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Sarra pants as she hikes her skirts up and runs, the earth crunching and squelching beneath her feet. She has never been good at running, always heaving even when she hasn’t even gone far—her siblings have always made fun of her because of that. 

It doesn’t matter, she has always thought. There wouldn’t be a moment in time when she will need the skills of a runner. She’s a nursemaid now in one of the greatest houses. She won’t need to run.

Oh, how wrong she’s been.

The princeling rounds the corner like a thief evading the knights. How a boy so little can run that fast, Sarra has no idea. Sometimes, she thinks that the princeling is a spawn that crawled from the depths of seven hells. Considering who his father is, Sarra may not be far off from the mark.

There’s a saying that goes: Speak of the devil and he shall appear. And it appears to be true more often than not.

Sarra finally rounds the corner to the training grounds, and her blood runs cold when she takes in the sight before her. The princeling is now on his arse, looking up at the man he certainly bumped into. Sarra slows to a halt, catching up with her breath.

The man looks down at the princeling with a grunt. He doesn’t spare Sarra a look. He’s always been like that—too above their station to gaze upon any of them. The princeling reaches up with his tiny arms, mumbling something incoherent. The man hands his sword to the knight beside him, who takes the weapon in silence.

With little to no effort, the man reaches down and picks up the princeling in his arms.

It’s like looking at a man holding his younger self. In a way, it kind of is.

Bright silver hair cascades down their shoulders, lacking the waves and curls that the other royals have. The princeling’s eyes are dark violet, gleaming with elation that, if Sarra looks closely enough, reflects on the man’s eyes.

Eye, Sarra corrects herself with a slight wince.

The man’s eye is focused on the young prince as if the boy is the only thing he sees and everything else has all but faded. It’s a rare sight to behold. A moment that shouldn’t be seen nor heard. Sarra should hold her head down but she can’t take her gaze away from the princes.

The young prince laughs, high and giddy, as he tries to catch the man’s finger, waggling about in his face. Sarra has never seen the young princeling so fixated and delighted. She has always tried to entertain the boy but perhaps a sheep is no match for a dragon, even if he’s young and innocent still.

“Where is his father?” the man says, his voice deep like another grunt. His eye never leaves the princeling, who’s still trying to catch his finger with a shriek of laughter.

Sarra shifts on her feet, eyes widening as she realizes that the question is directed at her. She bows this time, lets her gaze fall to the ground. 

“The lord is in the Hall of Nine, my prince,” Sarra answers with a shaky voice. She grips her skirt tightly. “He’s holding an audience with the Pentoshi prince.”

The man pauses. After a beat, he hums and runs a hand through the princeling’s hair, straightening the strands that went astray from his running. A smile stretches his lips. It would’ve been terrifying if it were not directed at the princeling, who beams back like a beacon of light. 

Sarra feels the warmth in her heart at the sight. She has only been working as a nursemaid for a month and the princeling has become her main source of a headache but she still adores him. He’s a good son. A good kid. Lights up every room he’s in. Gives life to the dark and bleak castle that houses them.

Then, for the first time, the man looks at Sarra. His eye now a stone—a cold, dark amethyst that makes her freeze all over like a curse. “You may leave,” he says.

For a moment, Sarra remains silent, words on her tongue not rolling off properly. It’s always been difficult to find her voice under the calculating gaze of the prince but she endures it. She clears her throat and bows. “As you wish, my prince.”

When she leaves, she hears the princeling’s laughter ring in the courtyard. A smile is splayed on her lips as she returns to the quarters.

+ + +

Prince Olyvio sits comfortably enough. The chair is hard, unlike the soft feather chairs in Pentos, and the hall is dark and cold as if abandoned, but it all brings him comfort. 

He leans back with a small sigh. Perhaps it’s not the castle that oozes this strange familiarity. No, not at all. The Master of Driftmark smiles and sits across from him with regality and grace that can outmatch every other royal in both Westeros and Essos alike.

Eye glinting with interest, Prince Olyvio listens to the lord as he tells Westerosi tales that the prince has heard before. Though the Pentoshi prince doesn’t tell him that, letting the lord drawl on, his sweet voice filling the empty hall.

A coo makes the lord pause. He adjusts the babe in his lap, runs a hand through the child’s dark curls with a fond smile. Then he looks back at Prince Olyvio and continues his tale.

Prince Olyvio looks properly at the sight before him. It’s like looking at a man and his younger self. The resemblance is too plain to see—one look and one would know.

