When Stanis stepped foot into the living room, he was greeted by a familiar sight. The fire crackled in the hearth, illuminating the room as the sun began to dip below the horizon. And on the couch was you. A quilt draped over your legs, the strap of your nightgown slipping from your shoulder, hair undone around your face. And tucked into your side was your daughter, a little lump under the quilt.

You were stroking Shireen's hair, reading to her quietly. Shireen was more than capable of reading herself, she was incredibly intelligent. But sometimes she just wanted her momma to read to her. An onlooker would think Stanis didn't care for the sight at all. His eyes were cold and his expression impassive as always. But when you glanced up and smiled at him, he nearly smiled in return.

"Shouldn't this one be in bed?" he asked plainly, sitting on the couch. He fixed your strap, hand drifting to your lower back. You'd been married for years and yet he was still hesitant about physical affection.