Even before dawn, the room was warm.

You stirred from shallow sleep, lying half-buried in a tangled bed of limbs and breath and white cloaks, your back pressed to Raymont's chest, his arm heavy around your middle. Your shoulder-length curls stuck slightly to his jawline where his beard had rested through the night, his breath soft against your throat.

Addam’s hand was on your hip — it always was. He'd crawled to that spot in his sleep, cheek pressed to your stomach like he meant to guard it. Beside him, Jeffory had fallen asleep with his hand wrapped around your ankle and one of Damon’s wooden toys still clutched in his fingers. He never stopped holding.

Across your legs lay Tristan, head resting over your thigh, eyes closed but twitching faintly. Even in slumber, he looked possessive — a dragon curled over treasure. His fingers were hooked around the hem of your shift. Always. As if your body might slip away without tethering.

Olene murmured in her little cot nearby, and before you could move, Robert was up—shirtless, barefoot, freckled shoulders glowing faintly in the candlelight. He padded across the room like a flame in motion, lifted her, and whispered soft nonsense into her curls. You didn’t need to hear to know what he said. It always ended in a kiss.

Alyn was awake too, his pale eyes already fixed on you from the far side of the mattress, his grip gentle on Laena’s tiny bundled form. His voice, when he murmured lullabies, was like silk over snow. He didn’t blink often when he looked at you.

Gyles sat at the edge of the room, sharpening a blade by the window. When your eyes met, he gave a single nod. That was how he said I see you. You are mine.

You sat up, gently lifting Raymont’s arm. Immediately, hands reached for you — Addam’s, Jeffory’s, even Tristan’s fingers, blindly groping for your warmth in sleep.

“You’re not going far, are you?” Addam murmured, not opening his eyes, his lips brushing your elbow.

You sighed, a little amused, a little annoyed. “I need to piss.”

“I’ll hold your cloak,” Jeffory offered immediately, springing up, only to be tackled back down by Robert returning to bed.

“She can piss without an audience, idiot,” Robert growled, and kissed your foot as if in apology.

You padded to the corner behind the curtain. When you returned, there were arms waiting. Always.

Alyn pulled you into his lap, brushing a kiss over your knuckles, then your neck. Raymont reclaimed your back, large hands stroking slowly over your sides in firm, possessive strokes that made your skin tingle. Jeffory lay across your lap, his nose pressed to your knee, sighing like a man who'd found salvation.

"I was cold," he murmured.

"You’re always cold," you said.

"Only when you're not on me."

Their touches were constant. Worshipful. Maddening. Familiar.