Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You don’t get much privacy in a war camp. 

They’d pitched camp strategically. High enough in the valleys so that they can’t be caged in by, low enough so that they’re still relatively protected from the Barrens, the edges of which lie on the opposite side of these ranges. The camp is close enough to the mouth of a freshwater spring so that their enemies had limited opportunities to poison their water source and spread diseases throughout the camp. They haven’t let themselves sprawl out too much, but their tents aren’t completely piled on top of one another. You get enough free range to nip out of your tent and take a piss without flashing half the infantry, but you also can’t have sex without the rest of the camp knowing about it.

You certainly don’t get enough privacy to pilfer the Healers’ wares, slip out of camp without anyone else paying attention, and start a small campfire to discreetly brew the concoction you’ve memorised the recipe for.

It’s even worse when you have a face and a name like Violet Sorrengail’s. She’s always been a magnet for attention — and trouble — and it’s neverending these days, when her signet is one of the few veritable defenses against their enemies, and she’s engaged to the crown of Tyrrendor. She always attracts stares wherever she goes, and now there’s a consistent stream of riders, fliers and infantry alike stepping forward to demand her opinion on something.

At the very least, Andarna’s conspiring right alongside her. She meets Violet at the very cusp of where Mira’s wards end, ushering Violet between her sinewy legs and fanning her wings and tail so that Violet’s concealed from view without provoking alarm for any of the patrolling guards or any of her inner circle that may be watching her. 

Sgaeyl , she ventures, as politely as she can bear it, has he sent his shadows after me?

Not yet , the blue Daggertail allows grimly. 

Violet shrugs off the winter furs they all wear now — the Barrens are somehow even worse than Tyrrendor’s relentless snow months, with punishing winds and no vegetation left for easy coverage, and wearing furs had quickly caught on around the camp after Xaden presented her with one of his Tyrrish pelts during one particularly brutal ice-storm — before she unzips her flight jacket and makes quick work of the various vials and herbs shoved down her corset. Andarna lowers her magnificent head to help keep Violet’s crucible heated as she frantically splashes in the other ingredients, topping it off with a vial of her own blood, freshly drawn after she’d eaten like the recipe necessitated. When the draught is properly bubbling and the misting evaporation stops smelling of iron, Violet sets the crucible down so that it can cool. 

I don’t understand why you’re going to all of the effort, Andarna probes. Tairn and I can already tell you what’s wrong with you.

I know that all too well , Violet huffs. I just — I need to see this for myself . 

Violet’s had the recipe for a pregnancy detection draught memorised for a while now; Basgiath didn’t exactly have a sex ed program, but there were certain things that some of the more worldly third-years were sure to emphasise to younger female riders. Namely how to prevent babies, how to figure out if you’re carrying one, and how to get rid of them when you do. 

Is that what you intend to do? Andarna poises sharply. 

Violet exhales, harshly, and meets her youngest dragon’s gilded gaze. We don’t have any options, do we?

Andarna makes a sympathetic croon at the back of her neck. But you don’t want to. 

We don’t know for sure. The argument hangs limply between them. 

She tries to picture it. A pregnancy. Then a baby, if she miraculously survived nine months of fighting venin whilst with child and then the expected anguish of birth. She couldn’t possibly hide away and let everyone else carry on with the theatrics of war, not when they were depending on her lightning as desperately as they all did. Then she visualises her baby, with her hazel eyes and freckled nose, Xaden’s dark curls and satiny bronze skin, and something blunt curdles in her sternum, like somebody’s driven a steel fist there and twisted her windpipe in their grasp. 

If things were different, if they were a little older, if they weren’t fighting a war —

Your potion’s ready , Andarna cautions gently. 

Violet doesn’t look down, now reaching out for Tairn. No matter what happens , she beseeches him, you have to still let me ride. We still have to fight alongside everyone else . 

His immediate rumble grates her spine with his disapproval. 

Promise me , she begs. Hypothetically speaking — I won’t allow needless deaths just because I was stupid enough to get myself knocked up . 

Fine , he grouses. But I’ll torch anyone who dares look at you twice . 

Violet accepts Tairn’s terms, and finally lowers her gaze back to the crucible, innocently cradled in the earth. The older riders had told her that if the draught hadn’t been brewed correctly, it would be brown and muddy. If she was pregnant, then the draught would be bright red, green if she wasn’t and had just inconveniently skipped her cycle. 

She sends a prayer to Amari and then Dunne before she squats to retrieve the crucible. 

Even in the limited light, swathed safely under Andarna as she is, Violet’s draught gleams an unmistakable shade of scarlet, the very same shade of Xaden’s dripping swords after battle. 

She almost drops the stupid thing. “Fuck,” she spits, icy shock gripping her, spreading from the roots of her hair down her scalp, her neck, all throughout her torso and her limbs until she’s consumed by it. 

Andarna rumbles gently, caressing Violet’s calves with her tail affectionately.

I’m sorry, Silver One, Tairn offers solemnly.

We’ll look after you, Sgaeyl adds, with surprising compassion. No matter what decision you make . 

There are tears sliding down her cheeks, her throat tight as she coughs on her own sobs; Violet hides her face in her furs — the very same pelt that her fiancé had arranged around her when she was cold during that ice storm — as she leans into Andarna, her dragon supporting her weight without complaint. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she rasps quietly. “I didn’t really believe that this could even be happening.”

It had, anyway. She’s learning, very abruptly and very unpleasantly, that having a body that’s already as dysfunctional as hers, means that you naturally overlook the incriminating symptoms that other women may be on hyper alert for. The constant fatigue. The unrelenting pain in her hips, her thighs and her core. The cramping, the itchy skin, the headaches. The loss of her appetite, morning sickness. And the missed periods. Violet had attributed all of them to the usual consequences of living in constant physical pain, or the natural stress of battles and politics and strategy and coordinating supplies and moving their camp and their dragons. But it hadn’t.

It had meant something worse. 

It had meant the worst possible thing a woman could be in war. 

The three of you all owe me , she whispers to the congregation of dragons that are a constant witness to her own thoughts. Her hands are trembling as she disposes of the draught into the trampled grass; she’s light headed, and fairly convinced she’ll shortly throw her guts up. Or pass out. Or both. None of us can tell Xaden . 

She can’t tell him. 

He almost destroyed himself the last time when she was well and truly endangered. Violet still dreams of the red of his eyes, the purpling of his veins, the way that Sgaeyl’s furious scream of denial echoed throughout the battle. 

If Xaden was willing to turn himself into venin if it meant saving her, before she’d ever agreed to be his wife or found herself carrying his baby, what lengths would he go to protect her now? 

More and more of their riders and fliers are burning out during skirmishes with the wyvern and venin. Ridoc and the other ice- and water-wielders are relegated from offensive tactics to the field Healers who hang back from the fighting, far enough to be out of harm’s way but close enough to quickly reach somebody who requires medical aid. Of course, Ridoc cracks endless jokes about wearing a slutty nurse’s costume instead of his leathers and armour, but Violet doesn’t miss the concern that flickers in his gaze like he’s seeing ghosts.