Despite being already a man grown, the Lord of the Tides still holds soft features on his face. Cheeks a little bit rounded although sharp angles start to protrude, skin supple and soft, with dark eyes that seem to be brighter than anything Prince Olyvio has ever seen.

The child on his lap is no more than a year old or two, Prince Olyvio wagers. Just like the lord, the babe has soft curls, framing a round face with dark eyes that gaze everywhere with innocent curiosity. The child is a cute little thing, behaves well, and doesn’t even cry when the lord’s attention is elsewhere.

“...and at Qarth, my grandsire acquired twenty more ships, filling them with spices, silk, and even elephants. It’s unfortunate, however, that the elephants died at sea. They—”

The doors of the hall open, heavy footsteps echoing in the room. Prince Olyvio takes a deep breath, adjusts in his seat, as he looks at the newcomer.

A silver-haired prince, tall and strong, holding a child that looks just like him in his arms, one eye only fixed upon the Lord of the Tides. He doesn’t even glance at Prince Olyvio which irks the Pentoshi prince but he lets it go. He’s in a foreign land and it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Lord Lucerys only looks up for a moment, giving the man and the child a small smile, before giving his attention back to Prince Olyvio and continuing his tale yet again.

Prince Olyvio doesn’t miss the frown—the displeasure—that contorts the face of the silver-haired prince. Nonetheless, the silver-haired prince stands behind Lord Lucerys, puts his hand on the lord’s shoulder, looming over like a warning despite the child in his hold.

It’s frightening, Prince Olyvio has to admit. Though he wills himself and tries to listen to Lord Lucerys’ velvety voice. He pretends that the man behind the lord isn’t looking at him menacingly as if he’s killing Prince Olyvio in his head.

When Lord Lucerys finishes the tale of the ninth voyage, the Pentoshi prince finds himself sighing in relief as the lord finally turns his attention to the silver-haired prince.

“Aemond,” he says, turning around. Briefly touches the hand on his shoulder before pulling away as if he remembers his boundaries and he has overstepped. There’s a look of shame in the lord’s eyes that he tries to conceal.

Prince Aemond only grunts in return and puts down the child in his arms. The silver-haired child immediately clings to Lord Lucerys’ legs, and the lord laughs with mirth.

Now, the babe in Lord Lucerys’ lap turns to Prince Aemond and reaches up, hands closing and opening. The babe whimpers, almost cries, until Prince Aemond picks the child in his arms, and the child calms down in a matter of seconds. It’s like the strangest of magic.

Prince Olyvio has heard of the Targaryen prince. How he’s skilled with swords and battle despite only having one eye. How he has the biggest dragon in the world in his command. How his heart is as black as the skies during a storm.

What he hasn’t heard is how Prince Aemond smiles at the babe with dark curls and dark eyes. How he dotes upon the child as if there’s no one else he sees. How he rocks the babe, muttering words in High Valyrian with a soft voice that doesn’t match his being. Prince Olyvio finds it curious and very much interesting.

Lord Lucerys presses a kiss onto the silver-haired princeling and pulls him onto his lap. He meets Prince Olyvio’s gaze with a smile. “This is Aerion,” the lord says before looking at the babe still in Prince Aemond’s arms. “And that is Valaena.”

“Such beautiful names for beautiful children,” says Prince Olyvio.

The next words that come out of Prince Aemond’s lips are in High Valyrian again. Although Prince Olyvio isn’t fluent in the language, he knows some words enough to pick up what the Targaryen prince means.

“Why must you tell that man the names of our children?”

Lord Lucerys’ smile doesn’t falter but he replies in High Valyrian as well. “Behave.”

Prince Aemond grunts. “When is he leaving?”

“He’s our guest. He’s a friend of Daemon’s from Pentos. He can stay as long as he likes,” says Lord Lucerys calmly, eyes not leaving Prince Olyvio’s.

“I am tired. Send him away.”

“Aemond.”

“Send him away.”

The child, Valaena, in Prince Aemond’s arms suddenly cries. Shrieks so high and loud ringing in their ears. Prince Olyvio tries his best not to flinch from the sound but it’s hard not to when the wails echo all over the hall.

Lord Lucerys’ notices his dilemma and stands up with his child in his arms. “I think it’s best if we meet another time, Prince Olyvio.” He offers him an apologetic smile and the Pentoshi prince can tell that it’s genuine. Lord Lucerys has always been welcoming and kind. It’s a striking contrast to how his husband is the most threatening man Prince Olyvio has ever seen—and that’s telling, considering he is familiar with the current King Consort of Westeros.

