the specific idiot you’d been for him tonight, brushing your teeth for him, choosing your earrings. 

He’d texted you an hour after you’d left, and then again. It was the grace of your routine. If you left without saying goodbye, it was normal. He’d show up whenever what needed to be done was done, and somewhere between then there’d be a text. Tonight, the first one had come in on schedule, lighting the ceiling blue for one second. 

Andrew: Home?

He’d sent another one forty minutes later. There usually was never a second text.

Andrew: Shouldn’t be long. You good?

Your thumb hovered, wanting to type out a ‘yes.’ Your hand wanted to answer him the same way his hand had wanted that waist, muscle memory greased and aimed. You watched your own body try to be obedient now, to the same thing that was killing you. So, you put the phone face-down on the mattress. 

You’d lay wondering if Andrew had done with the girl what his mother had sent her to him for. He could be inside her right now. Right now, while you lay here rationing your own breath. The thought went through you serrated, dragging its teeth. You let it, because some penitentiary part of you had decided that if you couldn’t know, you’d serve the worst sentence available.

You snorted softly to yourself through the tears. Wasn’t that the night’s filthiest joke? Smurf didn’t even have to know your relationship with Andrew to teach you how she could’ve hurt you. You were doing the work for her, free of charge, your brain cruel as the woman herself. 

He sent another one later.

Andrew: On my way

Andrew was looking at your silence and noticed, if you were lucky. Maybe he hadn’t.

You heard the graceless fumble as he used his spare keys hours later, the metal worrying the other metal. Andrew who’d cracked safes and still had a difficult time working his own girl’s front door quietly when he was spent. The bolt turned and you felt the air sing through the house, then heard the long nothing of him crossing it in the dark, no lights, because lights woke people. He’d learned that it was the polite thing to do – he never turned on lights, choosing whatever default setting a person had chosen – and the fact broke your heart on a normal night and tonight it just sat there like dead weight. 

You closed your eyes, never deciding to fake it but your body clearly wanted to. Coward, same as you. You arranged your face slack, and that was when you’d realized how every inch of your skin that could’ve scrunched up had been holding that position for the last three hours since you got home. 

The room took him in and the mattress went down under his weight. His boots came off one at a time, and then he was lowering himself into the bed with his arms taking the load so the springs wouldn’t talk. 

Somewhere along the way, Andrew’d stopped feeling the pressing need to shower before he got in bed with you. Eager, now. He used to scrub the day off before he’d let himself touch you, like he thought he’d track something in. It had taken you months to get him to stop.

Eager thing, you were, too. Dumb little wanting of wanting him now, now, now, after being starved of him for all the years he’d held himself back from you. The night he’d finally let himself climb into your bed smelling of work and himself, and let you have him unwashed, you’d understood it for the enormous surrender it was. Andrew laying down a guard he’d held since boyhood, trusting you now with the unrinsed version. 

You felt bile rise to your throat at the thought now. 

His knee found the back of yours, testing to see if you were awake. When he received no answer, his arm came over – the weight of it, God, the sheer heat and heft – and drew you back against the long line of him until there was nowhere left for the dark to get between you.

That rumbling inside you didn’t care what you’d seen; it only knew the heat of him against your back and wanted to turn to it. 

His face went to the back of your neck, and he breathed out. The breath went on and on and on, billowing raggedly against your skin at the end of it, everything in him coming down at once. You felt his body get heavier against you with the relief of having arrived. 

His hand found your fist under your chin and capped it, thumb going into the groove below your knuckles. His mouth moved on your nape, his lips resting there like they’d found home.

He breathed you in slowly, so rationing constantly. He never took anything at the rate he wanted. You could only feel the true rate underneath – in the pressure of his fingers when they curled and then remembered themselves and went flat, in the abortive flex of his arm that wanted to crush you to him and delivered, instead, a gentle cinching – held at the gate, metered out in doses he’d decided you could survive. 

You’d seen it as reverence for much too long. It had felt like being cradled by somebody who tried to remember you constantly.

Tonight, lying rigid inside his heat, you realized you’d only gotten halves of Andrew. The withheld remainder lived somewhere, didn’t it? Everything unspent had to go somewhere, and now you knew where. 

“Hate that house,” he murmured quietly. “Whole night. Wanted to get back here.” His thumb moved once in the groove of your knuckles. “To you.” 

His knee pressed into yours. “Shoulda left earlier,” he murmured, after a minute. “Looked for you after. Asked Deran – you were already gone.”

It’d taken so long to place Andrew into himself, for him to find the version of his body that could lie in a bed. Years he’d spent flinching. Years learning the flinch back down to nothing, learning the bed you were in was a place the past couldn’t reach through the floor and grab his ankle. His heart was going slow and unafraid against your spine. You’d built that heartbeat, he’d told you once. You’d built it with all of the halves Andrew brought you. 

You didn’t want it to go. You wanted to keep being the house he came into, the one where he was unclenched and humming with arrival, happy. You’d made a place out of yourself where he could fall into, and you were only now learning what it cost to be it.

You kept your breath long and level, which was the mistake. It was too level, too clean. Andrew’s thumb stopped for a second, and he blew out another soft breath against your skin. 

“Playin’ possum?” The corner of his mouth moved against your neck, and you could feel that little thing he’d started doing more, the closest to a grin he could get. “Nah. C’mon.” 

His arm cinched tighter to haul you back flush into him, and there was a low gruff of breath in your hair that was his laugh. His nose dragged up behind your ear and his hand slid off your fist to spread wide and warm over your stomach. 

“Waited up f’me?” he murmured, pleased, “and won’t even say hi. What sort of welcome’s that, huh?” He pressed a true kiss under your jaw, lingered there for a moment too long that you could feel his lips curve downwards against your skin, the frown arriving inside of the kiss. “Say hi.” 

His mouth dragged up from your jaw hesitantly, testing on your skin. His tongue touched down at the corner of your jaw – savoring the salt he thought was just your skin – and that was the exact second it went wrong on him. His lips flattened again, and you could feel his body go still as he held his breath against you. Andrew knew the taste of tears. 

He drew back an inch, enough to break the seal of his mouth from you, and the cool of the room rushed into the space where his warmth had been. 

His palm lifted from your stomach and came to your cheek and dragged a thumb – slowly, the pad of it rough – through the track running down toward the pillow, and stopped at the wet gathered at your lashes, and turned it. Against your back, his heart kicked once, then found a faster gear. A swallow went down his throat where it pressed to your shoulder, and his breath developed a small hitch at the top of each inhale. 

Andrew had never been one to keep his fear where you could reach it, but you could always feel it anyway. You felt it now, the tell of it thumping against your back.

He made a sound in his throat, like he was clearing it but instead only managed to lodge it more. 

“You’re crying,” he said, thumb at your lashes. “Why?”

His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, cupped it, and pressed, suggesting a turn with a quarter-ounce of pressure. Then, he waited like he always did with you. He proposed, and you completed.

