281 AC
Cersei Pov
The skies above Dragonstone were a brooding tapestry of grey and black, clouds rolling like smoke above the jagged mountains that framed the ancient castle. Rain had not yet come, but the scent of it was heavy in the wind a thick, salt-drenched breeze that carried the chill of the Narrow Sea. The island was always cold, always wet, always unforgiving. Its halls were dark, its walls steeped in shadow and soot. A place more suited for dragons than men.
Yet, it was home now.
Not by choice.
It had been more than a year since I came here with Rhaegar, exiled in all but name by his own brother's rise to power. I still remembered the sharp taste of that humiliation, the sting of it sitting just beneath the sweetness of the birth of my daughter.
Visenya.
My Visenya.
She had turned a nameday old last moon. A fierce child already, bright-eyed and stubborn, with a shock of silver-gold hair and eyes that were violet. She slept now in the arms of Queen Rhaella, my goodmother, though the term hardly did justice to what she had become for me.
Rhaella had remained with us on Dragonstone when my mother returned to Casterly Rock. And though I had bristled at her presence once, I had come to depend on it. In truth, I had grown to care for her, more than I expected. There was a quiet dignity in her sorrow, a gentle steel that reminded me of my own mother, and yet, she was more than that.
She was a survivor. A woman who had lived through fire and madness and still managed to smile.
I watched her now from across the chamber as she laid Visenya gently into her wooden crib. The baby stirred but did not wake, her small hands curling into fists around the edge of the woven blanket.
Beside the balcony, the dragon slumbered.
Her scales were the color of freshly spilt blood, her wings still too small to carry her high, but her frame had grown to the size of a small horse. Already. At first, I had feared her. Dragons were not pets. They were not meant to be kept like hounds or cats. What if she hurt Visenya? What if she turned on me?
But my fear had faded the first time I saw her curl protectively around my daughter's crib. There was something more than mere instinct in that dragon's watchfulness, an intelligence, a bond.
"You've grown weak," Rhaella said softly, her voice warm as she turned from the crib. "How are you feeling today, Cersei?"
I placed a hand over my belly, where life stirred faintly within.
"Grand Maester Luwin says my body is still weak. Too soon, he says, to bear another child," I murmured, glancing away. "But the gods saw fit to bless us again."
It had been three moons since I realized I was with child once more.
"You will give birth to the prince who was promised," Rhaegar had whispered, his eyes gleaming with a fervor I found both unsettling and strangely comforting.
"Visenya, Aegon and then Rhaenys," he had said, as if reciting some sacred prophecy rather than speaking of flesh and blood.
I should have felt joy. Another child. Another legacy. Another step toward the destiny Rhaegar so often spoke of in hushed, reverent tones. But instead, I felt fear clawing at the edges of my pride.
Visenya's birth had left me weakened, my body worn, my spirit thinned. I hated it. Hated how fragile I had become in the eyes of the court, the maesters, even Rhaegar at times. I was no frail lamb to be pitied or handled with care.
I was a lioness.
I did not bend. I did not break.
And yet, this child grew inside me, and with it, so did the doubt.
Would I endure this again? Would I survive?
I forced the fear down like bile and lifted my chin.
I would not let the world see my weakness.
"It has been more than a year since Visenya was born," she said gently, stepping closer. "You should rest. You must take care of yourself, child."
A muscle tensed in my jaw. "I am not some fragile flower to be coddled. I am a lioness. I endured worse at King's Landing."
Rhaella chuckled softly, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "You remind me of myself, when I carried Rhaegar."
At the mention of his name, my pride swelled instinctively. My husband. My prince. My love. He was everything a woman could want: a visionary, capable, and brilliant. He had endured betrayal, exile, and dishonor. And I had stood beside him through it all.
"I was not much older than you when I bore him," Rhaella continued. "The maesters said it would be difficult. They warned I might not survive. And then came Daemon."
Her voice faltered.
I saw it then, the shadow pass across her eyes, the softening of her lips. She looked not at me but past me, toward some memory that lived in the past.
"I had so many dreams for my sons," she said quietly. "Rhaegar was always the silent one. So serious, so dutiful. He used to read to me in the gardens of the red keep".
"And Daemon?" I asked, even as my stomach twisted.
Her expression tightened, conflicted.
"Daemon was the wildfire in our blood," she said. "Charming, reckless, bold. He laughed more than Rhaegar ever did. But the two of them oh, they were close once. Inseparable. I would find them swordfighting at dawn, racing through the halls. Thick as thieves, they were."