Several times now, Ridoc’s had to intervene when Violet’s been on the brink of burn out. It’s a natural casualty of commanding one of the only signets truly effective against venin. This evening has been no different, except for the fact that she’s an estimated ten weeks into an already forbidden pregnancy. The fighting has only just been stoppered when Tairn senses that she’s in trouble and hurdles towards the field Healers. 

Both Tairn and Andarna are significantly more hostile when Ridoc catches her when she tumbles from her saddle and immediately dumps her into the nearest ice bath, handling her far less ceremoniously than one probably should of a king’s pregnant fiancée. Andarna even goes as far as snapping her teeth at Ridoc’s dragon, Aotrom, who growls back but doesn’t dare retribute further under Tairn’s nose. 

”What the fuck?” Ridoc spits as he dips his hands into the water, lowering the temperature until Violet keens from relief, the freezing water finally having an affect on the roaring inferno buffeting through her body.

”Sorry,” Violet rasps back, mentally commanding her dragons to stand down. “They’re just on edge.”

”I’ll say,” he mutters. “Quite the fireworks show you put on today, Sorrengail. More than usual, eh?”

Violet arches her back as the fringes of burn out slowly retreat from her body. She’d wielded more lightning than usual, knowing all too well what might happen to the baby if she allowed close contact with a venin. That had ruled out hand-to-hand combat, so she’d resorted to striking down wyvern and electrocuting venin that came too close for comfort. 

“Don’t lecture me,” she mumbles. 

Silver One , Tairn nudges. You can’t continue this war like this.  

Are you telling me to sit back from the fighting , Violet retorts, or to get rid of it?  

That is your decision , he replies primly. 

You said you’d still bear me regardless. You promised! 

“I’m not gonna lecture you,” Ridoc promises. “Can’t say the same for everyone else. Oh! Speak of the fucking devil —“

“What the hell were you thinking, Vi?”

Violet retrains tired eyes from Ridoc and their dragons to another rider, barrelling through the darkness towards her. It’s Mira, concern and agitation scribbled all over her features. Closely flanking her are Brennan and Xaden, wearing similar expressions of alarm. None of them have even bothered to wash the blood off their weapons.

Did you tell him? Violet demands directly to Sgaeyl. 

Of course not , she replies. Though I’d advise it. Better that he hears it from you rather than one of his signets.  

Violet grits her teeth at the cold facts of Sgaeyl’s reminder but retracts from the mental connection as she faces Mira. “Sticking to our strategy, wasn’t I?

“We were barely in the air for two hours!” Mira starts. “You’ve never burnt out that quickly, Vi —“

”I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine,” Violet interrupts, hiding her nervous fidgeting under the frigid surface of the ice water. 

Don’t fucking lie to me , Xaden echoes, striding past her sister and kneeling beside the bath. He smells like battle, like blood and sweat and ozone from all the lightning she’d summoned. But he doesn’t reprimand her aloud; they’ve made a point of not arguing publicly since the engagement, knowing the necessity of presenting a united front, especially during times like these. Aloud, he’s far more mellow. “Hey, love. How you feeling?” 

“Like I almost burnt out,” Violet retorts dryly. 

Xaden rakes the damp hair out of her face, plants a routine kiss between her brows, before directing an irritated glare at her sister. “Why don’t you save the interrogation for after she’s recovered, Sorrengail?”

Whilst Xaden and Mira launch into their usual — expected — bout of bickering, Violet lets her gaze wander. Brennan is quietly thanking Ridoc for helping her recover. Sgaeyl has joined where Tairn and Aotrom stand, but Andarna’s wandered off, presumably to investigate this new stretch of the Barrens. In the distance, cradled in the safety of foothills, their people have commenced the now routine process of landing, dismantling gear from their mounts, and setting up the war camp for the night. 

Eventually, once Violet’s body has returned to a normal temperature, Xaden helps her out of the ice bath, and Tairn ambles forward to help dry her with his steaming breath before the trek across the Barrens to their camp freezes her all over again. 

You should tell him , he urges as he sends blissful heat spilling over Violet. 

I can’t , she whispers back. I don’t want to think about what he’d do to everyone else if I was hurt once he knows. Or what he’d let happen if it meant keeping me safe .

You’ve never feared him before , Tairn advises steadily.

It’s not Xaden I’m scared of , she scoffs. It’s how much Xaden loves me, that scares me .  

He already knows that something is wrong , Sgaeyl intrudes. You deliberately came close to burn out for this fight. You refused to engage the venin, and you’ve never done that before .

Her chin jerks in Xaden’s direction; he offers a private smile, steps forward to tug off his Tyrrish furs and fasten them around her own shoulders. Through the mental bond, his shadows nuzzle her spears of light, as physically he takes her face into his hands and his mouth finds hers. We need to talk. After the debrief . 

This has happened before , her toes lift and her arms twine around his neck. Quit your fussing . 

Quit deflecting , he retorts, before his tongue claims hers. 

But it’s all she can do. She’s running on borrowed time — the campaign against the venin has carried on for months, she’s only got a matter of weeks, maybe even days, before Xaden sniffs it out like a bloodhound, before he draws the dots between the missed cycles or that she’s steered clear of drinking or the violent nausea after flying, or that she’s started putting on weight after months of steadily losing it. She certainly can’t hide it once she’s starting to show. 

She tries to imagine telling somebody else, somehow evading Xaden’s signets. Mira couldn’t be trusted to keep the secret — no, she’d be running off to strangle Xaden herself, likely after advising Violet to get rid of it. Brennan and her other close friends would probably be on a similar page, and she absolutely can’t bring this sort of thing to Xaden’s own inner circle and insist that they keep it from him as well. 

Do you want to get rid of it? Andarna barrels into her thoughts. 

You know I don’t, Violet replies, as Xaden breaks the kiss and leads her towards camp, keeping her close. She can already tell by his posture that he won’t let her out of his sight for the next few days. 

She knows what the most sensible thing would be to do. 

So why hasn’t she just done it already and put this whole mess behind her?

Nobody says it aloud, but when the strategy for the next assault on the venin is drafted, they intend it to be their final engagement. Once and for all. 

Despite the fatigue that locks her muscles into almost intolerable bunching, Violet remains in the strategy tent with the others, arguing and comparing notes and nudging tokens around maps until well past midnight. She’s close to her limit, having fought and flown for endless days, and yet they’re expected to rise and ride at dawn. Brennan notices, hovers, nudges coffee towards her. Xaden notices too, also hovers, slips sugar cubes into her palm for that short lived burst of energy. At one point he crooks a hand around her waist, and Violet leans enough of her weight into him that he finally takes the hint, dismissing everyone to their beds for the remaining hours of nightfall. 

“The next time that you watch the sun set, we’ll be going home,” he promises everyone in the tent, and nobody dares voice the far more morbid alternative. They’re all thinking it anyway. 