When you didn’t complete it, he applied the tiny pressure again, saying, “Please.”

You let him turn you, because you couldn’t not. That please had that boy in it, and because you were done being a coward in one direction only to be one in another.

You turned in his arms and saw his face for the first time, the memory of his hand around her waist surfacing behind your eyes even as you looked at him. For a second you saw both, his face here, creased and worried in the grey light, and his hand there, resting and obedient on skin that wasn’t yours.

He made a small, confusedly wounded sound in his throat as his eyes went back and forth along your face. His thumb wiped once at your cheek, catching what was leftover, and he didn’t even seem to know he was doing it. You leaned your cheek into his hold, and his palm came to your cheek immediately, brows furrowing. 

“What?” he murmured, and it came out in a breath like it’d been punched out of him.

You could feel his fingers curl to the shape of your face, cradling, the closest he could get to gripping without letting himself grip. Your jaw sat on the heel of his palm as his thumb brushed along your cheekbone while the pads of the others curled behind your hair. 

It was the sick tender wretchedness of it, letting the same hands that made you almost throw up bile only hours ago cup your face in the dark, leaning into it, because your body had never known what else to do with the enormous nearness of Andrew. You turned to him like a plant to the window even now, even knowing, and you hated that you couldn’t stop it. 

You heard his teeth clench together in your silence. His forehead came down, wanting to touch yours, and you let that, too. The weight of his head rested against your hairline and his breath billowed unevenly against your mouth. It was your first touch, you remembered with such tender cruelty. It was the only one he could do, his oldest word with you. 

“Somebody do something?” His thumb swept your cheekbone in haste, gathering another one you hadn’t even registered falling. 

Your throat wouldn’t work. His fingers curled behind your ear, pads pressing lightly, counting something.

His breath stalled at the top of an inhale, holding it there, and then it came out slowly as he moved closer, nose grazing yours just barely. His tongue peeked out slightly between his lips, and you felt his breath quilt. His head made the smallest motion against yours, no.

His palm flattened some hair back from your face, and his lips pressed to the bridge of your nose and you felt them tremble there. He pressed harder to stop it. When he pulled away, his lips twisted slightly. 

“I do something?” he asked, voice cracking in the middle. 

You opened your mouth, and your voice came out broken out of disuse. “How was the party?” 

His hand tensed up against your face and he tugged his lower lip between his teeth, eyes pinching shut. You felt the second he took his hand off your face like it was burning you, felt the exact millisecond he realized the hand he was touching you with.

Andrew, who reached for you like people did railings on staircases, curled his hands into a fist against the sheet beside you. The whole hand you knew so well – and not at all – held away from you like he’d decided he’d forfeited his right to it. 

“Bad,” he murmured. “I didn’t like it.” 

You breathed in sharply through your nose at Andrew being the picture of himself, always meeting the worst things in life with the smallest words. You pushed your face further into the pillow, leaving his head hanging with the tiny gap between. Even with his eyes shut, his lips twisted into a small frown. And even as your own heart felt like it was burning up with something ugly and violent, you wanted to press your mouth at the edge of his self-flagellating scowl. 

He sucked in a sharp breath and from the corner of your eye, you could see his fists curl tighter on the sheet. You heard the cotton strain under them, threads ticking. One of his fists came up and pressed its knuckles hard against his mouth, like he was stopping words at the gate.

Tell me, you tried to telepathically communicate. Tell me so I don’t have to say it for you. 

“How was it – ” he tried, coming out past his knuckles. His lip curled off his teeth a flinch, and his head one hard motion like it was shaking off a fly, hating the question. He put his fist back down and picked a spot on the pillow an inch from your face and spoke to it. “How was it for you?” 

“Andrew – ” He tilted his head to the side, brows furrowing at your voice, the tremble in it. You continued, forcing yourself to ask the question. “Did anything – ”

“I’m sorry,” he said, overlapping your voice. His head went back, throat curving long and pale in the light. From here, you could see the curve of his throat bob as he swallowed. His eyes had come open and found the ceiling, shining wet along the bottom lids as he blinked hard, furious little shutters. 

“I’m so sorry.” He kept going, repeating it. “Sorry. M’so sorry. Sorry, sorry,” he said, each one softer and faster than the last.

His hand came up and dragged down his own face, knuckles scrubbing at his jaw.

Your body, quicker than your heart, turned to stone. Your head reared impossibly back. If it was possible, you would’ve gone into the pillow. Your nose started to burn and you felt a new pressure build up in your eyes all over again, jaw clenching.

He looked down again, trying to meet your eyes when he felt your body go stiff. His hand came up off the sheet to cradle your face again, but just as quickly as he reached, he put it away. 

“I shouldn’t be here. Put my hands on you. Didn’t even –” he rambled on, voice crumpling. “Came here ‘cause I missed you so much – sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth opened as you let out a breath, sounding close to a defeated laugh. Your wires were crossed and you suddenly felt the stab of a thousand sharp knives as the images that had been playing on repeat came to your mind again. 

“What happened?” you asked, tearing out through the middle of his words in a voice you weren’t sure even belonged to you.

When he continued apologizing, the words tumbling over yours, you said, “Did you – did you fuck her?”

His head came up and he looked like he’d been struck, horrified and gutted all at once; the answer was in the line between his brows before his mouth caught up. But you needed the mouth, you needed to hear the word, so you held his eyes with your whole body gone rigid.

“No,” he said, voice trembling on the word. “What?” 

That made your nose burn even more, the complete brokenness in his voice at the insinuation, discovering you believed him capable of. You had to roll your eyes to the ceiling to get away from his face, and that let the pool gathering at your waterline spill slowly once again down your cheek. 

“Why would you think that?” he asked, pushing his face closer to get back into your eyeline, hunting it, needy to be seen completely for the first time maybe his entire life. “Why would I do that?”

You turned your neck so your cheek fell onto the pillow and away from him. He made a pained sound at you turning away from him, also maybe for the first time in your life. 

“I would never do that,” he said, firming his voice. “Don’t want anyone else. Don’t want anyone,” he said, rougher, correcting himself in the same breath down to the barest true thing. “S’only ever been – doesn’t work like that with me. You know that. Doesn’t work with anyone that’s not – that’s not you. You know that,”

The words all came out like he was drilling it back into you, like he thought that some base mechanism in you had been accidentally tossed over the hours you’d been away from him, and if he said the words with enough torque he could reseat it, will it back true. 

It hadn’t been. The mechanism was still wired and running charged, so completely charged. You knew Andrew down to the bone, loved him down to the phantoms in his brain and the loving hadn’t dimmed a watt for what you’d seen. If anything it’d gone sharper, meaner, more itself, the way a burn brightens a nerve. You lay there charged to the teeth with it and it did you no good at all, because being wired for Andrew didn’t mean the same as having him, and tonight the gap between those things was the whole width of the bed. 