Prince Olyvio stands up, nods understandingly. “Of course, my lord. It must not be easy to have children.”

A carefree laugh escapes the lord’s lips. “It is not,” he says, looking at his son, Aerion, with the softest gaze. “But it is the most fulfilling and beautiful thing in the world.”

Prince Olyvio looks at the Lord of the Tides. At the boy clinging to him. At the prince behind him and the young child still crying in his arms. The people before him look like just any other family he has met, and the Pentoshi prince has met many. It’s nothing out of the ordinary though they are beautiful indeed. He wonders if the lord truly believes his own words; if the family he has built is truly fulfilling.

“I’ll take my leave, my lord,” Prince Olyvio says. For a moment, he contemplates whether to kiss the lord’s hand. But the glare of a single dark violet eye is enough to have him bow instead and skirmish away.

Before he leaves, he hears their words in High Valyrian once more.

“This is why Valaena is my favorite. She knows when to cry and send ugly men away from her father!”

“You are truly impossible, Aemond.”

The Targaryen prince only laughs. It’s hysterical. Maniacal. And it rings in the Hall of Nine like a ghost haunting the night. Prince Olyvio quickens his steps and doesn’t dare to look back.

+ + +

Ser Rogar has been a knight for almost four decades, and most of those years are spent serving the House Velaryon. He has seen almost everything: from Lord Corlys’ nine voyages to the birth of his children and later on his grandchildren, one of which Ser Rogar watches over now.

The knight stands guard by the doors as the current family of the Lord of the Tides eats their supper. 

Lord Lucerys sits at the head of the table. Not long ago, the man was just a cute helpless child who likes to hide behind his mother’s skirts, but now, he sits and moves as a lord of high respect would. Time flies fast indeed.

To the lord’s left sits his firstborn, Prince Aerion, accompanied by a nursemaid who’s teaching him how to yield a fork and eat on his own. Prince Aerion may look everything like his other father but he’s the lord’s child through and through. He’s gentle, though can be a little playful at times, just like any young boy would be. Laughs at the silliest things, giggling the way the Lord of the Tides does. They may be different in terms of the color of their hair and eyes, but it's easy to tell that they are father and son.

To Lord Lucerys’ right sits his husband, Prince Aemond, carrying the little Princess Valaena. While the silver-haired prince is the embodiment of darkness and threats, he’s always different when he’s around the children, especially the princess. Prince Aemond is eating with one hand, and every now and then, he’ll give Princess Valaena a piece of fruit to nibble on. The princess will coo in delight, and a rare smile will appear on Prince Aemond’s face.

In a sense, Ser Rogar is lucky to witness such things. It’s those little moments that occur behind closed doors, far more different from what is being shown to the outside world, and Ser Rogar gets to see all of it. No pretense. No masks. No anything. Just a contented family.

Though, just like any other family, Ser Rogar gets to witness things that even a man of his station shouldn’t. In some way, he also considers himself unfortunate to understand all of these things. They’re not too important nor scandalous in any way, but Ser Rogar still feels that these moments should be private. Just between the two husbands alone.

Although Ser Rogar was not born and raised in Driftmark, he has been residing on the island long enough to pick up its language. No one knows about it—a little secret that Ser Rogar likes to keep because he values his life. 

First of all, a knight shouldn’t be listening to these things. Words should come in his ear and immediately exit through the other. Though when the princes are like this, all fire and blood running through their veins, it’s quite difficult not to hear everything. Second, knowledge is a curse. Knowing too much can land him in the dungeons, or worse, inside the belly of a dragon.

So no, Ser Rogar doesn’t let it be known that he understands High Valyrian. He wants to live. He’s an honorable knight that will take everything that happens within these walls to his grave. He keeps his gaze steady in front of him, unable to ignore the conversation that fills in the room.

Lord Lucerys takes a sip of his wine. Shifts in his seat, preparing for something—chaos most likely. Ser Rogar knows this mannerism. He’s about to say something that his husband will surely not like.

Clearing his throat, the Lord of the Tides speaks. “As part of the plan to continue our good relationship with Pentos, I will travel to the city overmorrow and stay there for a week.”

The room becomes so silent that Ser Rogar feels like they can hear his heart thrum. He’s only a witness, a bystander, but he feels the trepidation run along his limbs. Prince Aemond turns to look at Lord Lucerys, slipping smoothly into his native tongue.

“Why?”