They don’t speak as they make their way back to the tent, but Xaden’s arm is draped familiarly around her waist, slotting her into his side, his shadows hurdling next to their footfalls like loyal canines. For the millionth time in days she pictures him with their child, visualises his hand on her swollen belly and debating over names in their bed in Riorson House, tortures herself with  wondering if he’d prefer a girl or a boy. Secretly, in the dead of the night, she can admit to herself that she wants a little girl. 

The decision would be far easier to make, she thinks, if she wasn’t so convinced that he’d be a good father. Plenty would disagree, but then again, she’s always basked in a side of Xaden Riorson that most wouldn’t pick was there to begin with.

She gets this side of him now, once he’s unfastened the tent for her and swept her through first, warming up their narrow, clammy illusion of privacy with his lesser magics as he helps unravel her braids and wriggle out of her leathers, stiff from the cold. His eyes don’t leave her, and neither do his hands, shamelessly captivated by her as he backs her to their makeshift bed. They haven’t had the time or privacy for languid, indulgent sex in weeks now, but Xaden’s still gentle, worshiping as he lays her down on the bedding. Afterwards, when they’re sleepy and sated, he holds her close, reminding her how much he adores her, how thankful he is for having her as his bride and his queen. 

For once, Xaden drifts off sooner than she does, but Violet lies awake, her heart pounding, thoughts rioting, a hand drifting absently to her abdomen. 

He needs to know , Sgaeyl insists, scratchy with annoyance. 

Not now , Violet begs. He never sleeps well, and he needs his rest tonight. He won’t catch a wink if I do . 

They both sleep restlessly, never entering a deeper sleep, constantly roused by unpleasant echoes of their own subconscious or distant noises in the night. She’s roused when the sky is only starting to mottle with the early greying of dawn, Sgaeyl’s snarl echoing between her ears.

What if we all die today? Then he’ll never know.  

If that’s the case , Violet snaps back, nestling back into her fiancé’s sleepy heat, his arms locked protectively around her, at least he won’t spend his last moments thinking of what could have been. 

You need him close , Sgaeyl persists. You can’t engage the venin directly, but he can. He’ll stick to your brother’s strategy if he continues living in ignorance. I’ll tell him myself if you don’t.

You fucking owe me, Violet hisses. 

I made no such agreement, Sgaeyl crows, and Violet swears under her breath. She’s not quiet enough; behind her, Xaden stirs awake, reflexively tucking her closer as he nuzzles into her hair, grumbling under his breath. 

“Vi?”

”Your dragon’s a bitch,” Violet snaps, without really thinking about it. 

Xaden yawns as he props himself up on an arm, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Tell me something I don’t know.” 

Well, if this isn’t one perfect opportunity — Sgaeyl begins. 

Give her time , Tairn snaps, and they both retreat from her mind, presumably to have their lovers’ quarrel. 

Violet shifts over in his embrace, snuggling closer to his chest. For a moment she imagines having this conversation in another life. No venin, no riding leathers, no generations of suppression and cruelty holding them apart.

She can’t. 

But at the same time, she can also believe that a version of Violet and Xaden find their way to one another, no matter what world or lifetime they’re living in. 

“Do you really want me to?” 

His brows quirk. “Violence, it’s a figure of speech —“

She reaches out a hand, caresses Xaden’s stumbled jaw. “I’m pregnant,” she whispers, almost warbling. Her voice is small and quiet and broken and doesn’t sound like it belongs to herself. “Ten weeks.” 

Xaden’s entire expression shutters with disbelief. She can feel him stiffen under her, cold and steely. His shock is entirely palpable, eyes wide and lips parting. “That can’t have happened —“ 

“Well, it has,” Violet corrects tiredly. “Suppose it’s from all those times the Healers had to spread their stash of suppressants too thin. I haven’t thought too much about it.” 

He shifts a hand to her side, his thumb passing back and forth over the bare skin of her abdomen, softer with the weight she’s gained back instead of the scrawniness she’d come to know during the last few months of the campaign. It’s not a bump, exactly, but there’s something there that hadn’t been significant previously. It’s evidence. Proof that she’s carrying his baby — carrying his throne’s heir , Violet recalls, her head spinning mildly at the reminder.

”You’re only telling me this now?” He asks, his voice rasping with hurt and disbelief. 

She feels her expression twist with guilt. “I didn’t know how . I’ve only known for a week or so.”

Xaden slumps against the bedding. “ Fuck , Violence.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” her voice cracks as the confession works its way out of her throat. She hiccups, and it’s the dam wall breaking; tears fill her eyes and slide down her cheeks, her chest quivering with more sobs to come. 

“I think you do,” he hums, using his grasp on her to slide her on top of him. His hands ever so gently wipe her cheeks dry, stroke the hair out of her eyes. “Tell me. Whatever you want, we’ll make it work.” 

She lets herself sink into him. She turns her head, resting her temple against his shoulder so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “Everyone else would tell me to get rid of it. I don’t want to do that.” 

Any other option is unthinkable, when selfishly, she’s only been able to think of holding her baby. Their baby. She scrutinises his expression and wonders if he’s thinking of the same thing, an impossibly precious bundle of her eyes and his curls, intelligent and silver-tongued and vicious and entirely wonderful. 

“Okay,” Xaden exhales sharply. “ Okay . Fuck.”

”I’m still fighting —“

”No, the fuck you’re not —“

“We’re not negotiating this,” Violet interrupts. “We all know that everyone is relying on my signet for this. The future of our kingdom is relying on my fucking signet. I’m going into that battle, and I need you close to me.” 

Xaden grunts. “I don’t fucking like this.”

”You don’t have to like it, but you’re doing it,” she sits upright, straddling his hips, lifting her arms to the ties holding the longer swaths of her hair back. She shakes her braid free, biting back a grin as, all too predictably, Xaden’s gaze softens, his expression tightening. “You can start the overprotective asshole charade once we’ve cleaned up this venin business. Heading home by sunset, remember?”

His glower is diminished more than usual — no doubt because she’s taken her hair down, its effect exactly as intended. “You’re way too hot when you’re bossing me around, Violence.”

”Stop thinking with the wrong head,” she scoffs. “That probably got us into this whole mess in the first place.”

Xaden laughs, quietly, and pushes up on his elbows. “Probably did.” He squeezes her knee. “C’mon then, Violence. We’re making an extra stop at the weapons’ tent.”

Violet eyes their weapons rack near the tent’s entrance. It’s laughably overcrowded, piled with swords and daggers and more bits of metal than she can be bothered to count. “Like we don’t have enough swords at all,” she replies dryly, wondering where Xaden’s going with this. 

“No swords. Just a reinforced breastplate for you. I’m not taking any chances.” Xaden helps her out of their bed, and together they begin dressing. This feels more routine. The wool under layers, the leathers, the armour, the furs. She’s just sliding her last dagger into place when Xaden crosses the tent back for her, his expression lighter than she expects.  

“I know this is not the gods-damned time for it,” he mutters, drawing her close. Violet catches his grin, small and giddy, before he tugs her in for a passionate kiss that buckles her knees. “But we’re having a motherfucking baby , Violence.” 

Chapter Text

By the time that the Tyrrish maples mottle and shed their leaves in anticipation of the winter months, Violet is starting to show.