Loving him hadn’t been enough to keep his hand off another waist when his mother willed it there. You could know him to the bone and love him to the phantoms – you knew you would, forever – and still lose him to a pull that predated you by a womb and answered to a name that wasn’t yours. 

“What’d you do with her?” you murmured, voice falling onto the pillow under you, because God it was easier to focus on the girl than the shark of a mother behind her.

“I paid her,” Andrew said quickly, the words tumbling out in his haste to explain, “to tell Smurf it was done and go.” His breath came quickly through his nose. “Didn’t do anythin’ with her, I swear. It stopped – I stopped it. Just gave her cash and got her out the door.” 

There was a horror in the competence in the transaction, how he’d had a procedure to it. Was this the rest of your life? To protect your relationship from Smurf’s claws, was this what it would take – forever? A lifetime of Andrew keeping a folded stack of bills ready like a fire extinguisher, of the two of you building your whole love in the negative space around a woman who’d never been told once it existed? You saw the stretch out ahead, year after year of him coming to your door, of you lying awake wondering if tonight had been just like this, and something in you buckled at the length of it. 

“How –” you said, voice going small, embarrassment clawing at your throat. “How many times has this happened?” 

“A few,” he mumbled. 

Your brows rose, and you felt fresh heat crawl behind your eyes again.

“Since we’ve been – ?” His eyes went somewhere else, out past your shoulder. You tried again at the silence, pulling your brows back down so as to not let any more tears fall. “Andrew?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, and his eyes found yours again. His tongue pressed into his cheek, molding a small hill there, and left. “They come. I handle it, they go. That’s all,” he said, leaning down just slightly as if to press the words onto you. “It’s handled.” 

There was a quiet sort of bell that rang in your mind the same second he hesitantly let his forehead drop back to yours, reaching, reaching, reaching for the same old ease. You pushed your arms up from your sides, palms finding his chest, stopping. You were shaking your head, eyes fluttering as you tried to slide the picture of Andrew – your Andrew – back into your mind, to feel it whole like it always did. 

His eyes went down to your palms as if to make sure he wasn’t imagining the weight. “Stop,” he murmured. “Please.” 

Your eyes forced themselves shut. “And it’s gonna keep happening.”

“I don’t care about any of them – ”

“I care,” you said. “I care that your plan was always just – hope I don’t find out. Say the plan, Andrew. There’s no part where it stops.” 

“You weren’t,” he said, voice going rougher. “You weren’t supposed to find it. Got nothing to do with you.” 

You knew one day Smurf was going to die. One fateful fucking day, she would. Andrew may not believe so, but even Smurf would rot into the ground some day, same as anything that lived. She wasn’t god, however she’d built herself into one in the person of him. She was just a woman who one day would face the same fate anyone else does, and the string she kept through Andrew’s ribs would go slack for the first time in his whole life. 

Fuck, you felt selfish. Was it so wrong to hope for an Andrew that only existed on the far side of his mother’s grave? To lie in your own bed wondering – her age, her habits – while her son shook beside you? You were wishing a woman dead so you could love her son openly. 

You always came up empty. Smurf could die tonight, next year, or tomorrow, and it wouldn’t matter. She took from Andrew without lifting anything heavier than an intention. A dead woman kept that kind of reach. The string through his ribs didn’t need her hands on the other end of it anymore, for it’d learned to pull all by itself. 

Andrew watched your face as you watched the stretch of your life you’d have if it kept going on just like this. “This is why. Anything to do with her’s only gonna hurt you.” 

You reeled back at that, pulling your body to sit up so quickly Andrew flinched away, making space. 

“This is why?” The sheet fell off you and the cold hit your shoulders, the cotton of your tank top doing nothing to help. “Andrew, I don’t like this.” 

“Stop,” he murmured, reaching a palm across the distance as he sat up, even though his jaw was clenched. “I know. I know you don’t, just –” 

“There have been girls who’ve been with you, god knows how many,” your voice cracked, and you had to crane your neck to look at the ceiling at the thought. “Why haven’t you just told her to stop sending them?” 

His jaw shifted, a flinch. His lips pushed out slightly, shoulders coming up into a small shrug like you’d just asked him to walk through a wall. “It’s nothing. I don’t do anything with them. It’s – two minutes of my life, Smurf thinks she won. It costs nothing – ”

“It costs me,” you interrupted, the words coming out of you louder than anything you’d said all night. You both froze at the sound of your voice, and his head snapped back to your face. Your fingers went up to find the chain around your neck, clasping. “You might be fine with it, but I’m not – not when you’ve been hiding this from me the entire time. I can’t spend my entire life wondering if there’s another girl – another chance for you to –”

“It wouldn’t – ” he started, shaking his head. “I’d handle it.”

“I’m tired, Andrew,” you said, head dropping slightly. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”

His breathing had gone shallow. His eyes were on your fist, and his lips were pursed like he was fighting himself out of saying something – the softness trying to surface as the fear shoved it back down – and after a moment, he said, “You knew what you were getting into.” 

“I knew about the jobs,” you said quietly. You breathed in one small pull through your nose and your fingers came off the chain.

“I knew about the guns under your pillow and how you do things you can’t tell me at three in the morning. I knew that and I have never once – ” you had to click your tongue to process the sudden disbelief at yourself, “ – asked you anything you didn’t want to answer.” 

He opened his mouth, as if to argue. You raised your palm, and his teeth clicked together audibly, obedient to your hand in a manner that on any other night would’ve undone you. 

“I didn’t know about the girls. How many times you must’ve come here after – ” Your voice shook, and you had to push yourself off the bed, away. Suddenly, you felt too aware of the enormity of Andrew. You’d welcomed it, loved it, made a home out of the sheer size of him. Now the bed felt too close to standing next to a parked truck. “I don’t know what else I don’t know.” 

Your arms crossed over your chest, hands gripping your elbows. You looked at the window, the parking lot lights coming through the blinds in stripes, and started flipping backward through the years like a rolodex to see if there were any hints. 

“There’s nothing else,” he said, voice going quieter. He’d moved himself to the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, palms fisting the fabric of his pants as he watched you. “Nothing else. I’ll tell you if it happens again.” 

“If it happens again,” you said, the words coming out through a resigned chuckle. “It’s going to happen again.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Your heart kicked as he said the words, his eyes wide and wet and lost. “I can’t – I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t know what I can do that isn’t already – ” His hand vaguely motioned between the two of you. “I’m already doing everything. This is everything.”

“I want you to tell me when this ends.” Your own voice cracked throughout the entire sentence, your shoulders coming up to your ears as you folded yourself further away from him, like your asking the question was enough to fill the space. “I’d wait, Andrew. I’d wait forever if I knew there was – I just, if I’m staying, I need to know it’s going somewhere.”

He craned his head up to look at you then, brows furrowed and lips parted, and you watched how his breathing kicked up.