“I told you, to keep up the relationship between Westeros and the city,” says Lord Lucerys. “Mother, the queen, has sent a raven this morning. She and Daemon want to ensure that Pentos will still be our good friend and ally.”

Prince Aemond grunts and gives Princess Valaena another small piece of fruit. “And let me guess, you’ll be staying in that man’s abode.”

“If you’re talking about Prince Olyvio, then yes, I will be staying as his guest.” 

Another silence as Prince Aemond turns his fork in his hand, thinking deeply. Admittedly, Ser Rogar finds it more unnerving when the prince is thinking, because he seems more calculating, and that is more dangerous than any other wild animal. When the silver-haired prince speaks, his voice seems to be deeper. More firm like steel, more commanding like a dragon. “Very well. When did you say we’re leaving again?”

Lord Lucerys pauses, brows furrowing. “We? I was thinking that I’m the only one who would be traveling. You’ll stay with the children and act as Lord of the Tides on my behalf.”

Prince Aemond laughs loudly like a madman and it almost makes Ser Rogar step back. Almost. He’s an honorable knight and he stands his ground.

“There’s no way you’re traveling alone, my lord,” Prince Aemond sneers. “The children and I will be coming with you. Rhaena can oversee Driftmark in your stead.”

“Aemond—”

“There are men who would think you available upon the sight of no spouse and children by your side,” says Prince Aemond through gritted teeth. “We cannot have those men vying for your hand only to learn later on that you’re taken and married. That will only ruin our relationship with these foreign lands.”

A hollow laugh comes out of Lord Lucerys’ lips. “Be careful, husband. I almost thought you were jealous.”

Prince Aemond frowns and gives another fruit to his daughter, who squeals in delight. He doesn’t respond after that.

It is not a secret that the marriage between the two husbands is born out of politics. Upon learning that Lord Lucerys has the rare Valyrian gift of bearing children, a marriage was arranged immediately between the second sons to mend the rift between the two sides of the House Targaryen. 

While some may say that the two princes are obedient sons, doing their duty without failure, Ser Rogar knows that there’s more to it. He looks at this family before him—dark and silver—their soft gazes and smiles unseen to strange eyes, and thinks that this cannot be born out of duty alone.

Ser Rogar can’t help the small smile on his face. Dutiful sons they may be, but Ser Rogar knows. And he’s certain that everyone but the two princes knows.

+ + +

Lucerys is beyond exhausted. He has known that duty is not easy—he has prepared for that for years despite his wants. It’s his destiny, as his mother calls it. And he’s learned to accept that now. Embrace it like how he embraces his children.

Aerion and Valaena are his most precious treasures, though the two children can be little rascals at times. They are of the dragoon blood, it is to be expected, Lucerys knows that. Nursemaids are always ready to help them, his mother has made sure to install many of them for him, but Lucerys finds great joy in taking care of his children himself. 

Seeing them fall asleep as he tells them stories, their faces as peaceful as the calm waters when there’s no sea breeze, is something Lucerys will always cherish. He smiles as he gives his children a good night’s kiss on their temples.

“The runts are finally asleep?”

Lucerys turns to find Aemond leaning against the doorway. “They are. Finally.”

Aemond grunts in response, looks at the children with longing in his eye. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that Aemond, the same man who holds nothing but contempt in his being, is able to hold fondness toward their children. Perhaps it’s different when it’s your own blood—it makes you soft. It makes you human.

He realizes he’s been staring too long at his husband when Aemond raises an eyebrow at him. Lucerys feels the heat on his cheeks, just like the night of their bedding ceremony when he was all bashful and demure. It’s an awkward memory but it’s also wistful.

Aemond gestures at him so they can leave their children in their bedchamber. Lucerys follows him and they return to their own room, where the moonlight spills through the lattice windows like a silver sun.

For a moment, Lucerys stands there, fingers fumbling together as Aemond starts to get rid of his own coat. Silence ensues and Aemond looks at him with an inquisitive gaze.

“What is it?” Aemond asks, voice soft and a little gentle in the safe walls of their chamber.

“I was thinking—” Aemond turns away with a dissatisfied hum. Lucerys frowns and steps forward. “I was thinking,” he repeats firmly. “That you don’t really need to come with me to Pentos.”

There’s an ugly scowl on Aemond’s face. He doesn’t say anything but he looks at Lucerys with fire that grazes all over Lucerys’ skin. He shudders under the gaze, feet frozen on the ground.