It’s not a particularly dramatic change to her physique; everyone else is healthily regaining the weight they lost on the campaign into the Barrens, so nobody bats an eye when Violet’s cheeks and chest are fuller, her abdomen thicker. There’s enough going on that all members of Riorson House are distracted, both Violet and Xaden included — recuperating from the campaign against the venin, focusing on the transition from province to an independent kingdom now that they’re no longer fighting a war on two fronts, helping their people prepare for the brutal winter months to come. 

In all honesty, she’s quite pleased to have still kept the pregnancy under wraps, despite all of the ‘nosy motherfuckers’ in their lives — Xaden’s words, not hers. It’s much easier that he’s playing into the deceit as well as their dragons, even though he’s somehow managed to ratchet up the overprotective caveman tendencies by several notches, eliciting a few raised eyebrows and pointed questions more than once. Still, he’s been taking good care of her — slyly exchanging her flutes of wine for fruit juice whenever everyone else is drinking; covering for her bouts of exhaustion and fatigue with a few curt words and a stern look that dares others to argue; helping her make a million and one excuses when somebody else challenges Violet to spar. He’s on a mission to personally restock her armoire, regularly presenting her with another fur pelt, or woven shawls, or embroidered tunics, or wool gowns or comfortable trousers: he insists he’s helping her stock up for her first Tyrrish winter, though Violet suspects he’s just using it as an excuse to spoil her. 

For somebody whose worldly possessions were restricted to anything that could be conveniently transported in a handful of crates and later a single rucksack when she crossed the Parapet, living as a queen takes a little getting used to. 

It’s late when she makes the discovery. Riorson House is still humming with activity — the first of Tyrrendor’s snow storms have swept through Aretia and the rest of the coastline from the mountains, effectively grounding their riders until the storms pass. The barracks are also open to any civilians who still haven’t had the means to adequately bunker down for the cold, and the rooms are continuously filling and then emptying of both the elderly, the disabled and younger families. After days of running around attending to her people, she’s exhausted, and has quietly excused herself to the royal family’s quarters with an experiment in mind; before unification with Navarre, it was apparently custom for the royal household to not cut their hair — both men and women — oiling and braiding their hair into runes. It’s a tradition that Violet is quietly interested in bringing back. 

In the soothing ambience of her chambers, she washes and painstakingly dries her hair before the fire. She already hasn’t cut it in years: she made a point of never trimming it for the Riders’ Quadrant, and it’s always been an effective tool for getting her way with Xaden, bull-headed man that he is. These days, it dances around her hips, thick and healthy, more wavy than it used to be thanks to living on the coast, glossy from the hair oils that you apparently get consistently gifted as a young queen. Violet runs a brush through her hair as she regards her collection of hair oils. Once she makes her selection, she massages it through before deftly arranging her hair into the various braids necessary for stylising her chosen rune. 

She’s just pinning the final braid in place when the doors to the chambers groan apart, and Xaden lets himself through, his gaze immediately fastening onto her. In the reflection of her mirror, they smile at each other. Xaden’s gaze shifts to how she’s arranged her hair, brows dipping for a moment thoughtfully, before his grin widens. “You don’t need a rune for wisdom, love.”

”Figured it was a bit late for one of protection,” Violet quips.

He laughs, dryly, as he comes to stand behind her. She’s gently pulled back into the familiar safety of his warm embrace, flush against his chest; he pecks a greeting kiss to her cheekbone before meeting her eyes in the reflection again. “I got you something.”

”You got me something?” Violet echoes, a little disbelieving. He’s already brought her several gifts this week — spiced flat-bread with dried berries and honey that she now constantly craves, an interesting-looking book on the oral traditions of Tyrrendor’s old warrior-clans from the mountains, ivory hair pins carved to resemble dragon wings. He insists on purchasing from local merchants rather than traders, blatantly overpaying them since the Tyrrish are as stubborn as their king and won’t accept a single coin he tries to give them otherwise.

“I didn’t mean to,” Xaden’s already digging around in the folds of his tunic and furs for wherever he’s hid it. He extracts a bundle of cloth that flushes a forest green in the mage-lights, the colour of House Riorson, helping Violet shrug into the garment. It’s a wrap top of sorts, the neckline and cuffs embroidered with a design of frolicking deer, the fabric thick enough so that she can wear it in cooler weather. “I heard of a seamstress who specialises in clothes for expecting mothers. Paid her a visit this afternoon.” 

Violet eyes the practical sleeves, adjustable design and plunging neckline: perfect for when she’s further along in the pregnancy and then nursing. She smiles as he meticulously fastens the shirt. “You don’t have to bring me something every time you leave the damned house, you know.” 

”You’re my wife and my queen. ‘Course I do.” He nuzzles her neck, glancing appreciatively at her reflection in the mirror. “Doesn’t hurt that your tits look just as good in this as I thought they would be.”

She digs an elbow into his kidneys, lightly. “Pervert.” 

“Vixen.” He nips her ear, careful not to catch her still-healing piercings with his teeth; the Tyrrish customarily pierce their ears to mark different milestones and accomplishments. They’re both bearing fresh ones for marriage and victory in battle, as well as leadership. She’s due for one at her conch, once they actually tell people about the baby. 

They’ll get around to that. Eventually. Their inner circle gets priority, whenever they feel up to it. In all honesty, Violet would rather delay Mira’s inevitable outburst as long as it’s reasonable.

In their shared reflection, she watches Xaden’s hands slide from her back where he’d fastened the shirt, gliding over her waist, drawing her close. She leans back into him, smiling as his hands dip lower to splay gently, reverently over her belly, softer and fuller than she can recall her physique ever being. She offers him a private smile; he returns it easily, before his brow dips and he cups his hand to her belly more proactively. 

Violence …? 

Violet’s own brows pinch, not following. What’s that funny look on your face for?

I think you’re starting to show, love.

Her heart pounds to a halt, hitched high in her throat. She nudges forward out of Xaden’s embrace enough to pivot to her side before double checking her reflection. For a moment she’s convinced that she must be hallucinating, tugging her shirt higher and her leathers lower so that she can properly regard her figure without the obstruction of clothing. She falters. 

She has a gods-damn baby bump .

”Oh,” she whispers, the single word guttural with shock. 

In an absurd, ironic way, the baby had never felt quite real. There's always been little doubt that she was pregnant — Tairn, Andarna and even Sgayel had all insisted, and she’d made that detection draught when she had wanted to confirm it for herself. But between the campaign and then the whirlwind of finding herself charged with ruling a dilapidated kingdom, alongside a man she’d been married to for less than a month, the baby had almost felt — abstract. Another date to jot down in the books, another thing to prepare for. She’d simply fooled her brain to make peace with the fact that in less than six months, she’d have a child — she’d be a parent — and it would be as easy and straightforward as that.

”C’mere,” Xaden whispers, brisk with emotion. Violet leans into him, lets him fold her tightly into his embrace and keep her there. She can feel him press his face into her hair, knowing he’s breathing her in. Her own eyes close, and she nestles there against him, smiling when he presses a stubbly kiss to her cheekbone. “I’m so proud of you.”