“Don’t,” he murmured, the words coming out more to himself than you. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” he murmured, pulling himself off the bed. His hands hesitantly reached up to your face, both palms cupping unsteadily, as he dropped his forehead to yours. “Don’t gotta put an ‘if’ in it. Don’t. Please.”

You pressed your lips together, eyes clenching shut as you tried to pull away from his hold. His grip tightened just slightly, pressing his forehead impossibly closer into yours.

“Please. Hey. Please.” He tapped your cheek once desperately, forcing you to open your eyes. “Why’re you thinkin’ of leaving? Stop that – nothing happened. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

You let out a pained sound at the words, feeling yourself weaken in his desperation. Nothing happened, nothing was going to happen. No, it was going to be exactly how it was. The good, and the hiding it came wrapped in.

“S’good here,” he murmured. “Don’t take the whole thing for one night.”

Was this enough?

The selfishness, the greed crawled through your body like the largest organ. Was this enough for a life, to have Andrew when you could, while he lived another?

You’d continue trusting that the women got paid at the door. You’d continue learning about them at doorways, by accident. You’d get older inside a few hours’ worth of a man. There were women who did it – you knew there were, whole quiet populations of them, mistresses to marriages, to churches, to armies – who took the visiting hours and meant it when it was love. Maybe they were happy. Maybe the trick was to stop measuring and stop waiting on something. 

“We’re good,” he said again, voice going softer as his chin dipped slightly, and you realized he was repeating it because you weren’t. 

He took in a sharp breath of air at your silence, fingers moving from your face down to your arms.

Your eyes focused on his collar instead, at the top button of his shirt. It never sat right. You thought you’d fixed it about a hundred times without thinking, your fingers at his throat while he stood statue-still and let you, letting you be the only person allowed to be the one to fuss over him. Your hands stayed at your side. 

“I hate this,” he said after a moment. His thumbs moved at your elbows in small circles. “Hate that I made you cry.”

His arms went up again, over your shoulders, up the sides of your neck, until he was tilting your face in both hands up to him, thumbs sweeping under your eyes to clear it. His fingers were moving in haste now, the desperation overriding the second-guessing.

“Will you look at me?” he murmured, and you did.

His mouth came down to your cheekbone, then higher to the corner of your eye, kissing along the damage slowly. His hand loosely slid back into your hair, tilting your head to the other side, doing it again. His breathing was ragged against your skin as his body crowded you, chest brushing yours with every breath.

“Will you let me?” His mouth moved to your temple and pressed there, voice breaking slightly. “Will you let me make you feel better?” His nose dragged along your hairline and his lips landed just under your ear. “Know how. Please let me.”

You knew he would, he always did with every good intention. He’d make you feel better tonight like he’d made you feel better a hundred nights, and tomorrow you’d remember how much Andrew you had, and how much he kept. The next party would still come, and there would always be another better to make you feel because that was one thing he could manufacture and changing anything was not. 

You cleared your throat, and hated how his entire body perked up at the small sound. 

“I’m gonna sleep,” you mumbled, slowly prying your body away from his hold. 

You moved your body on autopilot and got onto the bed again, facing the window. The mattress dipped, and he placed himself at your back. 

His mouth pressed against your shoulder, then an inch higher at the curve of your neck. His breath shuddered against you. “Been so good to me.”

You sucked in a shallow breath, turning your face slightly to meet his eyes, “Andrew – ” 

His hand slid along your jaw and his mouth came down onto yours, swallowing his own name from your lips. He kissed you so slowly, hope running the length of it, as his fingers stroked whatever inch of skin it could find in its haste. 

You matched it, trying to move when he did, body feeling completely weightless. Somewhere in it, as his fingers reached up to your hair, your breath broke, one small wet hitch against his mouth, and the tear went hot, down onto his palm. 

Andrew halted against your mouth, then pulled away to angle his head to rest on yours. He let out a short breath through his nostril, and pressed one last peck against your lips.

“Don’t cry while kissin’ me,” he said, voice so broken. “Please.”

His thumb moved through the dampness collected on your cheek again, then pressed slightly into the track. His eyes went down to your mouth, and his throat moved as he swallowed hard. 

“It feels bad now?” he murmured, eyes trained to your cheeks.

“No,” you said quickly, hands finding his wrist. “No, Andrew.”

His thumb stayed there, and his eyes stayed down. His lips moved slightly as you watched his brows furrow in understanding, watched him not believe you.

“M’sorry,” he said quietly, jaw clenching. “Been hurting you all night. You’ve been crying all night–”

“No.” Your hand came up to his face, palm to his cheek, and he flinched into it. “No. It’s not bad – never been bad. You could never feel bad to me.”

“Look at you,” he said, voice coming out in a whisper. “Why’re you letting me be – ”

“Because I love you,” you said, leaning up slightly to meet his eyes properly. “I love you, and that doesn’t change just because – ”

You felt like you were both understanding it at once. His tongue came out to press against his own lip. He scrunched up his whole face – eyes screwing shut – before silently turning his face down and away, into the pillow, hiding even now. 

You took in a shaky breath, and your hand came up to land at the back of his head, palm curving to his skull. He rolled into you, knee knocking into yours. His arm hauled you in too hard and then flinched, correcting himself. His face pressed into your chest, into the cotton over your sternum, over the small shape of the chain, and the entire weight of his skull rested against your heart. You felt the warmth soaking to your skin as he let out a sob, pooling around the metal. His fists gripped your shirt at the ribs, both sides, holding on, and his shoulders moved in that arrhythmic way. 

“Please don’t leave,” he said, muffled against you. 

Your throat closed as you let out a close-mouthed sob, hands moving in his hair. “Stay tonight.”

“Look, y'need to Inhale it more.” Taking his role of teacher very seriously, Liam presses his fingers right at the top of your sternum as if to demonstrate, brushing over the worn fabric of the big t-shirt you'd been wearing nearly all day, sitting on the sofa doing your university work all sprawled out against the cushions as he played his favourite records on repeat in the background. All squished together to fit by the window, you pull your knees up towards your chest, giving Liam more room to stretch his legs out; clad in a pair of pink pyjama bottoms that he'd once worn when he'd ran out of clean washing, and refused to give back ever since, even though they were a couple sizes too small, and failed to cover his ankles properly. “Here, I'll blow it into y'mouth.”

“No, your breath stinks of beer.” Dodging your head away from his, you laugh, scrunching your nose up in disgust. Already having taken another drag of his joint, he grabs the side of your face with both hands to move his mouth closer towards yours, just as he does with most of his friends when he's trying to sneakily cram in a peck to wind the other person up in front of the cameras; though with you his tactics to score a kiss are slightly different, and involve more desperate begging rather than uncoordinated manhandling. “Liam —” Finally wriggling from his grip, he blows the smoke out of the window and away from your face, scared it might turn your eyes all red and blotchy again.