I frowned, skeptical. "And yet it was Daemon who humiliated Rhaegar. He marched him through the city like a common criminal. Stripped of his dignity. My husband walked naked through the streets, and all the smallfolk laughed and jeered him."
Her face paled, the smile fading.
"I know," she said. "I was there. I saw it."
"Then how can you defend him?"
"I do not defend what he did," she answered, voice quiet but firm. "It was cruel. And I know you hate him for it. But Cersei, he didn't do it out of hatred."
I scoffed. "Then what? Love?"
"I do not know."
The words stunned me into silence.
Rhaella stepped closer and took my hands in hers.
"Daemon has always loved his brother. Even now, though they are estranged, that love has not died. But Daemon, he's a man who loves with fire, and fire does not always bring warmth. Sometimes it burns."
She looked down, her fingers tightening around mine.
"I watched my sons drift apart, and there was nothing I could do. I told myself it was just a phase, that they'd grow close again. That they would find their way back to each other."
Her voice cracked.
"But power changes everything. And pain. Daemon could never forgive Rhaegar for choosing love over blood, for running away with his betrothed", she said as she looked at me, and I turned away. It was true that Daemon and I were to be married, but I was meant to become the Queen and not a princess.
"And Rhaegar, he could never understand Daemon's fury. I failed them both", she said softly.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I looked at her, really looked. The lines around her eyes, the tiredness in her shoulders, the sorrow carved into her face. She had lost more than any woman I knew. Her husband had never careed for her drowning himself in whores and wine. Her children were torn apart.
And yet, she endured.
"I envy you sometimes," she said suddenly, eyes drifting to the crib. "You have Rhaegar's love. You have your child. And another on the way."
I blinked, surprised. "Envy me?"
She nodded. "You still have hope. A future. When I look at you, Cersei, I see the next queen. Not of ashes, but of something better. And I see a mother who will burn the world for her children."
"I would," I said, my voice fierce. "I will. No one will ever harm Visenya. Or the one in my belly. I swear it."
"Then be strong," Rhaella said. "But do not be unkind. Pride can become armor, yes, but it can also be a prison."
Her words lingered in the air like the scent of storm.
A sudden roar shattered the silence.
I turned to the balcony just in time to see a shadow pass across the sky, a massive form, golden-scaled and winged, trailing flame across the clouds. A golden dragon. Daemon's beast.
And beneath it, sails. Ships. Targaryen banners flapping in the wind.
He had returned.
I felt my jaw tighten. Rhaella moved beside me, her hand resting gently on my arm.
"He will not harm you," she said softly. "Nor your children. Whatever else he may be, Daemon is still a Targaryen. He will not abandon his blood."
"I am not afraid of him," I replied, lifting my chin.
But that was not entirely true.
Because somewhere deep in my heart, I feared what Daemon represented. Not just power, but a truth I did not want to face, that Rhaegar was no longer the future of House Targaryen despite being the crown prince.
Daemon was.
And the game of thrones had only just begun.
-----------
Daemon Pov
Ashara was riding me like she was trying to outrun fate.
"Daemon," she cried out, her voice caught somewhere between ecstasy and defiance, her back arched like a bow as the morning sun filtered through the wooden slats of the cabin window, casting striped olden shadows across her bare skin.
She moved above me with the elegance of a dancer and the fury of a storm, every roll of her hips deliberate and wild at once. Her hair, dark as dusk and heavy with salt air, spilled over her shoulders, clinging to her neck and back with sweat. Her violet eyes locked on mine, fierce and filled with something that scorched deeper than lust, something terrifyingly close to ownership.
Ashara Dayne was no woman of court or compromise. She was a star burning dangerously bright, and I was the fool who dared to meet her without any protection.
Her body, sun-kissed and flushed from our passion, was sculpted like the dunes of her homeland—fluid and eternal. She was the only realm I wished to conquer, and the only one that could not be held.
"Ashara," I groaned, my hands gripping her hips as I felt myself near the precipice. Her nails pressed into my chest, not cruel but firm, marking me in the way only lovers do, so I would remember in the silence later that this had been real.
And then I gave in, thrusting upward, gasping as I spilled inside her, my voice ragged and hoarse with pleasure. She collapsed atop me, trembling, breathless, skin slick and glowing in the light of the newborn day.