”Not sure why,” Violet jokes, “All I did was accidentally get knocked up. Your doing, really.”

He snickers, his grin sobering as he tilts her in his embrace, sliding a hand into her hair as he kisses her. It’s not a chaste kiss by any means; Violet pushes up onto her tip toes and curls her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his hips when he easily lifts her, tongues and lips dancing with each other’s in a familiar, dizzying percussion. She likes when he does this, the effortless demonstration of his strength, of his reliability.

She likes when Xaden demonstrates other things that he’s perfectly adept at, too. Unsurprisingly, his idea of a celebration is a demonstration of the very thing that got them here in the first place.

Afterwards, when they’ve worn each other ragged and cleaned themselves up, they shrug on a few scraps of clothing and curl up on one of the loveseats together, close to the fire. Xaden sends for a delivery of light food from the kitchens, including the sweetened, spiced flat bread that she’s taken to. No wine — he promises not to touch a drop out of solidarity until the baby comes, though Vi privately wonders how long that will hold against Garrick’s unending capacity for inadvisable ideas. Instead, Xaden takes a leaf out of her book, filling two crystal wine glasses with a fruit juice that resembles wine — pomegranate, rich and dwelling, this evening. Apparently it’s an omen of good luck in the western parts of Tyrrendor. 

“To my girls,” he toasts, voice still rough with emotion.

Violet grins widely, despite herself. She squeezes his hand as she drinks. “We don’t know that for sure.”

”Sure we do,” Xaden’s lazy, indulgent grin is a rarity, combined with his crinkled eyes that Violet’s learning implies that he’s letting himself be truly — blissfully — happy. Joy is not an old friend to Xaden Riorson, but it’s visiting him more frequently these days. “I’ve pissed off the gods enough that they’ll want to terrorise me with a miniature, Tyrrish version of you.” 

Violet huffs, rolling her eyes. “Is that such a bad thing?”

His smile brightens, if that’s even possible. “Oh, Violence, I can’t fucking wait.” He sets down his wine glass, leans over on the love seat until his head is level with Vi’s ribs. Callused fingers lift her shirt — technically his tunic, since Xaden’s closet is now an extension of her own these days — and he plants a soft kiss to her belly, the region of her bump she supposes. “Reckon she’ll know her daddy’s voice yet?” Another kiss over her taut skin, a murmur of something in Tyrrish. “ Ki qaoriis .”

My little love, she translates privately, linguistic transitions from Tyrrish to standard Navarrian becoming more and more automatic these days. If Violet’s heart wasn’t already a puddle on the floor, it certainly is now. Her eyes burn with tears, a wobbly smile twisting hard at her mouth; she distracts herself by running a hand through Xaden’s hair. 

“I think we’ll need to stop making excuses at some point,” she murmurs. 

Xaden tilts his head back to meet her gaze. “You want to tell people soon?” He clarifies. 

“Just ours first.” Violet pauses, deliberating. “Then we can tell the people, even though they’ll just see the baby as an heir to the throne. Doesn’t have to be a big deal; I’m sure word of mouth will do the trick.” 

”Good for everyone’s morale,” Xaden points out. “Dynastic stability and all that bullshit.” They both pull a face, laughing when they realise the other’s identical response. “Assembly can find out when she’s in her double digits for all I care.”

”We don’t know if it’s a she ,” Violet emphasises, already knowing this is going to be an uphill battle for the next few months. 

“Tairn would fix me straight if I was wrong,” he shifts, his head resting against her shoulder as a large arm drapes carefully around her hips. “The grumpy fuck never lets me have any fun if he can help it.” 

We’re not supposed to say, Andarna pipes up. Humans are very tetchy about discovering the sex of their offspring.

Remind the King that I might be unable to incinerate him, but I am more than capable of neutering him , Tairn grouses. 

Violet chooses not to repeat Tairn’s threat as she leans her head against Xaden’s. “What do you think everyone will say?”

”Don’t know. Don’t care. If anyone says anything shitty, especially to you, I’ll cut out their tongue myself.”

She rolls her eyes. “Xaden.” 

He huffs, but indulges her. “If there’s not an immediate sparring tournament over who gets to have the baby named after them, we need a new circle.” 

“You’re ridiculous ,” Violet laughs. “My money’s on Garrick.”

”I’m not naming our perfect little girl after Garrick fucking Tavis.” Xaden considers the matter. “Or his dragon, for that matter.”

”Let’s just get through telling everyone first,” she negotiates, “and we’ll have a proper conversation about names once I’m sure Bren and Mira won’t declare another war on you for getting me pregnant during our last one.”

Chapter Text

Xaden Riorson doesn’t make a point of meticulously keeping a schedule, but getting daggers thrown at his head by his sister-in-law hadn’t exactly been on his day’s to-do list.

His day had started relatively normal. Wake up early, attend to Violet when the morning sickness hit her; check in on the flow of mountain folk passing through the barracks for shelter; somehow make it through another Assembly meeting without calling anyone an insufferable fucking cunt, especially when they dared to look down at Vi; remember to eat at some point; look over some reports; pay a visit to the harbour, check in on the supervisors for the ice-fishing boats they’re currently renovating; supervise a few squads of cadets whilst General Tavis barks orders at them. This close to winter, sundown’s at four thirty, so the rest of the afternoon and early evening is spent looking over more reports, budgeting, and doing the math on how many more villages require what amount of resources to survive the coming winter.

He’s standing in his office with Bodhi and a few other Marked Ones — there’s been some nasty legal technicalities for bringing home Apostasy kids who weren’t old enough to be shipped off to Basgiath by the time Tyrrendor seized their independence, and a few asshole foster families are kicking up a fuss about fucking reimbursing them for taking the kids back — when the double doors are thrust open with a colossal bang and Mira Sorrengail storms the room with an expression promising bloodshed.

“Riorson, you fucking asshole!” 

Xaden gets a quick read on her intentions — more of a flash, really — before she throws a fucking dagger at his face. His signet gives enough warning to jerk out of range, but judging by the blade’s trajectory, she’d certainly been aiming for wherever it would leave a permanent mark. 

All hell breaks loose as the room abruptly heaves with chaos. Bodhi swears loudly and colourfully, drawing his sword. The other Marked Ones similarly scramble for their weapons or to restrain Mira; his shadows automatically part ways, one inky mass swarming her warningly, whilst the other darts out of the chambers to locate his Violence. 

The queen is fine, Sgaeyl intrudes. Focus on the theatrics in front of you.

Xaden clears his throat, ordering the Marked Ones. “Stand down.” He regards Mira’s thrown blade with a dismissive look, despite its impressive aim and the fact that it’s now stiffly embedded in the timber-paneled wall behind him. Runs in the fucking family, I guess. He wonders if his little girl is going to inherit a similar inclination. 

“Xade —“ Bodhi starts, incredulously.

”I know exactly why she’s here,” Xaden pries the dagger out of the wall: neither Tyrrish steel or whatever shit Navarrians forge their blades with. He pockets it, but not before he gestures to the armchairs arranged before the desk with it. “Take a seat, Sorrengail.” 