Until now, you’d been little more than a tiny ghost to him, a pale-haired figure whose purpose apparently was to trail after Aerion in those expensive gowns with your eyes always cast down, as though you feared that if you looked up and met another person’s gaze they might suddenly realize that you were, in fact, alive.

Here, though, Dunk saw you plainly. Plain, though, you were not. You were still a young thing, perhaps only a handful of years older than Egg, awkward in the way lads and lasses both could be before the years seemed to remember that they had some catching up to do. You were fragile-looking with a face that had not quite decided whether it belonged to a girl or a woman yet. 

But still, you were…pretty. You were a Targaryen, after all, and all those dragon-lords and dragon-ladies seemed to have a way of looking less like ordinary folk and more like something the gods took a bit more time on. 

So there you were, comely and silver and little and sad, and there he was, ugly and bruised and giant and sad as well. Dunk stared at you until reality finally caught up with him: you were standing there waiting for him to say something, and he had a voice somewhere about him that he probably ought to use. 

“Egg– I mean, uh, Aegon.” Dunk stumbled over the name, trying desperately to remind himself that the little shiny-headed scoundrel who had spent the last week plaguing him was, in fact, a prince of the realm. He attempted his best half-bow toward you and had to bite back the groan that rose in his throat when the movement pulled at the pain still festering in his back. “And… Princess.”

He mentally braced himself. Surely you had come to tell him that Maekar had ordered his execution for treason, or insolence, or some other offense against the blood of the dragon. Or mayhaps you were here to demand a personal apology for knocking the teeth out of your brother…who also happened to be your betrothed, because you were a Targaryen, and Targaryens were queer like that. 

You shifted upon your feet and drew a small breath, your fingers tightening around Egg’s hand. “Ser Duncan, I have come to tell you that my father has given his consent for Egg to become your squire.”

Dunk blinked. He looked at you, then at Egg, who was looking at you. Then back at you again. “I…what?”

“It’s true, ser,” Egg interjected, nodding so fiercely that Dunk thought his little bald head might pop off. “My father says I am to serve you.”

Dunk’s brows furrowed. It had scarcely been an hour since he had hobbled before Prince Maekar, who had told him, plain as day, that it was he– the great, oafish hedge knight from Flea Bottom– who bore the blame for Baelor Breakspear’s corpse currently burning upon the pyre on the hill above Ashford. And somewhere amid all that, Maekar had also made it equally plain that Prince Aegon was not going to trail after that same hedge knight, sleeping in ditches and stables, going hungry when their coin ran short and running about covered in mud like a peasant boy. Dunk might have taken a blow or two or three or twenty to the head during the trial, but he didn’t think he had taken enough to forget that.

“He changed his mind, then?”

Egg opened his mouth, but you beat him to the response.

“Yes, he did.” You raised your head towards the sliver of sky visible through the trees overhead. The clouds that had drifted lazily above Ashford all morning were beginning to darken. “You should take your leave as soon as you can, ser, lest it begin to rain on the two of you.”

Dunk looked down at the boy. Egg stared back at him as though this were the finest thing that had ever happened in all his nine years.

Dunk wanted to say a great many things then. That he thought it odd Prince Maekar had changed his mind so quickly. That he was sorry for all the trouble he had caused. That he was not sorry for pummeling Aerion into the dirt, nor even, Seven forgive him, for nearly killing him. That Egg was a good boy, and mayhaps that meant at least one good thing had come from all this ugliness. He wanted to tell him that if Egg truly was to be his squire, Dunk would do right by him. He would never knowingly lead him into harm, and if harm came for the boy anyway, it would have to come through Dunk first. Mayhaps, if he were the sort of folk who knew how to say such things, he might even have told Egg that he already loved him rather like a brother.

Instead, all that came out was: “Chestnut’s yours. Treat her kindly. And I don’t want to find you on Thunder unless I put you there.”

He turned to you, and Dunk watched as you gathered the boy into a tight embrace. You bent your head and whispered something into his ear. Whatever it was made Egg’s face go as solemn as a little boy’s could, and he gave you one grave nod before burying his face against your dress. At last, you pulled away and led him over to Dunk.

Dunk took Egg beneath the arms and hoisted him onto Chestnut’s back. The old stot gave a long huff through his nose, the sort that seemed to say, Right then. I suppose this is the new arrangement I’ve no say in, but I’ll suffer it anyhow.

Dunk looked back at you, unsure of what to say to a princess who had just given him leave of the future for her brother. “... Thank you, princess. For bringing him to me.”

You worried at the rings upon your fingers. For a second, you didn’t look like a Targaryen princess promised to a beast of a brother, with the weight of a realm and generations of dragonlords and old stories pressing down upon your shoulders. You looked only like…a girl.

“Watch over him for me, Ser Duncan,” you said quietly, your eyes gone glossy. “See you raise him right.”

Whatever stupid answer Dunk might have managed got caught in his throat. So he only gave you a firm nod, and hauled himself painfully into Thunder’s saddle with considerably less grace that he would’ve liked. 

Minutes later, as the pair ambled down the dirt road and Egg chattered on about Dorne and puppets and all the adventures he seemed certain awaited them, Dunk glanced back over his shoulder.

There you were. That little silver-haired ghost, still standing at the edge of the trees in your black mourning clothes, watching them leave.

A strange sadness came over Dunk and he wondered what would become of you. Would you be sent away to Lys with Aerion? Did you love him? Would you hate Dunk for what he had done to him? Would you be safe, wherever you were sent? Would you be happy?

Would he ever see you again?

He had no reason to wonder about any of it, but still…he did.

Egg kept talking beside him, something now about how many Dornishmen Dunk might have to fight, and Dunk lifted one bandaged hand from the reins. He waved farewell.

You raised your hand and waved back.

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The weather has been unbearable ever since the arrival of summer. And with unbearable weather, comes unbearable family, constantly irritated and snappy, more so than usual. It would be a lie to say that you were the only one unaffected by the weather.

This morning you had yelled at your younger brother, Aerion, for cutting the hair off your younger sisters' dolls as they cried and clung to you. With their arms curled around you, warm tears bleeding into your skirts, and Aerion's aloof attitude to your lecture, you could not help but fling the disfigured dolls at him.

The first hit him in the face. The shock of it could not even register until the second slammed against his chest. Then his quick temper morphed his features into anger.

He lunged at you, grabbing your arms. You did not flinch when he got in your face, too used to his little outbursts. "You stupid-!"

That was when your father came into the room, already flushed red with anger. "Quiet, all of you! Enough with this nonsense!"

That shut all of you up. Your father ripped Aerion off of you, and you gave each other one last nasty glare as he was hauled away.

Instead of returning to your chambers to stew in heat and frustration, you slipped past the guard, utilizing tricks you learned from your eldest brother whenever he would sneak off to the tavern or brothel.

Of course you knew the way to the river, often coming to play here with your siblings or accompanying Aerion or little Egg fishing when you were younger, before your beloved mother passed.

