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The Great Sept of Baelor overwhelms the senses in a way the godswood of Winterfell never did. Seven-pointed stars gleam from every surface, and the High Septon's robes shimmer with thread-of-gold. Beautiful, certainly. But the Old Gods asked for nothing more than silence, bare earth, and the rustle of leaves. This southern excess feels hollow in comparison.
You stand before the High Septon in your maiden's cloak—grey and white, the direwolf of House Stark embroidered in silver thread. The seven-pointed star above means nothing to your heart, but duty demands you stand here regardless. Winter is coming and through this union house Stark gains favour with the Crown and southernmost houses.
Maekar Targaryen waits beside you in black and crimson, and you study him from the corner of your eye. He's nothing like the flowery southern lords who tried to charm you before. He is the only one who swayed your lord father enough so that he would not indulge you in refusing another betrothal.
His words during the short time you conversed before the ceremony were direct, bordering on harsh and rude. "We're bound by politics. I won't pretend otherwise. But I'll treat you with the respect your house deserves."
It reminds you of home, of northern frankness and people who say what they mean. Except Maekar carries something extra beneath that curtness: a dragon's pride, an arrogance in the set of his shoulders that says he knows exactly what he's worth.
You keep your face neutral as you feel his gaze on you. But inwardly, something stirs at his intensity, at the way his violet eyes linger on you just a moment too long.
The ceremony concludes with the High Septon's final blessing, his voice echoing through the vast space. "May the Seven bless this union and grant it prosperity."
Maekar's hand remains firmly on yours as you turn to face the assembled lords and ladies. A sea of faces watches you—curious, calculating, some openly envious. You keep your expression neutral, though you're acutely aware of Baelor's gaze following you both.
The procession back down the aisle feels endless. Each step takes you past another great house or minor lords from across the realm who've come to witness a Stark wed a Targaryen. The doors of the sept open to reveal King's Landing bathed in afternoon light. The crowd gathered outside erupts in cheers, though you suspect they'd cheer for any spectacle. The smallfolk love a royal wedding.
"Smile," Maekar murmurs, barely moving his lips. "Give them something to talk about."
You allow the smallest curve of your mouth;the crowd roars louder.
The journey to the Red Keep is mercifully short. You're bundled into a wheelhouse with Maekar, finally away from prying eyes.
The moment the curtains close, his shoulders drop and he lets out a long breath. "Seven hells, I thought that would never end." He loosens his collar, the formal prince giving way to someone far more rough-edged. "Fucking Septon droned on for an age… You did well."
"I stood and spoke vows. It required little skill."
"You'd be surprised how many fuck it up." He leans back against the cushions, studying you.
The wheelhouse jolts to a stop too soon. Through the window, you can see the entrance to the Red Keep, where the feast awaits. Already you can hear music, laughter, the sounds of celebration.
Maekar stands, offering his hand. "Ready for the next performance?"
You take it, rising. "Is that what this is? A performance?"
"Everything at court is a performance." His fingers tighten on yours.
The great hall has been transformed. Long tables laden with food stretch the length of it. Musicians play in the gallery. Flowers: southern roses, not northern winter blooms decorate every surface. It's excess incarnate, wealth displayed simply because it can be.
"Prince Maekar and his bride!" the herald announces.
The hall rises as one, goblets raised. Maekar leads you to the high table where Baelor already sits, a slight smile on his face as he watches you both approach.
"Brother," Baelor greets. "Sister." The last word feels deliberate, weighted with some meaning you don't yet understand.
Servants lay platters of roasted meats before you. You reach for your wine, but movement catches your eye;Baelor, seated to your left, watching you with that same intensity from the religious ceremony.
Before you can look away, Maekar's hand covers yours on the table. His touch is perfectly proper, fingers curling around yours in what anyone would read as husbandly affection. But you're distracted by the sight of his hand. Elegant despite its strength, long fingers and neat nails, the back of his hand traced with fine veins.
When you glance up, Maekar is looking directly at his brother. Baelor's gaze hasn't wavered from you. The moment stretches, some silent communication passing between them that you can't make sense of.
Maekar's thumb strokes across your knuckles before he releases you.
You watch him from the corner of your eye as he cuts into his meat. There's nothing delicate about the movement; efficient, practical, like a soldier at camp rather than a prince at his own wedding feast.