We stayed like that for a long while, tangled together on the narrow bed as the waves lapped gently against the hull of Vengeance. Her head rested over my heart, as if listening to some truth I hadn't yet spoken aloud.
The cabin reeked of wine, salt, sweat, and sex, the scent of life.
Blindly, I reached for the goblet on the side table, nearly overturned during our earlier frenzy, and drank deeply. The wine was warm and half-flat, but I savored it. Ashara didn't move. She never did, not immediately. This had become our ritual, the silence after the storm, the calm after the fire.
I traced idle circles along her spine, watching the way her skin shifted under my fingertips. "You could rule Starfall in your own right," I murmured. "You don't need to have a dick for that. You would be better than your older brother"
Ashara chuckled, but the sound was muffled by my chest. "And yet here I am—sailing toward Dragonstone, not Starfall. Riding a Targaryen prince instead of ruling at Starfall."
I smiled without humor. "That's politics. No one ever truly gets what they deserve."
A long pause followed. Outside, the gulls cried in the distance, and the timbers creaked as the ship adjusted course. For all our fire, there was peace in these rare moments. But it never lasted.
A knock shattered it.
Ashara cursed softly and reached for the silk sheet, pulling it around her with irritation. I stayed where I was, bare from the waist down, sipping wine as if I were seated on a throne.
"Enter," I called lazily.
The door creaked open to reveal Davos Seaworth, standing awkwardly in the doorway. Loyal, blunt, honest to a fault. And somehow always smelling faintly of fish.
He took one look at the scene and immediately stared hard at the floorboards, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment.
"My prince," he muttered.
"Ser Davos," I greeted with a lazy lift of the goblet. "Interrupting morning prayers again?"
Ashara buried her face into the pillow, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Davos cleared his throat. "We've docked at Dragonstone. The King is asking whether you'll be joining your family for supper or if you'd rather continue, ah, dining on your current course."
Ashara turned crimson. I let out a bark of laughter.
"Oh, did he say it like that? Father still has venom on that tongue of his."
Davos offered a faint smile. "He asked with clarity, my prince."
"Tell my father I'll attend," I said, waving a hand. "And you and your family will be joining us."
Davos blinked. "My prince?"
"You heard me. You're the head of the Golden Dragon Trading Company now. When your next shipment returns from Yi Ti, you'll be richer than half the Lords of Westeros and will make me House Targaryen richer than the Lannisters. Best you start drinking wine that doesn't taste like vinegar and learn how to tolerate the company of arrogant fools."
He looked ready to protest, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
"No excuses, my Onion knight. Dress the part. And tell your wife to drown you in perfume. We can't have my family thinking Dragonstone reeks of cod."
He chuckled, bowed, and left.
The moment the door closed, Ashara turned to me. She was still smiling faintly, but the light didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze lingered on the door far longer than necessary.
And then tears. Not loud, not dramatic. Just there, glistening at the corners of her eyes.
"Ashara?" I said gently, sitting up.
She looked at me, her violet eyes suddenly older than they had any right to be. "Why do you have to marry her?"
My heart clenched. Not again. Not this.
Since the council had announced my betrothal to Janna Tyrell, this question had hung over us like storm clouds. I had dodged it with teasing smiles and whispered lies, kissed it away with promises I wasn't sure I could keep. But Ashara Dayne wasn't a fool. Sooner or later, she would force an answer from me.
"I don't love her," I said softly.
"Then why?"
I ran a hand through my hair, silver and golden strands catching in the sunlight. "Because love doesn't win wars. The Reach has the food. The gold. The knights. Marrying her binds the Tyrells to my cause. If I'm to defend the Iron throne and strengthen the dynasty, then I need them."
She clutched the sheet tighter around herself, as though it could shield her from the truth.
"Only if Solarys was a grown dragon, then I would have no need of the Tyrells", I said to her, although it was a lie. No matter how big the dragons were, I needed men, men who would be loyal to me.
"And what about us?"
I looked at her really looked. At the rise and fall of her chest, the flushed cheeks, the strands of hair curling around her jaw. At the woman, I wanted more than any woman I ever had.
"You'll always have a place by my side," I said.
"As what?" she asked, voice cracking. "A shadow? A shameful secret? A mistress kept out of sight, your personal whore who you fuck at the side while your bride bears your heirs and parades at your side?"
"You know what you are to me, Ashara."
"Do I?"
I stood, grabbing my tunic from the chair. "Don't do this."
