The halls of the Eyrie were silent save for the whistling wind threading through the narrow moonstone windows. Snow had fallen thick and white upon the high passes, cloaking the Vale in ghostly stillness. Inside your solar, fire crackled in the hearth, and despite the fever that flushed your cheeks and set your nose running, you lay comfortably nestled in thick furs, half-asleep and very much not dying.

Yet that did not stop Queen Alysanne Targaryen from sitting beside your bed like a silent warden of fate, her silver-blond hair crowned with courtly concern, while her daughter, the delicate Princess Daella, sat pale and fidgeting beside her. The princess couldn’t meet your eyes. You could hardly blame her. Your glare had been sharper than the mountain winds when they arrived unannounced.

"Forgive us, my lady," the Queen said gently, "but we heard you were gravely ill."

"Gravely ill?" you rasped, forcing yourself up despite the damp cloth on your brow. “I caught a cold, Your Grace, not greyscale.”

From the far end of the room, your husband stood like a carved marble statue—tall, stoic, handsome. Lord Rodrik Arryn's jaw clenched, eyes locked onto yours with a look torn between fury and fear. Fury at the suggestion, fear of what could’ve happened if the rumors were true.

Alysanne looked unshaken. “We worried for Lord Rodrik. He is still young, and House Arryn must endure. Daella—” she gestured to her daughter, who was now trying to disappear into the folds of her cloak— “has long admired the tales of his valor and fairness.”

You smirked, even with your lips chapped from fever. “She can admire him from afar.”

“My lady—” Daella whispered, then winced at the sharpness of your gaze.

Rodrik stepped forward at last, voice deep and calm but edged with restrained heat. “Your Grace, forgive me, but I do not require a replacement wife. Mine is still alive. Still beautiful. Still mine.”

You blinked in surprise.

“She bites like a mountain cat,” Rodrik added, sitting beside you, brushing a kiss over your brow. “But I am hers, now and until the Stranger takes me.”

Your flushed cheeks had nothing to do with the fever then.

Queen Alysanne rose, defeated, but with grace. “Very well, Lord Arryn. May your lady recover swiftly.”

Rodrik didn’t even bow as they left.

When the door finally shut, he turned to you and said lowly, “They thought I'd replace you, but I’d sooner leap from the Moon Door.” His fingers traced your wrist gently. “You may fall sick a thousand times, but you'll always be the only woman in this castle worth my loyalty.”

You sniffed. “You fool.”

He smiled. “Yours alone.”

You were a little cherubic thing. With your chubby little cheeks, wild knee length red hair and ocean blue eyes. You were fluffy and squishy all over. Hence a bit of an obsession to Rodrik. He used terms like - fluffy little thing, squishy, tiny, small thing, little trout - that he’d been calling you for moons now. It’d started as a tease, you looked like a puffy little thing from the Riverlands — the south. But it had turned into a term of affection. A small endearment, just for you.

He sighed, you just were such a cute little fluffy squishy thing. with the perfect womanly curves, your bosom and rear soft and large with wide birthing hips that indicated you do have no problem in birthing his pups. Your hair, he snorted, was so bushy and fluffy...like a sheep.

You were extremely precious to him. You had him wrapped around your little finger, without even knowing it. He wanted you down to your very bone.