Thank the gods he's no grating southern lord who'd rather have a servant cut their food for him.
You've heard the songs, of course. Everyone has. The Hammer and the Anvil—Baelor and Maekar crushing the Blackfyre pretenders between them during the rebellion. Where others broke, Maekar held. The anvil upon which enemies shattered.
Looking at him now and surveying the set of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders… you can believe it.
The main course barely ends before they descend—lords and ladies with their well-wishes and pointless chatter. You endure perhaps three such exchanges before your eyes seek escape, finding the great hall's open doors and the stairs beyond. You catch yourself wondering, with dark amusement, if you threw yourself–how many stone steps it would take to knock these inane conversations from your memory entirely.
Lord Tyrell drones on about something trivial, and you see Maekar's eye twitch with barely concealed irritation. He doesn't bother hiding his boredom, simply reaches for his wine and drinks deeply.
Your eyes widen in surprise as you catch him whispering “Fuck me” into his cup.
A laugh nearly escapes before you catch it, biting the inside of your cheek. But not quickly enough.
Maekar's gaze snaps to you, sharp and assessing. "Something amusing, wife?"
The heat rises in your cheeks immediately. You straighten, composure cracking. "No, my prince. I—"
"Maekar," he corrects, leaning closer. His voice drops so only you can hear. "And don't lie. I saw that. You nearly laughed."
Your flush deepens. "I apologize. I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have—"
"Shouldn't have what?" His eyes glitter with something between irritation and interest. "Found it funny that your husband can't stand another fucking moment of Lord Tyrell's horseshit?"
You duck your head, suddenly uncertain. Is he angry? Offended that you were amused at his expense?
"She's stiff as a bow," Baelor observes from your other side, amusement clear in his voice. "What did you say to her, brother?"
"Nothing." Maekar's hand finds yours under the table, squeezing. "Just catching my wife laughing at me."
"Was she?" Baelor turns his full attention to you, and suddenly you're caught between both of them. "
"I wasn't—I didn't mean—" You stumble over the words, flustered.
"Stop." Maekar squeezes your hand. "I'm not angry. Why the seven hells would I be?"
You risk looking up at him. "You're not?"
"Gods, no." His smile turns knowing. "I'm fucking delighted you find this as tedious as I do. Thought I'd married another stone-faced courtier."
"You looked like you were considering murder," you admit quietly. "Or escape."
"Both," he confirms. "Simultaneously if possible."
Baelor laughs, low and rich. "She understands you already, brother. How fortunate."
Maekar's eyes haven't left your face, studying the way you're still slightly uncertain. "Tell me, what were you thinking before Lord Tyrell started talking? You had a certain look about you."
"What look?"
"Like you were planning something violent."
Heat floods through you again, but this time there's something else beneath it. "I was... wondering if I threw myself down the steps how many it would take to forget their conversation entirely."
Baelor chokes on his wine.
Maekar's grin is slow and predatory. "Were you now?"
"I shouldn't have said that," you backtrack quickly.
"No, no." His hand tightens on yours. "Let me hear that direwolf bite. Every sharp thought you've been holding back."
You glance between him and Baelor—both watching you with an intensity that makes your breath freeze in your throat.
Baelor murmurs something in a language you don’t understand, almost as if to himself. But his eyes are on you, warm and appreciative.
"Isn't she?" Maekar agrees, still watching you flush under their combined attention. "My frozen northern bride, thawing nicely."
Lord Tyrell continues talking, oblivious to the fact that none of you are listening anymore.
The feast reaches its inevitable crescendo when Lord Lannister rises, wine-flushed and grinning. "The bedding! The bedding!" he calls out, and the hall erupts in drunken cheers.
Your stomach clenches. You've dreaded this moment since the betrothal was announced, knowing you'd have to endure strange men stripping you bare, their hands lingering where they shouldn't, all while pretending it's meant in good fun.
Maekar stands abruptly, his chair scraping against stone. The noise cuts through the revelry.
"There will be no bedding ceremony," he announces, his voice carrying the unmistakable edge of command.
The hall falls into confused silence. Lord Lannister blinks. "But Prince Maekar, it's tradition—"
"I endured that spectacle at my first wedding," Maekar cuts him off, disgust evident in every word. "I will not subject myself—or my wife—to this fucking racket a second time." His violet eyes sweep the assembled lords and ladies with cold dismissal. "Any man who wishes to undress my bride can go fuck himself. Any woman who thinks to lay hands on me can join him."