“ Fuck you,” Mira seethes, predictably doing no such thing. “I can’t believe what you did —“

“Xaden —“ Bodhi repeats. The Marked Ones fidget amongst themselves, clearly unsure what to make of this particular situation.

Brennan chooses that moment to skid into the office; he’s not looking quite as manic as the middle Sorrengail, but he’s certainly not in a peachy mood. His brows are drawn and his eyes narrowed as he barks, “With all due respect, what the fuck are you two thinking —“

“ Bren!”

Violet chooses to make an appearance in that moment, and some of the tension uncoils from Xaden’s spine, as it always does whenever he’s in her presence. She looks lovely tonight — but doesn’t she fucking always ? — dressed in dark blue, her captivating hair spilling loose around her hips, hazel eyes rimmed with kohl. She’s wearing neither her riding leathers or her diadem, but she doesn’t need them to command a room, everyone else’s chins dipping with hushed respect. If it wasn’t for the situation at hand, he could have very easily wasted his evening admiring her in the glow of the magelights. 

You told them? Xaden guesses, knowing she’d planned to do it at some point today. 

They didn’t take it very well, she retorts, trying to sound wry in an effort to disguise her distress. It doesn’t work; a protective rage flares at her admission. They’d both predicted that Mira in particular would react badly, but he didn’t think she’d go as fucking far as flicking blades at his head. 

Cutting out anyone’s tongues who says any shit to you, remember?

You can do it to anyone but them, she begs. She doesn’t have to try very hard — Vi’s his wife, his queen, and now the mother of his child. Of course she gets whatever she damn wants. 

“All of you,” he directs to the Marked Ones still present. “It appears I’ve got a meeting with my in-laws. I’ll come find you in the dining pavilion after and we can pick this up.” He catches Bodhi’s suspicious gaze meaningfully. “We’ll talk in the next few days.” 

He would have liked Bodhi to hear about it sooner — since he’s going to be related to this kid just as much as Brennan and Mira are — but he figures that his cousin will be far more forgiving than either Sorrengail. Besides, the troubled, pale pinch of Violet’s brow is enough to reshuffle her at the very top of his list of priorities. 

Clearly still perplexed, the others file out of the office, stepping aside when Violet hurries forward to his side; he ushers her into his desk chair, dropping a kiss to her head as he squeezes her shoulder supportively and keeping his hand there. Despite the tension in the room, she’s just as ruinously beautiful to behold. Once the door has been sealed shut, Xaden fastens his attention to the two oldest Sorrengails staring him down, both with folded arms and livid expressions. Neither have taken a seat. Fine by him; he braces his free arm on the desk and leans against it casually, entirely prepared to put himself between Violet and her siblings if need be. Even if he can’t cut their tongues out, there’s plenty of other creative options if they overstep or reduce Vi to tears.

Fucking in-laws, right?

“For the record, Mira,” Xaden clears his throat, not sure how best to break the awkward silence between them all. “If your goal was to castrate me, you were well off your mark.”

”Maybe I should’ve done it sooner,” Mira grouses. “Then Vi wouldn’t be in this fucking mess in the first place.”

At the back of his mind, Sgaeyl growls at the insult. Even if he’s composed externally, Xaden completely agrees with her, and wonders if it would be out to line to suggest that Sgaeyl goes after Teine for that and whatever other shit is about to come out of her rider’s mouth. 

If I did that on your behalf, you’ll only be starting another war, Sgaeyl points out. I’ll float the suggestion to Andarna.  

”It’s not a ‘fucking mess’,” Violet quotes, furiously. “Please don’t refer to our baby as that —“

Our baby, Xaden registers dimly. It’s the first time she’s said it aloud, outside of the privacy of their quarters, and his heart picks up at that. He wishes he could be enjoying it in a celebratory context, not when he’s getting jumped by his in-laws. 

“Unbelievable,” Mira shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re going ahead with this.” She glares at Xaden pointedly.

”It’s always been my call,” Vi justifies, indignantly.

”Sure,” Mira snorts. “Is that what he’s been telling you this whole time?”

”It is, actually,” Xaden interrupts. He doesn’t like what Mira’s implying, but he’ll push it like a bruise if it shuts her up from this point forwards.

To his surprise, Brennan is the one who verbalises it. “So you didn’t plan for this at all?”

Vi goes rigid beside him; he squeezes her shoulder again. 

”Why the fuck would I plan for my wife to be pregnant during a war —“ Xaden starts. Gods, he’ll never forget when Vi told him, the dread and the fear and the roaring terror that something terrible would happen to her. It wasn’t until he was back on Tyrrish soil that he really, properly processed the fact that this was something to be excited about. 

“During?” Mira echoes, her voice somehow pitching with further fury. 

Vi groans, digging the heel of her palm into her eyes. “I’m over three months, Mira. Join the dots together.” 

Xaden doesn’t have to use his second signet to know Mira is joining the dots; she certainly makes it furious when her expression. “ You dragged her into battle when she was —“

”There was no dragging,” Xaden interrupts, firmly. “I had no idea until we were twenty minutes before we took to the air for that last fight. Vi made that call and she’s making every one now.” 

Mira shakes her head. “Dragons don’t bear pregnant riders.”

”They do when the greater good is at sake,” Violet scoffs. “Tairn wasn’t happy, but we didn’t exactly have any other lightning wielders handy. Point is, we didn’t plan this.” 

”It’s not a bad thing, politically,” Brennan starts, eyes still narrowed. “Young couple takes the throne of a newly independent country. The queen’s not from a family that’s exactly popular around here, so why not put an heir in her as soon as possible, right?”

The implication makes Xaden want to spit. He didn’t do this fucking intentionally. The fertility suppressant hadn’t been strong enough with the Healers’ low wares, or maybe they’d forgotten to take it on a day when the timing was just right . He doesn’t know. He doesn’t give a shit. He takes one look at Vi’s bloodless cheeks and yeah, he needs to shut this down before too much damage has been down.

”We’re not having this baby because of fucking politics ,” Xaden growls. “We didn’t intend for this to happen so soon —“

” So soon?” Mira echoes, furiously. 

“Grow up, Mira,” Vi grumbles, tucking her feet up underneath her. “I’m twenty four years old. Not exactly a pregnant teenager. I’m married —“

”You were only engaged when he knocked you up —“

”Yes, and now we’re married . Barely even showing yet.” she concedes. “Like Bren said, I’m also the queen of this fucking country. Having a few babies shouldn’t be that much of a surprise to you.”

A few? Xaden echoes hopefully.

We can’t have an only child, she retorts. Look at the way you turned out. 

He rolls his eyes, but can’t help the silly smile that wants to crook his mouth upwards; he redirects that effort into sending a heartfelt shove of warmth and adoration back up the bond. 

“A few?” Mira looks horrified. “Violet, your body —“

”I’ve survived worse,” Violet retorts shortly. “Women with bodies even shittier than mine have had babies just fine.” She gestures in Brennan’s direction. “Besides, we’ve got him on hand, don’t we?” 

