The nursery smelled of fresh-cut cedar, beeswax polish, and dried lavender hanging in little bundles from the rafters.

Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the narrow arched windows of Arundel Hall in long ribbons of gold, warming the pale stone walls and catching dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. Outside, beyond the open shutters, orchard branches swayed gently beneath the early autumn breeze. Somewhere below in the yard came the distant clatter of buckets and laughter from stablehands finishing evening chores.

Inside, however, the room belonged entirely to quiet transformation.

Dunk stood in the middle of it looking deeply, profoundly uncertain.

The cradle sat near the hearth.

That seemed to be the source of most of his confusion.

It was not grand — House Arundel had never been a family inclined toward needless extravagance — but it had been made lovingly. Rowan had commissioned it from the same carpenter who built half the furniture in the keep. Smooth cedar wood curved softly along the edges, polished until it glowed warm amber in the sunlight. Tiny carved apple blossoms wound along the sides in careful detail.

Dunk stared at it as though it might suddenly begin speaking.

Then his enormous hand reached out carefully, almost cautiously, brushing one thick finger against the carved wood.

“You’re frowning at it,” you observed from the doorway.

His head lifted immediately.

The sight of you softened him at once.

Gods, pregnancy suited you in ways he could scarcely put words to. Your gowns no longer fit properly around the swell of your belly, forcing softer looser fabrics gathered beneath your breasts. Your cheeks carried constant warmth now, pink blooming naturally across fair skin, while your pale hair hung in a loose braid over one shoulder after escaping whatever careful arrangement Elinor had attempted earlier.

You rested one hand beneath your stomach as you entered, slower these days beneath the growing weight of your child.

His child.

Every time Dunk remembered that fact, something inside his chest seemed to stumble.

“I’m not frowning,” he muttered.

“You look as though the cradle insulted your honor.”

“It’s small.”

You laughed softly.

“Well… yes. Babies usually are.”

Dunk looked back toward it helplessly. “What if I break it?”

“The cradle?”

“The baby.”

The honesty of it settled warmly through the room.

You crossed toward him slowly over the rush-covered floor, your slippers whispering softly against woven reeds. As soon as you neared, Dunk’s hands instinctively moved toward you — one settling carefully at your elbow while the other found your waist with practiced protectiveness.

Lately he touched you as though reassuring himself you remained real.

“You won’t break the baby,” you promised gently.

His mouth twisted. “I’m large.”

“You are.”

“Clumsy.”

“Sometimes.”

“And the child will be…” His eyes flickered downward toward your stomach in visible awe. “…small.”

You took his hand then — the scarred rough one broad enough to nearly span your entire belly — and guided it carefully against the curve of your gown.

The baby kicked almost instantly.

Dunk froze.

There it was again.

That expression.

That impossible mixture of terror and wonder that overcame him every time your child moved beneath his hand.

The kick came harder this time, visible even through fabric.

“Oh,” Dunk whispered.

Your smile softened. “Strong already.”

“He kicked me.”

“Yes.”

“He did it on purpose.”

“He’s your son already.”

Dunk huffed a startled laugh beneath his breath, though his eyes never left your stomach.

Weeks ago, when you first told him of the pregnancy, he had gone completely silent for nearly a full minute before sitting down heavily beside the hearth as though his knees no longer functioned properly.

“A baby?” he had asked finally, voice rough with disbelief.

Now the reality surrounded him everywhere.

Tiny linen shifts folded neatly atop a chest beneath the window. Wool blankets Lady Margaret had sewn herself. Little carved animals Tommen insisted the child would require.