Freedom from the restricting dress provides temporary relief. The sun is still at it's peak, relentlessly beating down on your poor, sweltering skin.

You abandon your folded clothes on a rock nearby and shuffle into the gentle waters. It flows around your calves, cold, refreshing, and quickly washing away the heat and frustration that consumed you. The water is clear enough for you to see your toes wiggling against the rocky shoal.

You kneel into the water and splash it on your face, hissing when the cold rivulets spill down your body, but the sun is quick to heat you back up.

"O-Oh, I'm so sorry!" It's a stuttered exclamation, followed by what sounds like footsteps fumbling on the grassy bank. "I didn't mean to-"

You rise slow, looking over your shoulder, as you eye the stranger who has his back turned toward you. Dirty is one word you can use to describe him. Covered head to toe in mud like he just finished rolling in it. His short hair is matted, hiding true color of his hair, which you can only assume is blond by the stray strands that are not coated in dirt. The tips of his ears burning red.

Other than the dirt covering him, he is absolutely massive. You would have to crane your neck just to look him in the eye. A very similar stature to someone you only met in your family's tale upon returning from Ashford.

Your lips curl into a smile.

No one is allowed to talk about the events at Ashford, not just for the sake of Aerion's bruised ego, but because of the near fatal injury your father caused your uncle.

The lack of information about that day only increased your curiosity. A simple hedge knight faced your brother and won? He fascinates you. Honorable, kind, someone true to their oaths. Someone so unlike Daeron and Aerion.

"No harm done, Ser Duncan." You glide in front of him. You don't shy away from his gaze either. His eyes widen, and somehow his face becomes even more flushed pink.

"Sorry, have we met?" He asks, sparing a quick glance at you to try and figure out who you are. He would remember meeting pretty lady like you. Especially one that smiles at him so sweetly.

"Of course. You are the rouge who spirited my brother away."

The realization washes over him, eyes widening as bows his head, only to get an eye full of your breasts. He snaps back up, staring straight ahead into the treeline. "Princess," he stammers.

You offer your hand, and he's quick to take it. The kiss on your knuckles is just a shy peck and you're released as if he's been burned by you. He takes one large step back, nearly stumbling into the river when his foot slips on a rock.

"I'll leave you be. Again, I'm s-so sorry to disturb you, princess."

You giggle behind your hand. Coy eyes slide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, the sweat that glides down his neck toward the loose collar of his shirt.

"No need to run off on my account, Ser. Stay."

It's less of a friendly offer, and more like a demand—everything you say is a demand, such is the luxury of being a princess. You get what you want, and right now, you want him.

His lips part, a weak retort forming on the tip of his tongue before shutting. He nods instead, deciding he is unable to argue with a princess. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, both out of habit and nerves. He clears his throat, standing straighter, somehow taller, "I will stay on guard then."

You huff, "guard… I do not require a guard. I want you to join me."

You've had enough of feeling suffocated today.

"Your father will have my head," he chuckles nervously.

"He won't find out."

Even if your father did find out, all it takes is a few stray tears and a pouty lip for him to forgive his precious first daughter.

But it had always been Aerion who found out about your dalliances first. He seldom favored any man who had a desire to court you, running each of them off with sharp words and an even sharper blade.

Overprotective, possessive, maybe even obsessed—he loathed to share you with anyone else. It was like a cat and mouse game the two of you played. Choosing your newest toy to sneak around with before he catches wind of them and chases them off.

But Dunk has already faced Aerion and survived. Now you're wondering how far this game will go.

Dunk's lips purse again, a furrow in his brow, and you add quickly, "I swear it."

He glances around at your empty surroundings before finally nodding.

Pushing down your triumphant smile, you turn and settle at the edge of the river on a flat rock, ignoring the temptation to turn around and watch as he reveals the muscles beneath his tunic. Instead, you bite your lip and sink your feet into the water.

"Did you stop at Summerhall before coming here?" You question, noting the lack of Egg at his side.

"Aye. The prince wasn't much pleased to see us covered in mud," he chuckles, crouching down a safe distance away from you. He washes his face and runs his hands down his chest to get rid of the caked on mud. Dark water flows down the stream. "Sent Egg off for a bath before he could even say hello."

"And you did not stay for one yourself?" You ask as you lay back. You stretch, arms rising above your head and back arching over the grass.

The small moan that slips from you as your body stretches out is not an accident. Nor is the way his eyes can't help but drift over your curves before he catches your satisfied smirk and averts his attention back to the water.

"N-No, I prefer the river. Especially on days like this."

You hum, "how fortunate for me then. So, what were you two doing?"

At that, Dunk launches into an story about settling a petty dispute between a minor lord, he had been in service to, and a stable hand.

"And then he fell face first in the mud."

You gasp, "no! How humiliating!"

The two of you have immersed yourselves in conversation, and you find it hard to remember one of you is completely naked, trying to seduce him back to your chambers, and the other is only shirtless and trying not to stare at your breasts as a blush creeps down his freckled chest.

"That's not even the best part of it!" He adds eagerly, "he started flinging mud everywhere like a babe having a fit."

The image of a minor lord flinging mud at everyone sends you into a laughing fit. It's certainly not a flattering laugh, but you find it hard to care. Especially when his own face lights up with a boyish grin each time yours does.

You rise from your position and lean in close, breasts just barely brushing his arm.

"You have a stubborn spot," you say, reaching up to his cheek, "right here."

His eyes widen, body tensing as your thumb rubs over the spot that hadn't washed away.

"You have such pretty eyes," you muse, enjoying the way they widen and look anywhere but you. Blue, bright, and entirely innocent.

"I- thank you. And you're-," he stumbles over his words, flustering himself further as he tries to get the words out, "you- you're beautiful, princess."

Empty words you've heard plenty of times before—flattery for favor. Typically, you'd offer a demure smile and pretend to be flattered. He's so unlike all the other knights in your father's service. They were desperate to please you to curry favor with your father or bed you, sometimes both, but you didn't mind entertaining yourself with them. They meant nothing in the end anyway, especially with Aerion always hovering.

But with Dunk, an honest blush and transfixed expression, the compliment makes something in you want to hold him close and make him yours.

"It is a shame we did not meet sooner." Your fingers drift down to trace the edge of his jaw, guiding his face closer to yours. "I would have liked to keep you by my side instead."

Something in the distance snaps.

"There you are, sister."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the cocky tone in Aerion's voice. You look over your shoulder to find him glaring at Dunk. His hand grips the hilt of his sword.

Dunk pulls his shirt over his head. The fabric clings to the soft shape of his body. "Your grace," he mutters. His face becomes so severe, you'd think he were being sent off to the executioner.

Aerion bares his teeth. "And you, lumbering buffoon. What are you doing alone with my sister? Trying to sully her honor?"

That's when you roll your eyes, standing to face him. "Don't start with that," you snap. "Haven't you learned your lesson or do you need another reminder?"