“We were in a fucking war, Vi!” Mira presses. “I’m just surprised you didn’t know better and get rid of the —“

Fury burns the back of his throat. Sgaeyl promptly declares Mira a long, creative series of curse words that makes even him wince at their hostility. Xaden catches Vi’s shocked hiccup and yeah, that’s enough to put himself in the middle, wishing he could do more. His shadows flare and coil seethingly around the room; both Brennan and Mira take note of this. “Don’t finish that fucking sentence, Sorrengail.” 

“Too far, Mira,” Brennan agrees quietly. He assumes the seat that Xaden previously offered him.

Under his palm, Violet is strung like a bowstring, trembling slightly. “Get out.” 

The sisters stare at each other. “Vi?” Mira repeats. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Violet orders softly. Her eyes are red, but Xaden can’t see any tears. Yet. “Get the fuck out, Mira.”

”You heard her,” Xaden’s quick to back her up. “If she has to say it a third time, I’ll exile you from Tyrrendor myself.” 

Mira levels a vengeful glare at him. “I fucking hate you.”

“That doesn’t make you special,” Xaden keeps his tone bored as he gestures to the office doors with the same blade she’d sent spinning at his head. “Let yourself out, Sorrengail.” 

Mira sends him another fierce look of hatred, then a sort of apologetic grimace in Vi’s direction, before she turns on her heel and strides from the office, the doors slamming shut behind her. 

“Right,” Xaden nods at Brennan. “Are you going to be civilised about this?” 

“For the record, I’m taking you to the mat over this,” he decides.

“We’ll do it once we’ve finished this conversation,” Xaden promises. “Anyone care to bring me up to speed on what happened?”

”There’s not much to tell,” Vi’s voice is raspy, a telltale cue that he needs to give her his time tonight, that he needs to be soft with her. He plays with her hair as she looks up at him. “Andarna and Tairn won’t bear me now , so Bren was asking questions. I figured I’d sit him and Mira down for the same conversation. It went a little …” she cringes, “pear-shaped.” 

“I can see that.” He sets Mira’s dagger on the desk, sends Brennan a cynical look. “Anything else you want to get out of your system, or are you going to say nice things about our queen now?”

Brennan takes the hint. “Congratulations about the baby, Vi-Vi,” he says with enough believable sincerity that Xaden’s not too tempted to fling Mira’s dagger right back at him. “You’re going to be a great mum. I’ll help you as much as I can.”

”Thank you, Bren,” Violet exhales carefully, her hands fidgeting. Her expression is still worryingly downcast; Xaden nudges his shadows through the bond in concern. I just need peace and quiet, she requests.

Already working on it, he promises. 

”I’ll see you at the mats in three hours,” he dismisses Brennan, not giving a shit what the time is going to be. Thankfully, Brennan senses that this awful conversation is over and gets to his feet, offering Violet a smile before showing himself out quietly of the office. 

Once the doors are firmly closed, Xaden sinks to his knees beside Violet. He catches her hand, presses firm kisses to the back of her palm as he watches her expression carefully. “Talk to me,” he implores, keeping his voice low so that the undercurrent of rage isn’t as prominent.

Vi’s face crumbles as she meets his gazes, eyes bright and silvery with the tears she’s been holding back. “I didn’t expect her to go that far,” she warbles. 

“She was out of fucking line,” Xaden agrees. “She’s also full of shit.” 

Her mouth twists. “She’s not wrong about my body.” 

“You’re bonded to two dragons, Violence. I’ve watched you kill men twice your size, strike down fully matured wyvern and venin like they’re fucking ants.” He presses another reassuring kiss to her knuckles. “I’m pretty confident your stubborn ass can squeeze out a baby.” 

Violet arches a brow. “Even if it’s your big head baby?”

”Don’t call her that,” he leans forward, enough to plant a soft kiss to the taut swell of Vi’s abdomen. 

“You’re just biased,” she accuses, the corners of her mouth twitching.

” ‘Course I am. Our qaoriis is gonna be perfect regardless of the shape of her cranium.” He straightens to his feet, offering her his hand. “Let’s get you to your chambers. I’ll even give you a massage.” 

“Like that’s just for my benefit,” Violet scoffs, but her quiet, watery smile indicates that his attempt to cheer her up is working, and she lets him swing her out of his desk chair and towards the fire lit privacy of their quarters. 

“What the fuck crawled up Aisereigh’s ass and died?” Garrick wonders, loudly and coarsely, as he hands Xaden a full water skin and his tunic. “The guy seems to want you dead tonight.”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, jackass?” Xaden grins as he spits out a mouthful of bloody water; he’d let Brennan pummel him a bit, work out some of the residual hostility from earlier, including a square hit to his jaw that’s sure to be bruised by morning. 

Garrick grumbles something unintelligible under his breath as Xaden’s gaze sweeps the sparring hall; despite that it’s nearly midnight, it’s more occupied than he would assume. Bodhi and the other Marked Ones ended up here after he failed to reconvene with them in the dining pavilion. A few other Riders, Rhiannon and Ridoc Gamlyn, a few staff members of Riorson House now that their work for the day has been finished.

Mira, thank the fucking Gods, is nowhere to be seen. He’s not feeling particularly forgiving, especially after spending a few hours consoling Violet, who’d been distraught about her siblings’ less-than-supportive reactions on top of some newfound anxieties about her pregnancy that hadn’t seemed to be there before. Thanks a fucking lot, Sorrengail. He’d already been furious at her earlier, but after witnessing Vi’s distress he’s sorely tempted to make good on his threat to exile Mira. 

“Where’s our queen at, anyway?” Garrick swipes the water skin from Xaden’s grasp and takes a slug. “Haven’t seen her down here for a while. Wouldn’t want her to lose her edge so soon after the war, eh?” 

“She’s still just as capable of chucking a knife at your balls, brother.” Xaden grunts, mentally checking in on Vi. The content hum from the other side of the bond implies she’s asleep — hopefully not too restlessly. Good. He’ll join her soon enough. 

“Speaking of chucking knives …” Garrick spares a glance in Brennan’s direction, but he’s already distracted by a cadet scuttling in his direction for input on something. “Bodhi mentioned something about Mira Sorrengail making a scene?”

Xaden grunts. “Don’t think I’m in the good books for either of my in-laws tonight.”

“You think?” Garrick snickers. “What the fuck did you do? Knock their sister up?”

What the fuck ? Has it been that obvious? Vi — 

Do not jump to conclusions, Sgaeyl sounds bored. Are you sure he should be a general instead of the court’s fool? 

Paranoid fear slashes through Xaden anyway, fierce and rattling, but he reins in his composure. Vi hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not after the night she’s had — though he’s confident that Garrick will be far kinder about the situation than Mira was. 

Still doesn’t mean he’s naming his qaoriis after Garrick. Or Chradh, for that matter. 

“Think outside the box, Tavis,” Xaden deflects calmly.

”The hell does that mean?” Garrick turns to Bodhi as he ambles towards the two of them. “Why does our oh-great-and-mighty ruler insist on being such a cryptic fuck?” 

