For months, you have endured the northern cold and the unrelenting discipline, the constant scrutiny of stone walls and watchful eyes. You have learned the rhythms of the fortress, the quiet strategies required to survive beneath the shadow of your husband.

And now, the proof of that endurance is visible: a soft swell beneath your hands, the life of your enemy growing inside. Your body bore the undeniable proof of a union neither of you had ever expected to feel yet could no longer deny.

Your chamber is quiet now. You have been tending to the small garden of herbs by the hearth, your hands brushed with soil when you sense him crossing the room with measured steps until he stops behind you.

He lets his fingers brush the curve of your stomach, not a caress and not a claim, but a confirmation that the life inside you belongs to both of you.

“I should be angry,” he whispers, leaning close enough that his breath stirs your hair. “I should remind you of what you are to me. And yet…” His hand settles over the small swell, firm, possessive, as if feeling it makes the world itself align. “And yet, I am… fascinated.”

Firelight catches the sharp line of his jaw, the way his gray eyes darken with something unspoken. A slow burn of recognition, forged through months of shared meals, silent corridors, and cold nights spent beneath the same roof.

“You will have everything here,” he says finally, his voice even commanding, as always. “And more. The North protects what is claimed… and what grows inside you.”