"Why not?" Her voice broke. "I fought my family for you. I walked away from Arthur. And what do I get in return? Lies. Whispers. Shame."
"You think I haven't sacrificed?" I snapped, pulling the tunic over my head. "You think I want this match? Every word I speak is judged. Every glance, twisted. Every act, politicized. I don't get to love freely. I'm not just a man I'm a Targaryen prince."
Her silence struck deeper than a scream.
And then she whispered it. "Sometimes you wish I were more like her."
I froze. "Who?"
"Chataya," she said.
The name floated between us like smoke.
"I know about her," Ashara continued, voice bitter. "The Summer Islander. The one who taught you how to please a woman. The one you dream about. You talk in your sleep, Daemon. The woman who owns all the brothels of kingslanding in your name."
I turned away. "Chataya is my business associate."
"She knew her place, didn't she?" Ashara pressed. "She never asked you to fight for her."
"She didn't love me like you do," I said.
The words hit us both like a slap.
Chataya had been soft and wise. She taught me the pleasures of the flesh, how to speak without speaking. But she never demanded my heart. Never asked for a crown. Never forced me to look at the cracks in my armor.
Ashara did.
She saw me. All of me. And that terrified me.
"You told me love doesn't win wars," she said, tears now falling freely. "But what use is a war if there's nothing left of you when it's over?"
I stepped toward her, instinctively reaching for her hand. "I love you."
"Then prove it," she whispered. "Proclaim me. Let the court see who I am. Don't ask me to wear shadows while another woman wears your house's colors."
"I can't," I said, barely above a whisper.
Her shoulders sagged, as though the weight of my cowardice had finally crushed her.
"I have to get dressed," I added after a pause. "Do come to supper. If the Queen's handmaiden vanishes, it'll cause rumors."
She didn't answer. Her eyes fixed on the horizon through the porthole, on Dragonstone rising like a jagged crown from the sea, its black towers stabbing at the morning sky.
I turned to leave, pausing once at the door.
I wanted to say something, anything that would make her stay. That would keep her from slipping through my fingers.
But there was nothing.
And so I left, the scent of her skin still clinging to me, the taste of her tears still burning on my tongue.
I sat quietly as the servants came and served course after course, while I sipped my wine in silence.
----------
Father sat at the head of the table, with Mother beside him. Daeron was busy answering Viserys's questions, and for once, he behaved like a child, wide-eyed and curious. Rhaegar, ever the golden prince, was speaking softly to Cersei, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ser Davos sat with his wife, Marya. The poor woman looked anxious and self-conscious in such grand company, while her children sat beside her, busy shoveling food into their mouths. Davos leaned down and whispered furiously, urging them to eat slowly.
My eyes drifted toward Ashara. She sat quietly, barely touching her food, her expression distant. A sharp irritation flared in my chest. I overheard Cersei asking Rhaegar why hedge knights and their families were allowed to dine alongside royalty. That old Targaryen fury sparked in my blood. I was angry, not at her, but at myself.
Without thinking, I stood, grabbing a flagon of wine.
"I wish to propose a toast," I said aloud. My voice cut through the hum of conversation. My father, always eager to raise a cup, lifted his chalice. Rhaegar followed, his eyes curious.
"A toast to Ser Davos Seaworth," I declared, my voice firm. "The finest sailor I've ever known."
A few people looked surprised. Davos himself blinked, caught off guard.
"He helped me build the Golden Dragon Trading Company into what it is today. And now, he shall lead our entire fleet to Yi Ti, to trade, and to return with wealth and wonders."
I raised the flagon to my lips and drank directly from it, ignoring the horrified glance Mother gave me.
"Daemon, control yourself," she hissed.
But I didn't care.
"Bard, play something cheerful," I called out, and the musicians quickly adjusted, plucking out a jaunty tune.
I strode toward Lady Marya, who seemed even more startled now that all eyes were briefly on her.
"My lady," I said, bowing with exaggerated grace, "for sending your husband to the ends of the world, the least I can do is offer you a dance in return. Will you honor me?"
A small, nervous smile broke across her round face, and she nodded shyly.
We began to dance.
She was not especially graceful, but that didn't matter. The moment was light, heartfelt. Even Davos was smiling now as he watched his wife begin to loosen up, the weight of noble eyes slowly fading from her shoulders.