There is a pale scar across Aerion's nose, left from their last encounter. He scoffs, turning his attention from Dunk to you. "Why are you entertaining this oaf?"

Dunk hands you your chemise. Your fingers purposefully brush against his wrist as you take it from him. Aerion's eye twitches.

"I like him," you admit plainly. That earns you a shy, toothy smile.

"Like one does a mangy stray," Aerion drawls with crossed arms. He stares Dunk down with a challenging glare.

"Have you only come to be insufferable or is there a purpose?" You snap as you pull the chemise over you.

Dunk shifts his feet and clears his throat. "I should take my leave now."

"Yes, be gone with you," Aerion says with mock politeness, waving his hand dismissively.

"Goodbye for now, Ser."

"Goodbye, your grace," he nods, blue eyes flickering over to Aerion, who is glowering again, then quickly correcting, "graces. Your graces."

At that, Dunk nods his head and departs, giving you one last polite, yet awkward, smile. You hate to see him walk away from the peace the two of you created. No matter, you'll see him at Summerhall.

"Come—father is looking for you." Aerion pulls your hand onto his arm, guiding you on a different path than the one Dunk took.

"Must you chase away every man who comes near me?"

"Of course," he scoffs, resting a hand on yours curled around his bicep, "no man will ever be good enough for a dragon, especially a hedge knight."

You smile to yourself as a scheme begins to form in your mind. You'd like to see him try and run off this hedge knight like all the others. Though you certainly doubt it will be as easy.

We met in Wessex. She looked at me and smiled before quickly looking away, a blush warming her cheeks. To this day, I could not say why she chose to look twice.

I closed my eyes, feeling her skin on mine, and thanked God.

As I held her close, I found myself wondering the same question I had asked a hundred times before: Why?

Our home is on a small plot of land in Coccham. It didn't matter that we weren't married. It was our home together. Uhtred, Sihtric, and I had to clear a raiding party upriver. When I came home, she was sitting in the doorway, watching the river for our boat. Once we landed, I walked up the hill towards her. The moonlight danced across her face, and for a moment, I forgot every mile I'd traveled to get home to her. Everyone knew how beautiful she was. She had the eyes of an angel and a smile that could've started wars. More than once, I had to remind men that she was spoken for.

She stood up from her place and stepped towards me. Her hands cupped my cheeks, thumbs brushing the skin. "Are you alright?" she whispered.

"I'm fine," I smiled, kissing her forehead.

"You're covered in blood, Finan," she said as her hands held my sides and pulled me closer. "Come inside, get you cleaned up. I have stew cooking."

"Oh, you know I love your stew," I laughed, letting her lead me into the house.

As I rested my arm under my head, I dragged my fingers over her side gently. She hummed softly and pushed closer to me. I lifted the furs to cover her back, brushing her hair from her cheek. The question ran through my head again.

Did she not know she deserved better?

On long journeys, she would come with us, Uhtred, and the other warriors. Alfred did not like seeing her around camp, but I didn't like Alfred. It was a nice way to gloat and jest. She was in my tent, a warrior's tent, while the man who shunned her sat in his royal tent a few plots over.

We went to bargain with the Danes who had threatened war. We were gone for the better part of the day, and I was exhausted by the time we returned to camp. The conversation resulted in no change. When we rode our horses closer, we knew something had gone terribly wrong. Camp had been destroyed, raided, and burned by the Danes, whom we had just met with.

I was first off my horse, pulling my sword as I ran through the camp and towards my tent. I ran through the desecrated remains with a panic in my chest. I was screaming her name as I approached, and my heart sank when she did not speak back. I threw open the curtain and stepped inside, terrified of what I might see.

But there she was, sitting on our bed, sword in hand. Then, I saw the body on the floor. A big, ugly Dane covered in blood. Her sword was bloodied too. As I put the pieces together, she turned to me, tears in her eyes and paler than a ghost.

"Finan," she whispered, voice cracking and a sob breaking through. She stood, dropping the sword and moving towards me.

I threw my sword and grabbed her, pulling her into my chest as she sobbed. "You're alright, my love. You're alright." I kissed the top of her head, my arms holding her as she collapsed. "You're alright." I closed my eyes, letting myself breathe for the first time since we returned. She was there, and alive, and well. "You're alright," I whispered, more to myself. "Let's get you out of here."

Lying there beside her, I listened to her breathe. My fingers mindlessly drifted over her back. It was difficult to imagine life without her. Coccham would be boring and less beautiful. My bed would be cold. My heart would be joyless. I pushed the thought away as she shifted against me. Her leg slid between mine as she rotated, stomach to stomach, and her arm wrapped around me. I smiled down at her.

I began wondering, had she truly never wanted another?

When Alfred told her that he was expecting her to marry, she looked at me from across the Witan. I was beside Uhtred, hanging my head in grief at losing her. "There is an alderman in Alba whom I would like to align with," he said. I clenched my jaw, hating the idea of her being so far and with the Scots.

"No," I heard her say. I looked up at her, at how strong she stood. "Lord King, I do not wish to go to the Scots. My heart has already decided on a man…one loyal to you and England." I broke out in a sweat, and Uhtred turned to me with a smirk.

"This is your duty," Alfred said, sitting up straighter in his throne.

"I do not want that duty," she said. I was in awe as I watched her. No hesitation, no guilt, no remorse. "I renounce my claim to the crown."

"Jesus," I breathed.

"You what?" Lady Aelswith exclaimed.

"I renounce my claim to the crown, and in this court, along with my rights as a lady of Wessex." We were all bewildered. She looked at me, grinning from ear to ear. I had no idea she was planning this.

"Bastard," Uhtred laughed, nudging me with his elbow. "I wasn't aware someone could renounce everything for an arseling."

I caught Alfred's eye and thought better of saying anything. I had already disrupted his plans; best not to rub salt in the wound.

"I could have you both executed for treason," he said while he looked at me. I stood up a little straighter, trying to prepare in case I needed to fight my way out with her.

"You will not, Lord King. You will let us go amicably. I do not ask you for anything," she said. Alfred turned to Steapa and waved a hand. The huge man took a step back, and I allowed my shoulders to relax. "Thank you, Lord King."

Her palm pressed against my stomach, as if testing to see if I were still there beside her. I took a breath, taking in the scent of her. It wound around me, enrapturing me. She smelled like a winter's morning and was as sweet as the berries she had harvested. It was a smell I never wanted to lose.

Had God simply taken pity on an Irish fool?

Uhtred led a band of warriors to Lundene to protect the traders. Sihtric and I rode alongside him as we normally did, telling stories and jokes to pass the time. When we reached the crumbling city, Sihtric was immediately pulled into the alehouse by one of the Mercian whores. I laughed as I walked by, staying beside Uhtred.

"You should bring a gift home," he advised.

"I should what?" I asked, confused by the notion.