Shocked gasps ripple through the crowd. But Baelor, you notice, is hiding a smile behind his wine cup.
"My brother has spoken," the future king says mildly. "I suggest we respect his wishes. Unless someone is keen to challenge a prince of the realm over the right to paw at his wife?"
No one moves.
Maekar offers you his arm, stiff with barely contained fury.
You take it, keeping your face blank as you've been taught, though inside you're reeling. He just told half the lords of Westeros to fuck themselves. For you.
The corridor to your chambers is blessingly empty. Maekar's tension radiates through his arm—jaw tight, pace clipped.
"My prince," you say quietly.
He stops, turning to face you.
"Maekar," he corrects. "You're my wife. Use my name."
You step closer, meeting his eyes directly. "Thank you, Maekar.”
He blinks, caught off guard. "For what?"
"For that." You gesture back toward the hall. "For refusing. For..." You pause, searching for words. You've attended enough northern weddings to know what awaited you; Lord Umber's meaty hands, some Karstark cousin's wandering fingers, all those men who'd been watching you throughout the feast finally getting their chance to touch.
The thought had made your skin crawl for weeks.
You find yourself speaking more honestly than you have since arriving in King's Landing. "I've seen what happens during the bedding ceremony. I know what I was expected to endure tonight. And you—" Your voice catches slightly. "You didn't make me."
His expression softens, though not by much. "You're my wife. Not their fucking sport."
Your chest tightens. "I mean it. Thank you."
He searches your face, his gaze dropping to your lips and lingering there for a long moment before meeting your eyes again. His purple ones glint like sapphires beneath the flickering glow of torchlight.
"Say it again," he murmurs. "My name."
"Maekar—"
"Maekar," he corrects, the Valyrian pronunciation sharper, the 'r' rolled slightly at the end.
You try again, matching his inflection. "Maekar."
His eyes light up. "Yes. Like that. Perfect."
The praise catches you off guard. Heat blooms in your cheeks before you can stop it. You duck your head, but he tilts your chin back up.
"Come now," he says, leading you the rest of the way to the bedchamber.
The door to your new chambers closes behind you with a soft thud, shutting out the rest of the castle. Maekar moves to pour wine, his earlier tension easing slightly.
"Has the septa or whatever nuisance you have up north taught you what to expect tonight?" he asks, turning to face you.
You keep your expression neutral, perfectly composed. "Of course, my prince. I was not raised in the woods."
He pushes a goblet into your hands and you take a sip, savouring the rich and sweet flavour.
"Maekar," he corrects again, but there's amusement in his voice now. He approaches slowly, studying you. "You know more, but you won't say it, will you?"
You put the cup down. "I don't know what you mean."
“You wear that northern stoicism well. But I'm observant, wife. I saw many things… including every time your gaze drifted to Baelor during our feast.”
Heat threatens to rise in your cheeks again, but you force it down.
"There," he says, catching it anyway. "You're doing it right now. Fighting it." He steps in front of you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. "Tell me what you want tonight."
You raise your chin at him. "I want to fulfill my duty as your lady wife."
He laughs, low and rich. "Don’t fucking try to decieve me. Tell me what you want."
You meet his eyes, refusing to look away. "I want—"
"Say it," he encourages, his hand coming up to trace your jawline. "Use your words, little wolf. Tell your dragon husband what you want from him."
Your breath stills in your throat. "I want... you."
"Better." His thumb brushes your lower lip. "But you can do more than that. What do you want me to do?"
Beneath your reserve, desire rages like wildfire. It began during the vows when you caught Maekar's barely leashed need, grew stronger when Baelor's gaze lingered too long, and now threatens to burn through your flesh.
Your husband seems delighted at your lack of words, a dangerous flame glinting in his eye. "Were you pleased when you learned it was me you'd be marrying?"
You hesitate. "I... it's a political match."
“That’s not what I fucking asked." His hand rises to map the curve of your jaw. "You turned away every suitor who came to Winterfell. Every proposal, until you had no choice but to accept."
"Until the crown commanded it," you clarify. "My father couldn't refuse House Targaryen."
"And you anticipated Prince Valarr as your betrothed." His fingers tilt your face upward. "What changed when they named me instead?"