The song ended on a gentle flourish of the lute, and polite applause followed. I let go of Lady Marya's hand and stepped back with a respectful bow. She gave me a grateful smile, her cheeks flushed not just from the dance, but from the sudden attention her presence had commanded. For a moment, there was levity. For a moment, the room was warm with laughter.
But peace is a delicate thing.
"I wish to make a toast," Rhaegar said, rising from his seat with that same measured calm that always made my knuckles itch.
I turned, still holding my flagon, a smile tightening at the edges of my mouth. I should have known better. His voice was soft, princely, and yet somehow sanctimonious all at once.
"A toast," he said, his violet eyes shining, "to my future son."
A hush fell. A few gasps. Some nobles raised their brows; others sipped their wine, intrigued.
And then, he did it. That smug, prophesy obsessed bastard placed his hand ever so gently on Cersei's belly.
This fucker.
I gripped my flagon so tightly my knuckles turned white. My body went hot and cold all at once, and before I could stop myself, I shouted across the table:
"What is wrong with you, Rhaegar?!"
My voice thundered over the hall. Conversations stopped. The bard went silent. Servants froze mid-step.
With a crash, I flung the flagon to the ground, wine spraying across the rushes like blood. Cersei jumped in her seat. Rhaegar's hand slipped from her stomach. I didn't care.
"I told you, did I not? to wait until her body healed!" I barked, storming a step forward, eyes blazing.
"She barely survived giving birth to Visenya! And now you dare risk her life again for your gods-damned prophecy?!"
Cersei's face drained of color, lips trembling, hands shaking in her lap. Rhaegar looked dumbfounded, mouth half-open, like he hadn't expected anyone,least of all me, to challenge him so publicly. He truly was an idiot.
"Daemon, calm down," Mother hissed sharply. But I wasn't listening.
"Grand Maester Luwin!" I shouted, spinning toward the old man seated near the dais.
He blinked, startled. "Y-Yes, my prince?"
"Tell us, can my good-sister's body survive another birth so soon after the last?" I asked, voice now colder, more deliberate. "Will she live to see her third child?"
The old man hesitated, his eyes darting to Queen Rhaella, then to Father, and back to me.
"I asked you a fucking question," I growled.
Grand Maester Luwin cleared his throat, voice shaking just slightly.
"I did speak with Her Grace, the Queen, and advised her that another pregnancy so soon could take a heavy toll. Lady Cersei's body is still recovering, and if there is a third child after this one," He sighed. "It is unlikely she will survive it."
There it was.
Truth. Cold and sharp, laid bare before the court.
"There you have it, you dolt!" I snapped at Rhaegar. "You won't have your third head of the dragon from her! You'll have a corpse for a queen and two motherless babes!"
Rhaegar looked like I'd slapped him. Cersei had turned pale as snow. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks. And across the hall, I saw Ashara her lips pressed into a thin, grim line.
Cersei finally broke. Her shoulders shook as sobs escaped her lips. Mother was at her side in an instant, wrapping her arms around her like that would somehow undo what Rhaegar had done.
"You knew" Cersei whispered, trembling as she looked at Mother. "You knew"
Rhaella said nothing. But she didn't deny it either.
That was all anyone needed to know.
"I'd like to propose a toast!" Father's voice rang out, startling everyone.
The mood was shattered once again, this time by Aerys, who had finally decided to speak after ignoring the entire debacle like it was someone else's family falling apart.
He rose from his seat with a wobble, his wine-stained robe askew, his eyes bloodshot and watery.
"A toast!" he slurred. "A toast to my golden boy! Not that arse" he pointed at Rhaegar with his goblet, "the other one. The real one. Daemon! Who's finally going to take a wife!"
A few nervous chuckles rippled through the hall.
"The whores from the Wall to the Sea of Dorne will weep, aye!" he bellowed, barely standing straight. "They'll weep for Daemon's cock, for it shall no longer visit their beds!"
Laughter. Awkward. Horrified. Embarrassed. Some courtiers lowered their eyes. Some giggled behind their hands. Some pretended not to hear.
Aerys laughed harder than all of them, nearly choking on his wine. "The poor whores!" he cackled. "They'll sing ballads of my son's cock!"
And then, as if on cue, he fell back into his seat, laughing like a lunatic while wine sloshed from his goblet onto his lap.
By the Seven, he was drunk. Gloriously, dangerously, pathetically drunk. And he didn't give a single fuck.
I didn't laugh.
I saw Ashara rise from her seat without a word. Her expression was unreadable—calm, quiet, and yet something burned behind her eyes.