He laughed a hearty laugh. "If I do not bring Gisela a gift in the form of silver, jewels, or spices, she will not let me hump her for a week." I looked at him, hoping he said this in jest. "Find something to give to your woman, and thank me later."

I spent the rest of the day speaking with traders about their wares and what would be a good gift for a princess. They laughed, thinking I was lying through my arse, but suddenly stopped when they saw how serious I was. It all seemed hopeless as Uhtred began to tell the servants to ready the horses.

Then, I saw an old woman sitting beside a dying fire. She had a small, dark brown box placed on the log next to her. As I walked over, I hoped I wasn't disturbing her. "Excuse me," I said. She snapped up to look at me, clearly sleeping. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I was wondering what was in that box you're selling."

"Oh," she laughed, wrinkles creasing. "This old thing! I'll show you." She struggled to pry the box open. Inside, rows and rows of silver rings and armrings. "These have come from far away. I have traded with many traders for this collection. Some from the Mediterranean Sea, and some from the Silk Road."

"The Silk Road?" I said, shocked.

"Oh, aye. I met a man who sold me a ring he had traded with a man from a place called Asia. Another man traded me an armring he had bought from someone called a Moor." I stared at her, wondering if these were tall tales she was telling me. "Would you like to trade for one?" she asked.

"I would, aye, something fit for a princess," I nodded. I sat on the ground beside her. "I don't have much to trade for. I have some silver, some rings, and armrings of my own."

"Fit for a princess?" she laughed. "Are you a king?"

"No," I chuckled. "A warrior. Back home, they call me 'Finan the Agile' for how I dance with my blade."

"Well, Finan the Agile," she said as she looked through the box. "I will give you this ring for your princess for that dagger in your belt."

"Aye," I said, pulling my dagger out. I could get another.

"This ring…" She held it up between two fingers. I stared down at it, studying it. It was silver with knots and braids along it and a purple jewel in the center. "…came from Frankia. The story is that Charles the Bald had it forged for a woman he hoped to marry. She was promised to another. In his grief, he threw the ring into a crowd, and it has been traded ever since."

I looked at her, turning my head slightly. "How do you know this?" I asked.

"The gods speak to me about all of the objects I acquire," she said with a smile.

"Hmm," I said, doubting her ability to speak with the gods. It was a beautiful sight, whether the story was true or simply that. "And you want only a dagger for it?"

"Yes, lord," she nodded. I handed her the dagger, and she placed the ring in my palm. "Pleasure doing business with you."

"Thank you very much," I smiled, looking at the ring. "You've saved me a lot of grief."

As I walked back to the men, I slid the ring over my smallest finger. I could not wait to return to my little piece of heaven and see her.

The moon was bright in the sky, cascading shadows over the bed from the window. I did wish sleep would take me. There was too much on my mind for it to rest. But there she lay, perfectly content and dreaming, beside me.

In my life, I would change nothing if I could do it all again. I'd be forced into chains and led to her. I'd lose everything in Ireland and have her renounce her riches for me. I'd swear an oath to Uhtred and be fortunate to be in the same city at the same time as her. As Uhtred says, it was fate that brought me to her, and her to me.

She was perfection. She was beautiful and clever. Kind, yet stronger than most men I knew. Fiercely loyal, endlessly understanding. What did she ever see in me?

When we rode back into Coccham, I jumped off my horse and barely tied him to the post. She must have heard the horses before she'd seen us. Before I knew it, I heard running footsteps. I turned and saw her, smiling widely and holding the bottom of her skirts as she ran.

"Finan!" she squealed, leaping into my arms. I laughed and caught her, stumbling back. She was kissing me, holding my cheeks, and not caring if I dropped her. "I missed you," she said, with a certain need in her voice.

"I've only been gone a day," I laughed.

"And I missed you through it," she smiled. I set her back on her feet. She pulled me back into another kiss, earning whistles from Sihtric.

"Let's go home. We don't need an audience," I chuckled as I glared at my greatest friend.

We walked, hand in hand, and she told me about her day. She went to church, then did the washing. She bathed in the secluded part of the river and froze when she got out. The fire in the hearth nearly burned the house down, she said.

When we went inside, I noticed how clean it looked. It appeared she spent most of the day cleaning. "It looks great in here," I said, taking my belt off.

"Do you want something to eat?" she asked. "I got ale, and bread and cheese today."

"I can get it," I smiled, pushing her to the table. "You just sit. You had a long day."

"Yes, but I didn't travel on horseback," she argued as I sat her down.

"Don't matter." I kissed the top of her head and went to get the pitcher of ale. "I got you something in Lundene."

"What?" she gasped, turning to face me.

"I saw it, and I thought of you," I said, only partially lying. "Close your eyes." She smirked wickedly, then closed her eyes. I set the pitcher down in front of her and grabbed her hand. I carefully placed the ring into her palm. "There."

She looked down at her hand, and her face softened. "Oh, Finan…" she whispered. "This is beautiful." She was speechless. Holding it between her fingers, she looked at it more closely. "Thank you."

"A beautiful ring for a beautiful woman," I smiled, leaning forward to kiss her gently. She slipped it over her finger and smiled down at it. "You're happy with it?" I asked as I sat down.

"You could have brought me a lump of coal, and I would've been happy with it," she said as she stood. She settled into my lap, wrapping her legs around my waist. My hands instinctively found her waist. "You thought of me while you were gone," she said, almost breathlessly. "That is gift enough."

We moved to the bed shortly after. Before long, she was asleep beside me, her head resting against my chest. She left me awake with my thoughts of her, wondering what she was doing with the likes of me.

"Go to sleep, Finan," she mumbled. She kissed my chest gently before setting her head down once more.

"I cannot," I whispered. I brushed her hair from her cheek and stroked my fingers over the soft skin.

"Are you thinking of the battle again?" she asked.

"Something like that," I huffed.

She rolled off of me and leaned on her elbows. Reaching up, she pushed her fingers into my hair, her thumb brushing against my forehead. "I would love to know what's going on in that head of yours," she whispered.

"You," I said softly. "It's always…you." She laughed, tucking her arm back around her. "Why do you love me?" I asked her blatantly.

"What isn't there to love?" she asked, unfazed by the question. She moved closer to me, kissing me gently. "You are kind, and funny, and strong, and you protect me. You love me. You make me so happy."

"You gave up everything for me," I said. "I can't give you a yard of land, or pieces of silver."

"That doesn't matter, Finan. If I wanted that…I would have gone to Alba," she said. She was sitting now, nakedness visible only to me. The back of her hand stroked my cheek, the rings cold on my skin. "I want you, Finan. So believe that." She laughed, smiling widely as she leaned forward to kiss me. My hand went instinctively to her back, pulling her closer.

"I'll never believe it," I whispered, lips still touching hers. "You…deserved a prince, and I'm far from it." I kissed her again, pulling her on top of me. "I'll keep on wondering why."