“It’s just that,” Lucerys says, “you don’t need to do your duty all the time. I know it’s important to you, but you don’t need to do it—you don’t need to play the part of being a dedicated husband all the time.”

When Aemond doesn’t speak, Lucerys swallows, weight shifting between his feet, and continues. “If you want, Rhaena can rule in our stead and the nursemaids will take care of the children. I’ll go to Pentos as planned and then you can take that time to visit King’s Landing or do whatever else it is that you want.”

“No,” Aemond says. And the finality in that one word reels Lucerys back.

He blinks at his husband. “No? You don’t want it? But…”

Aemond crosses the space between them with a few, long strides. Lucerys gasps, takes a step back, only to find a hand on his back, dipping on his waist. His hand grips Aemond’s tunic, holding onto something tangible to right himself up.

He looks up and Aemond’s looking down at him with his dark violet eye. Lucerys fights the urge to reach up and take off his eyepatch, clenching his fist by his side.

“I just want both of us to enjoy ourselves in this marriage,” Lucerys says breathlessly. The hand on his back feels too hot like a fire burning him down to his marrow despite his layers of clothing. “I know we’re in an arrangement that we rather not see ourselves in, and it’s always been a duty above all else. But I’m saying that it need not be just that.”

The hand on his back pulls Lucerys closer until his chest is flushed against Aemond’s. With no space between them, he’s certain that Aemond can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, ready to break away. Lucerys’ lips are parted, heaving and panting, and he can feel his husband’s hot breath on his face. On his lips. Aemond’s free hand caresses his cheeks and Lucerys craves the touch. The warmth.

“Are you saying that when you look at our marriage, all you see is duty?” Aemond asks, voice so low it’s barely even a whisper. His gaze is steady, glinting, and Lucerys finds himself lost in it.

“Isn’t this what it is?” Lucerys says shakily. If it weren’t for Aemond’s hand and his tight grip on Aemond’s tunic, he’s certain that he would’ve been on his knees by now. “A political marriage. Just a duty to be tended to.”

Aemond leans in, their lips a feather’s brush against each other. Lucerys wants to close the distance, wants to dive in and take in but Aemond’s gaze pins him down. “So when I devour your lips until you can’t breathe, when I take you every night until my name is all you can utter, when I fuck you until I’m all you can remember, do you call that duty as well, Lucerys?”

Lucerys shivers and Aemond grins. 

“Do you still see it as a duty, when I take care of our children? When I cherish them and love them like they’re the only ones in my world? When I bring you in my arms after a long day, when I care for you until you fall asleep in my embrace? Are all these just acts of duty to you, valzȳrys?”

Husband. Lucerys gasps, feels the air in his lungs taken away. Aemond has never called him husband before. Refuses to acknowledge what happened between them as if saying it will make it real. It’s always been Lucerys who clings to that word, silently, hopelessly.

Despite the grin on his face, the sneer playing on the corners of his lips, Lucerys can see the faint betrayal in Aemond’s eyes. He fights it, smothers it into embers until there’s nothing but ashes left. Lucerys has seen it all, however. He feels it, even.

Slowly, he reaches for his husband’s face. Traces a light finger on the scar on his cheek before pushing the eyepatch off. Aemond freezes but he does not retaliate.

“Truthfully, I don’t know when our duty and this thing between us have blurred into a single line,” Lucerys says. “But it’s been a long time since I saw our marriage as a duty. I didn’t think—I never thought you would be feeling the same way, husband.”

Aemond takes a sharp intake of breath. He grabs Lucerys’ hand that’s still clinging onto his tunic and brings it down to the hard outline on his trouser. Lucerys almost lets out a whine, the hardness of his husband’s cock is hot and heavy under his palm.

“You feel that?” Aemond asks, forehead resting against forehead. “You fucking did that.”

Lucerys gasps and Aemond takes the opportunity to kiss him. Devour him as he always had after a long day. Lucerys becomes pliant under his touch, his palm still pressing onto Aemond’s cock.

You fucking did that. Lucerys fucking did that.

“Still think this is a duty, husband?” Aemond asks when he pulls away, planting a few open-mouthed kisses on Lucerys’ neck.

Lucerys can only whimper in answer.

He’s swimming in his head. Drowning, water filling in his lungs in a good way. Lucerys clings to the feeling. It’s not the cold but rather the heat that crawls along his skin, and he grabs onto Aemond, whining for more. He feels nothing but the sharp planes of his husband’s chest, the fire of his breath against his neck, his cock twitching in his palm. Lucerys wants all of it.