She walked out, skirts swaying behind her, her posture stiff as marble.
I went after her.
"Ashara, wait!" I called, wobbling down the hall like a knight charging into battle with one leg shorter than the other. The torches swam before my eyes, and the corridor tilted at an unfriendly angle.
Gods, I could barely walk, let alone run. Seven hells, I really should cut down on the wine. Or not. Probably not.
"Ashaa ah, fuck!" My foot snagged on the hem of some overpriced rug and I went flying. Stone greeted me with the kindness of a Dornish widow, hard and cold and wholly uninterested in catching me gently.
"Daemon!" her voice called sharply, and then, she was there. Kneeling beside me in an instant, hands fluttering over me, touching my forehead, my shoulders, my elbow that had taken most of the blow.
She smelled of lilacs and salt. And something else. Something warmer.
"I think," I groaned, "that harming myself is the best way to get you to stop being angry at me."
"You fool," she muttered, but her tone had softened. And then, without warning, she punched me lightly in the gut.
"Ow," I gasped, throwing my head back dramatically. "You wound me, my lady."
"You're fine," she said, but the corner of her lips curved ever so slightly.
Moonlight broke through the clouds, washing her face in soft silver. Her eyes glowed like twin stars, and the stray strands of hair falling across her cheek made her look like a goddess painted by some lovesick maester.
"You look lovely, my star," I whispered, blinking at her like she'd just descended from the sky.
"You're drunk."
"Not quite, my love." I leaned in and kissed her.
She let me.
Her lips met mine in a slow, aching kiss that made the whole corridor spin in a much better way than wine ever had. Her fingers tangled in my hair, mine settled on the curve of her waist, and for a moment, I forgot everything, Rhaegar's idiocy, Father's madness, Cersei's tears. There was only her.
"I want you," I murmured hungrily, my mouth brushing her neck. "Right here. Against this wall. Let the stones bear witness."
She giggled, but pushed me back.
"Daemon, wait," she said softly, her hands now pressed against my chest. "I need to tell you something."
I blinked. "Is it that you're a falling star because you fell for me?" I grinned like an idiot. "Because if so, I must say, your taste in men is celestial."
Ashara stared at me flatly.
"I apologize," I muttered, trying not to smile. "What is it, truly?"
She didn't speak. Instead, she took my hand, my foolish, calloused, wine-stained hand, and placed it gently on her belly.
I frowned.
"Daemon," she whispered. "I'm with child."
Silence.
The torches dimmed. The moonlight froze. The very world tilted.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came.
She was looking at me. Scared, maybe. Or proud. Or both.
I felt warmth beneath my palm. And for a second, everything else feasts, thrones, wars, dragons meant nothing.
"Ashara," I began, voice raw..
"ASHARA!"
A sharp voice cut through the corridor like a dagger.
I turned to see Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the fucking Morning, storming toward us like a righteous hurricane. His white cloak swirled around him, his boots loud on the stone.
"Ashara, what in the seven bloody hells, did I just hear you say what I think you said?"
She stood up fast, squaring her shoulders. "Arthur, please"
"You're with child?!" he roared, his voice echoing through the hall.
She nodded. "Yes."
"With him?!" He pointed an accusing finger at me like I'd personally insulted his ancestors. "Ashara, what in all the gods-damned Realms!"
"Don't shout at me!" she snapped back.
"I'm not shouting!"
"You're making a scene!"
"You made the child!"
"I love him!"
"You what?!"
As they squared off, their voices rising in perfect Dayne harmony, I remained on the floor, blinking slowly.
"She's with child," I whispered to myself.
Arthur kept going. "Do you know what Father's going to say?! Do you know what Mother will do when she hears this?!"
"I don't care! I'm not ashamed! I love him, and this child"
"Oh gods, you love him, the man who is going to be married in a few moons' time," Arthur muttered, rubbing his face.
"She's with child," I said again, louder this time.
Arthur turned to me. "Yes, we have established that!"
I raised a finger. "I mean, that means I'm going to be a father."
They both stopped mid-argument.
I slowly rose to my feet, still gripping the wall for balance, staring at them like I'd just solved a riddle from the Sphinx of Old Valyria.
"I'm going to be a father," I repeated, voice tinged with awe and sheer disbelief. "A real one. Not an uncle. Not a political groom. A father."
Arthur looked like he wanted to throttle me.
Ashara, however, watched me carefully.
"Fuck"