The composure you've maintained so carefully begins to fracture. "I'd never met Prince Valarr, but I'd heard of you." You meet his eyes. "Your reputation as a warrior. Your blunt manner. I thought perhaps you'd tolerate directness better than most southern lords."
"Hoped my bluntness would match yours?" Something almost amused enters his voice. "Yet you've been nothing but proper since you arrived. I've had to wrench every fucking honest word from you."
The accuracy of his assessment sits heavily between you. "What's been impressed upon someone since girlhood doesn't simply dissolve."
His voice softens, but there is still an edge to it. "Then it is on you to make it so, girl: I demand honesty from you. True honesty, without the masks we wear for court. Because I'll grant you what you grant me—walls for walls, truth for truth." His thumb strokes your jaw. "Choose what kind of union
we'll have."
For a long moment, you simply look at him, weighing his words.
"I want to try," you say at last, the admission itself a kind of vulnerability. "To be honest with you."
"Then we'll begin there." His hand settles at the small of your back, steady and warm. "Come."
He leads you towards the grand bed– draped with furs and cushions more rich than you’d ever seen, half-hidden by curtains.
"Turn around," Maekar says.
You comply, and immediately feel his fingers at your back, working the laces of your gown. He tugs once, twice, then stops.
"Fuck," he mutters. "Who tied these? They're impossible."
You hear him step back, the scrape of metal. When you glance over your shoulder, he's heating his dagger in the fire.
"What are you—"
"Hold still." He returns behind you, and you feel the warmed blade slide beneath the laces and boning of your gown. With a quick motion, he cuts through them. The bodice loosens immediately.
"Maekar!"
"What? It was taking too fucking long." His hands find the fabric and simply rip it the rest of the way open. "You have more gowns."
The ruined dress pools at your feet. You're left in your shift and small clothes, heart racing from the sudden violence of it.
"The underclothes," he says, voice rougher now. "Off."
Your hands shake slightly as you remove them, leaving only the thin linen shift. The fabric does little to hide your form in the firelight.
"Better." His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and solid. "Sit on the bed."
You move to the bed, sitting at the edge of it and watching as he begins to undress. He's efficient about it; doublet tossed aside, tunic pulled over his head to reveal a warrior's build. Broad shoulders, scarred chest dusted with silver hair, the evidence of years spent fighting.
"See something you want?" he asks, catching your stare. His grin is all satisfaction. He closes the gap between you, hand firm on your jaw. "Now shut your eyes."
"Why?"
"Because I fucking commanded you to." His thumb caresses the column of your neck. "You might be pleased with what I’ll give you, insolent wolf."
You let your eyes fall close.
A shiver courses through your spine as you keep your eyes shut as Maekar requested. Without sight, every other sense sharpens. You become acutely aware of each sound in the chamber; the warm crackling of the fire in the hearth, Maekar’s measured footsteps crossing the room.
Then—the scrape of wood on stone. A door opening.
New footsteps. A different rhythm.
Your eyes fly open despite yourself.
Baelor stands in the doorway, still in his formal attire from the feast. The future king. In your bedchamber.
Your breath catches. You look at Maekar, questions forming, but he's watching you carefully, violet eyes studying every flicker of expression on your face as though gauging your reaction.
“Both of our houses keep old traditions,” Maekar begins carefully. “Things others have abandoned.” He sets down his goblet.
“There’s a custom… an ancient one, banned generations ago,” Baelor continued.
Your heart drums in your chest. “Go on.”
“Do you know of the First Night?” Baelor asks.
You study him carefully, then nod slowly, your gaze then finding Maekar’s.
Maekar’s eyes widen slightly. “You fucking know this?”
“I’m a Stark. We know what happens in the North, forbidden or not. I know that the Umbers still practice within their holdings. The Boltons as well, though they hide it better. But it was banished by a Targaryen. Do you still practice it?”
"Not all of us. Only some," Baelor says with a slight smile. He exchanges a look with Maekar before continuing. "My brother and I... our bond is stronger than most."
"We would have taken a single queen between us if we could," Maekar adds bluntly. "But the fucking realm would never accept it," Maekar finishes roughly. "And the High Septon would shit his breeches at the very notion of two princes sharing one woman as wife."
Your breath catches at the admission.