It’s a rush of hot blood. Lucerys can’t remember being thrown to the bed or having all of his clothes removed but here he is, stark naked, ready to be presented to Aemond. Like a gift. Like an animal to be preyed upon.

Aemond hovers over him, sapphire eye glinting in the darkness of the room. He kisses him like he’s shaping Lucerys’ lips to match his own, soft as a lump of clay, slotting against him perfectly. Lucerys arches his back, wants more of him. Wants Aemond inside him.

And when Aemond does enter him, Lucerys can feel his walls mold to his cock. His husband is so fucking deep that Lucerys can feel him on the back of his throat. Feels him everywhere. Lucerys latches onto him, relishes the hiss of pain from Aemond when his blunt fingernails scratch his ivory skin. 

“Fuck. Always so tight for me,” Aemond whispers into his ear. 

Lucerys keens, grip on Aemond’s arms like a vice. His whole world is hazy and it all converges into a single point. Aemond is all he sees, bright and dark at the same time. Aemond is all he feels, so deep and full, so warm like a flame engulfing him from the inside.

“Aemond.” His name is like a prayer in his tongue. And he repeats it over and over again until it’s the only thing he knows.

Aemond.

Aemond.

Aemond.

And Aemond’s hips thrust faster, rhythm already lost. He holds Lucerys tight, buries his face in the crook of his neck as if he’s afraid that his husband will vanish right in his arms.

“Ao issi ñuhon, valzȳrys.”

Lucerys cries with wanton as he feels the rush of pleasure shock his whole body, his cock twitching and spurting with his seed. His fingers dig into Aemond’s skin but not enough to break it. He cries and he cries with tears in his eyes.

In broken sobs, Lucerys manages to form his own words. “And you are mine as well, husband.”

Aemond growls. Roars like a dragon before he takes and takes. Lightning strikes down Lucerys’ body, thrumming right to his fingertips as the stimulation sends him into the skies. Or into madness. He does not know anymore.

“I’ll have you so full that you will still feel my cock after days.”

Another broken sob. “Yes. Please.”

“Gods, Lucerys. You will be the death of me.” Aemond grips his hips so tightly he knows there will be bruises blooming on his skin later. “I want to put another child in you. Want to see your belly swell again because of me. Fuck, Lucerys, can I? Can I?”

It’s a plea. A beg. And Lucerys has never heard Aemond Targaryen beg in his entire life. He’s a dragon and a dragon only knows how to take from others. He doesn’t ask. He certainly does not beg.

There’s a power in it. Lucerys knows that. In some way, somehow, he has Aemond by the neck even if he’s under him, pinned by him. Lucerys wraps his arms around Aemond’s shoulders, pulls him close until they’re touching skin to skin. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

“Inside me, Aemond. Inside me.”

Aemond gasps as he pushes one last time, the warmth of his spent filling up Lucerys to the brim. His husband pulls away, just enough so he can press another kiss which Lucerys gladly takes. He is breathless but he’d rather take up his husband’s lips than the air he breathes.

When Aemond pulls out, Lucerys whines from the loss. He expects his husband to clean him up and leave, just like he always does, but he does none of those things. Instead, he lies next to Lucerys and pulls him so his chest is pressed against his back.

It’s strange, something new. But Lucerys likes it, leans into his husband’s warmth like a man deprived of the sun during winter. He hums with satisfaction.

Aemond leans in, hooking a chin over Lucerys’ shoulder. He whispers into his ear, voice husky with a mixture of pride and desire. “If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Valerion. If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Daenys.”

Lucerys shakes with laughter and turns to face his husband. He cups his face, presses a light kiss on his sapphire eye. Aemond remains unmoving under his touch but his amethyst eye encourages him. Lucerys smiles. “What makes you so certain I will be with a child after this, husband? You know it’s not that easy.”

“Oh?” Aemond says, tucking a hair behind Lucerys’ ear. A grin settles slowly on his face, so roguish and handsome. “Then I will simply make sure that you will have a high chance of getting pregnant. Every day. Every night.”

“I will be looking forward to that,” Lucerys whispers with a giggle.

Wrapped in his husband’s embrace, Lucerys buries his face onto Aemond’s chest. He doesn’t want to move. Not now. Not ever. Aemond kisses the top of his head and inhales his smell until it drowns all his senses.

“Never tell me that this is all a duty again, Lucerys,” Aemond says. 

Lucerys kisses his chest, right above his heart, beating and alive. “Never.”