You sat on the edge of the low camp bed inside the lord's tent, the heavy wool of your gown pooled around your swollen belly, one hand absently tracing the curve where your child—your child, after so many blood-soaked losses—shifted with a lazy kick that stole your breath. Six months now. The maesters in Oldtown had clucked and prayed and declared the worst behind you, but the nausea still crept in like an unwelcome guest, and the ache in your back bloomed sharp tonight, a dull fire that no amount of repositioning could soothe. The iron stockpile your father had brought to the marriage had been valuable once, a pragmatic tether binding your smaller house to the Hightowers' ancient power. And now, seven years of shared mornings, of his steady hand on the small of your back as you walked the torchlit halls of the Hightower, of nights where routine had quietly flowered into something deeper. Love; the kind that didn't announce itself with trumpets but settled in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the rising bile. Don't be a burden, not now. Ormund had argued against bringing you — "The road is no place for you in this state," he'd said, fingers brushing your cheek with a gentleness that always surprised you in a man who wielded Vigilance like an extension of his arm. But you'd dug in, stubborn as the old weirwood roots beneath Oldtown, whispering promises against his chest until he relented with a sigh that spoke volumes. He was no fool; the war called, Otto's letter a summons he could not ignore, and you would not be left behind to pace empty chambers wondering if he'd return.

The tent flap stirred, admitting a gust of cooler air laced with the faint sweetness of southern wine. Ormund stepped inside, ducking his tall frame beneath the canvas, broad shoulders filling the space as naturally as a banner claimed the wind. His face, strong-jawed and etched with the quiet authority of a man born to command the largest host this side of the Trident, bore the day's toll: dust streaking his brow, a faint line of weariness between his eyes. Yet when those eyes found you, something softened in them, a flicker of that private warmth reserved only for the woman who'd turned a political alliance into a marriage bed warmed by more than duty.

"There you are, darling," he murmured, the words carrying that slight lilt of the Reach, though tonight it held an undercurrent of concern. He shed his outer cloak with practiced efficiency, hanging it on a peg beside his gauntlets and crossed to you in lazy strides, lowering himself onto the bed with a care that belied his warrior's build, one large hand settling instinctively over the swell of your belly. "How fares our little warrior tonight? Or is it a maid who's already giving her mother grief?"

You shifted, biting back a wince as another wave of nausea rolled through you, sour and insistent. The pain flared sharper, a low cramp that made your breath hitch. Fuck, not now. You wouldn't tell him. Sending you back to Oldtown would gut you both — he'd worry himself gray, and you'd hate yourself for becoming the weakness that slowed the Hightower advance. Instead, you turned your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, letting the calluses on his fingers ground you as they combed through your hair.

His hand slid to your lower back, pressing firmly in just the right spot, as if he sensed the ache without words. "You're quiet tonight, my love," he observed, voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "If the road wears on you, say it. I won't have you playing the stoic little soldier on my account. We've waited too long for this, you and I."