"So we adapted," Baelor continues, his tone quieter now, almost gentle. "The First Night custom, properly invoked, allows us to... share what we cannot claim openly. To both be part of something that the realm says belongs to only one of us."
You look between them, understanding settling in your chest. "You're asking if I would accept both of you."
"Do you?" Maekar asks directly.
Baelor waits, patient. "What we are asking for extends beyond this night."
The silence stretches. You think of Baelor's gaze during the ceremony. Maekar's barely restrained hunger. The realization strikes you—you're standing between the Hammer and the Anvil, but would they smite you?
"Afraid you cannot handle two dragons?" Maekar japes, voice low.
"Your house has no dragons anymore," you point out.
"No, indeed." Baelor smiles. "But you could still be a rider."
Heat floods through you.
"Yes or no," Maekar presses. "Will you take us both?"
"The realm shall never know the details," Baelor continues. "Publicly, you're Maekar's wife. Privately..." He moves closer. "Privately, you belong to both of us."
"And you both belong to me," you say, testing the words.
"Yes," Baelor agrees, something warm in his expression.
You meet Maekar’s eyes, then Baelor's. "My answer is yes."
Maekar moves to sit beside you, his grip tightening on your waist as he kisses a path from your neck to your shoulders. "Fuck, you're perfection incarnate."
Baelor steps closer, hunger breaking through his control. "You're certain?"
"Yes."
"Say it clearly," Maekar demands. "What are you agreeing to?"
Your pulse races. "To have you both. This eve and after."
"Good girl," Baelor murmurs, stepping closer. "Very good."
Maekar's hand rises to rest upon your neck. "You cannot know," he says, his voice low and fervent, "how fucking greatly this pleases us both."
"Show me," you say, surprised by your own boldness.
Maekar’s eyes darken at your admission. "I shall, wife."
Maekar's mouth crashes against yours without warning. The kiss is fierce, hungry—one hand gripping your waist, the other tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck. He kisses like he fights: no hesitation or doubt, just raw want to bend something to his will.
You gasp against his mouth and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until your knees weaken.
"By the gods," you breathe when he finally pulls away.
Your vision clears slowly, and you realize Baelor has moved. He's sitting on your other side now in the bed, close enough that you're effectively caught between both of them.
"Let me taste you too," Baelor says, his voice low.
Your breath hitches. You turn to face him, and his hand comes up, fingers threading into your hair at the base of your skull. He draws you to him with gentle insistence.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against your lips. "My brother chose well."
"We chose well," Maekar corrects from beside you.
Baelor releases you, and you watch as Maekar moves further across the bed, settling himself atop the furs with his back against the headboard. The firelight plays across his features, all sharp angles and silver-gold hair that seems to glow in the dimness. He watches you sit there at the foot of the bed, making no move to approach.
“Come here, girl.”
Matching his scowl, you move towards him. He flips you around, pressing your back against his chest. His hands travel down your shoulders, then grasping your wrists–bringing one to rest atop your mound, his palm covering yours, while he guides your other hand to pull at his own hair.
He begins to work his fingers, which in turn move your own in tight circles against your clit and it doesn’t take long until your thighs are trembling and a sheen of sweat covers your flushed chest.
Your gaze flickers between Baelor’s long fingers as he fidgets with his rings and Maekar’s hands as he brings you closer and closer to the precipice.
“Gods-” The word breaks from you as pleasure floods through you, so intense your vision blurs.
Baelor kneels at the foot of the bed and yet he can still reach you with ease, one forearm draping across your waist while he frees your hand from his brother’s hold and your slick fingers catch the firelight.
You gasp when he brings your hand to his mouth, tongue tracing each finger before sucking them clean. His eyes hold yours throughout.
"Sweet," Baelor murmurs.
Maekar turns your face to his, kissing you deep enough to make you see shimmering silver stars behind your eyes. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with hunger.
"Again," he says simply.
Now it is Baelor's hand that slides between your thighs. "Yes. Again."
His fingers are long but gentle as he pushes them into you, his palm applying pressure against your clit.
As if united by the same thought, Baelor's free hand slides your shift upward, exposing your bare chest to the cool air. Maekar's hands find your breasts immediately, the rough pads of his fingers circling your nipples until you choke on your breath.
