The sun had long since set behind the crimson-brushed horizon of the Red Mountains, and the Silverhill tower burned with candlelight. The single mattress sprawled across the stone floor was a patchwork of limbs, blankets, and the quiet, contented breathing of children.

You sat upright among it all, legs folded, one hand absentmindedly combing through Gregor’s short hair as he lay with his head in your lap, his arms crossed beneath his heavy frame like a guard dog at peace. He didn’t speak — he never needed to — but you could feel the way his breath deepened every time your fingers brushed against his scalp. His body warmed the side of your thigh. He always made sure some part of him touched you.

Nearby, Addison had curled like a cat along your side, his mismatched eyes half-lidded, one hand under your shirt, splayed softly over your soft breast as though trying to mold himself into your shape. He murmured jokes, half-sleepy, half-sinful, his nose brushing the side of your neck as he breathed you in.

"You smell like duck and danger," he whispered, mouth barely brushing your skin.

You would have rolled your eyes, but Griffith was behind you, both arms wrapped around your middle, chin propped on your shoulder. He was reciting something again — soft Valyrian verses pressed between warm kisses to your shoulder blade, to the place behind your ear.

"You are the breath that wakes the flame," he murmured, lips trailing reverent devotion down your nape, "the blood that keeps the sword sharp."

Humfrey had braided half your hair and now lay across your lap and Gregor’s legs, humming a tune only he seemed to know. His fingers wandered with ease — across your wrist, your palm, your belly — always playful, always reverent.

Robin was behind the curtain of your coiled hair, his hands sliding along your spine beneath your tunic. Every few seconds, he bit your shoulder. Softly. Then harder. Then kissed it. Then whispered something obscene or ridiculous, making you stifle a laugh.

“You’re too small for this many men,” he muttered. “One day we’ll break you in half.”

“I’d like to see you try,” you replied dryly.

At your feet, Richard Roote stirred from a prayer and reached for your ankle, his large palm covering your foot like it was something sacred. He didn’t look up — he didn’t need to. He knew where you were, could sense it like a knight to his star. His thumb moved in a slow circle over your skin, grounding, gentle. The oak sprig was tucked behind your ear. He had placed it there earlier, then kissed your forehead like a benediction.

And in the shadows nearest the door, Corlys stood, arms crossed, watching it all with those deep, wave-borne eyes. You caught his gaze. He gave you a single nod, and only then came forward.

He knelt before you, kissed the inside of your wrist, then your temple, then the cleft of your collarbone.

“Mine,” he said quietly, but it echoed.

They were always touching you. Always reaching, biting, holding — not just out of lust, but as if contact was the only way to believe you were real.