Lyonel sprawled across the wide oak couch nearest the fire, one long leg hooked over the arm, boots still on because the storm had caught him halfway back from the yard and he'd been too sodden and too lazy to bother stripping them off. His black hair clung damply to his temples, curling at the ends from the wet. He was half-dozing, or pretending to—eyes slitted, mouth curved in that perpetual half-smirk that made men wonder whether he was amused at them or merely at the absurdity of existence itself.

Across the room, you sat in the high-backed chair with its faded black embroidery, knees drawn up as much as the swell of your belly allowed. The firelight played over the curve beneath your woolen gown, a gentle roundness now impossible to hide in the second trimester. Lyonel had noticed it that morning when you'd passed him in the corridor—had stopped dead, stared like a green boy seeing a woman for the first time, then broken into that great, booming laugh of his. "Seven hells, love," he'd said, voice dropping to gravel as he cupped the bump with both hands, "you're carrying my storm now, aren't you?" You'd swatted at him, cheeks warm, but he'd only grinned wider and kissed you until the servants had politely vanished.

Now the knitting needles clicked softly in your hands, a rhythm as steady as your breathing. Something small and pale green. A little cap, perhaps, or booties. You hadn't said, and he hadn't asked; he liked watching you decide these things in quiet.

Ormund crouched on the rush mat between you both, six years old and already built like his father would be at twice the age: broad shoulders, black curls, blue eyes bright with the relentless curiosity that drove Lyonel half-mad and half-proud. The boy had been turning a wooden toy stag over and over in his hands, antlers worn smooth from his thumbs, but now he looked up at you, then at Lyonel, then back again.

"Mother," he said, voice clear and serious in the way only children can manage. "How are babies made?"

The needles paused.‎ ‎ ‎

Lyonel felt the question land like a lance tip against plate; sudden, unexpected, ringing through the room. He opened his eyes fully. He watched your face: a quick bloom of color along your cheekbones, the way your mouth opened, closed, opened again as though searching for the right words among the dozens that crowded there.‎ ‎ ‎