It doesn’t take long for you to come undone again. Your cry of release never makes it past your lips; Maekar captures it with his mouth, kissing you deeply as your body trembles through the aftershocks, caught between the Hammer and the Anvil.
Baelor withdraws his fingers with gentleness and rises from the bed with clear purpose, and you watch as he begins to undress.
Each piece of formal attire is removed with care; the fine doublet with its silver fastenings, the red silk tunic beneath, until he stands as bare as his brother. His body is similar to Maekar's. A warrior's frame, battle-scarred and corded with lean muscle, yet distinctly his own.
He returns to you, settling between your thighs as Maekar shifts to support you from behind, your back against his chest.
"Before we continue," Baelor says seriously, "you need to understand what we're proposing."
Your heart races. "Tell me."
"We'll both take you," Maekar explains, his voice low. "Not one after the other. Together. At the same time."
Your breath catches. "I don't see how that's even—"
"It's possible," Baelor assures you, his hand gentle on your thigh.
"But why?" you ask, trying to understand through your racing pulse.
"Because of what it means," Maekar says, rolling his eyes. "Any child you conceive from this—any heir—could be sired by either of us. Baelor’s, or mine. Even we won't fucking know which."
You clench around nothing, hand moving blindly behind you until you manage to grasp Maekar’s forearm.
“I understand.” Your heart threatens to soar out of your chest with anticipation.
They press forward together, and immediately you tense at the stretch.
"Stop," Baelor says, and Maekar goes perfectly still. "Breathe. Just breathe."
You force yourself to inhale, exhale, trying to relax despite the overwhelming pressure.
"Good," Maekar murmurs against your ear. "We're going to move again. Open up, there’s a good girl."
They push in another inch, working in perfect synchronization, and you gasp.
"Too much?" Baelor asks, concern clear in his voice.
"No. Just... gods, there's so much—"
"You're taking us fucking beautifully," Maekar says, his hands stroking soothingly along your sides.
"Breathe for me," Baelor reminds you, his thumb circling gentle patterns on your hip. "In and out. That's it."
They advance again, slowly, giving you time to adjust to each increment. The fullness borders on too much, but not quite—your body stretching to accommodate both of them.
"Almost," Baelor says, his voice strained with the effort of going slow. "Just a little more, love."
"You're perfect," Maekar adds roughly. "Fuck, you feel perfect."
One more careful push and they're fully sheathed. You're completely filled, impossibly stretched, caught between them with nowhere to go.
"There," Baelor murmurs. "Fully joined. We three are one. Speak true, love… what do you feel?"
"Fullness," you whisper. "Such complete fullness I feel like I can’t breathe."
“It shall feel better once we start moving–” Maekar lets out a curse as he does so, hands finding purchase at the soft flesh of your hips.
They move together with surprising coordination, and whenever one thrusts forward, the other will move backward, rocking your body between them.
"Do you know," Maekar says roughly, his breath hot against your neck, "that you're the most spoiled woman in the entire fucking realm?"
"What?" The word comes out shaky.
"Two dragon princes buried inside you," he explains. "Both of us yours. Name another woman in the Seven Kingdoms who can say that."
"I can't think–" you admit breathlessly.
"You do not need to think, sweet wolf." Baelor says, his hand cupping your face. "Feel how thoroughly spoiled you are."
"Spoiled rotten," Maekar agrees with dark satisfaction. "And about to be more so."
Your gaze drifts down to where your bodies are joined, mouth gaping at how fast they are moving now, cheeks warming as you hear the wet sound of flesh slapping into flesh.
"Look at me," Baelor commands softly.
You turn your head up and meet his eyes, mismatched blue and brown and intense, and something in his expression steadies you even as pleasure builds to almost unbearable heights.
"That's it," Maekar growls against you. "Let go. We've got you."
You shatter between them, and they hold you through it—until it washes away and you lie still, catching your breath. They pull out and you make a startled sound at the sensation—the wet heat of their seed spilling from you.
Maekar pulls you against his chest and you gladly rest your head upon it, feeling a wave of drowsiness overtaking you.
Baelor moves to lie next to his brother, the back of his hand tracing up and down your spine. He draws the furs over all three of you, cocooning you in warmth.
"Ours," Maekar murmurs against your hair.
"Ours," Baelor agrees, his hand finding yours beneath the furs.
You fall asleep wrapped in their warmth, and dream of dragons for the first time in your life.