Bodhi splutters on a laugh as Xaden glares at the pair of them, decidedly unimpressed. Before he can articulate a response, Violet nudges into his thoughts. 

Who won? She sounds raspy with sleep. He can perfectly picture her propping herself upright in their bed, her mussed hair spilling down her back and onto the silky sheets, her expression pinched indignantly from waking far earlier than anticipated.

I let Bren think he did.

Jackass. He can feel Vi’s annoyed, affectionate smile. Come to bed. Your girls miss you.

His heart soars. He doesn’t have to be asked twice.

As far as birthdays go, Xaden’s had far worse.

He keeps it an intimate affair, giving the staff at Riorson House the night off, ensuring that the mountain folk occupying the barracks are supplied with plentiful food and wine so that they don’t feel too left out. A few of the Marked Ones spent the day prepping one of the fortress’ few ocean-facing courtyards with rune-adorned braziers and floral arrangements of mountain pine and fresh violets, rolling in barrels of wine and spiced mead as well as carts bearing grazing platters. There’s a few emerald banners bearing Tyrrendor’s crest, but aside from that, nothing overly patriotic. Somebody hangs a very flattering tapestry of Sgaeyl on the back wall; she chuffs vainly when he shows it to her over their bond. 

It’s sundown by the time that the courtyard swells with people; the surviving Marked Ones, the house staff who’d elected to come here instead, the Riders who defected from Navarre and fought in the campaign against the venin, Assembly members, a few civilians on personal invitations, and whoever the hell that Vi wanted to invite. A few of the younger Apostasy kids have gathered a few Tyrrish pipes and war-drums to play, contributing nicely to the ambience. 

“Fit enough for a king, Riorson?” Garrick ribs as he nudges a generous goblet of red wine into Xaden’s grasp. 

“Too early to break your jaw, Tavis?” Xaden takes it but doesn’t drink from the chalice, still keeping to his word to Violet. He scans the courtyard for her, but she’s yet to make an appearance. Still getting ready in their chambers, the bond tells him.

”Wouldn’t want you to mess up your hair,” Garrick smirks playfully. Dick. Somehow Sloane’s talked Xaden into wearing his hated diadem and dress uniform, calling in the cavalry — Violet, who else? — when he tried to put his foot down. At least he can still keep his daggers, even if it’s too damned hot for Tyrrish furs.  

“It takes more than that for me to break a sweat —“ Xaden starts, interrupted when Imogen and Sloane make their way over. 

“Happy fucking birthday, old man,” Imogen announces, toasting her wine goblet against his. She’s wearing the skirt option of the Tyrrish dress uniform; noting Garrick’s expression, she looks far too smug for her own good. He rolls his eyes. 

“Surprised you don’t have any gray hairs yet,” Sloane adds. She’s wearing a lovely gown, green to match their kingdom, but Xaden is pretty sure she has her rider’s boots on underneath. 

“I’m only twenty-seven,” Xaden emphasises wearily. 

“Well past his due date,” Sloane nods solemnly. 

“We’ll be doing monthly check ups for arthritis and dysfunctioning bowels soon enough,” Garrick adds, visibly gleeful. 

Bodhi chooses that moment to join the group. “What the fuck?” 

“Discussing Riorson’s retirement plan,” Garrick reports. 

“Nice that we can do that now,” Xaden quips. 

“Just remember you should probably give an address at some point tonight,” Bodhi reminds him. “Try not to mention any … dysfunctioning bowels.” 

Ah fuck , he curses to Vi. I spaced on whatever speech I have to give. Any ideas on what to say?

She’s quiet from her end, though Xaden senses that she’s received it just fine. He realises that her silence is shyness when she proposes, We could announce the baby?

Despite his surroundings, Xaden freezes. Are you sure?

A little later. When it’s our circle and the Marked Ones. They’ll hang around for longer. Violet sends a wave of assured warmth. I’ll be down soon. 

“ … yeah, they’re definitely mind fucking.” 

Gods-damned Garrick. Xaden’s going to shove the nearest floral arrangement down his throat if he doesn’t shut the hell up. He wrenches himself back into the present, sends Garrick a pointed look. “Should you really be speaking about your queen like that?” 

Garrick grins guiltily. “Vi won’t mind. She likes me enough.”

”Vi’s married to this moody asshole,” Imogen points out. “Not sure that Sorrengail’s the best judge of character.”

”It’s Riorson now, actually,” Xaden corrects, proudly.

Entirely too pleased with yourself there, Sgaeyl huffs.

Violet chooses that moment to enter the courtroom then, and the space quiets as people dip their heads and respectfully make space for her. He always loves this initial moment of seeing Vi on the rare occasion she’s wearing a gown and dolled herself up — it’s a surprise every time. She’s wearing her diadem as well, her hair dancing around her waist in dainty curls. Her dress looks like it’s been hewn from a glacier, reflecting white and ice-blue in the light of the braziers, loose enough that her bump is safely hidden under layers of skirts and beading. Like a moth to mage-light, he’s quickly drawn to stand in front of her, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. 

“Hi, love.” And ki qaoriis, he adds mentally. Both of his girls are here, all for him. Best fucking birthday ever. “You look divine.”

”You don’t look bad yourself,” Violet replies wryly, reaching out to cup his jaw, pass her thumb over his cheekbone. 

Rhiannon has escorted her here, elegant in Tyrrish colours, her hair rebraided for the occasion: on her descent down the stairs, she pauses to catch Xaden’s eye, lowering her voice tactfully. “I call dibs on godmother.” 

“You told her?” Xaden asks, unable to help his grin as he reaches for Vi’s waist. 

“ She helped me get ready,” Violet smiles; Rhi must have reacted kindly. Good. Vi deserves that much. “Came up when I couldn’t get into my own bloody dress.”

His lips twitch as he withholds a snicker. “Sounds like I need to find you a few more gowns.”

“That’s completely unnecessary,” she rolls her eyes. She leans into him, arms sliding around his shoulders as her fingers play with his hair. She kisses him then, a chaste press of her mouth that never fails to send his thoughts rioting regardless, but pulls back before he can deepen the kiss. “Happy birthday, you beautiful asshole. I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” Both of you, he adds, already longing for the moment he gets his wife to himself later that evening. 

You’ll have her in your arms this time next year, Violet reminds, eyes crinkling with delight. 

They part ways for the next few hours; the birthday party reminds him of the Solstice gatherings that his father held, out in this very courtyard, so that the party goers may look upon the Arctile Ocean as the sun set. As the sun sets and the night grows colder, the gathering progressively shrinks in size: Assembly members excusing themselves, house staff who have small children to attend to. Some of the Marked Ones have taken it upon themselves to pour and serve flutes of sparkling wine, obviously anticipating an address. Xaden takes the hint, slipping a flute of lemonade into Vi’s hand before helping her up to the platform at the back of the courtyard, just below the tapestry of Sgaeyl. 

Ready? Vi’s eyes are bright and alert. Rhiannon’s reception to the news has put her in a better mood; Brennan’s somewhere in the crowd, but Mira’s made herself scarce. Xaden couldn’t give less of a fuck as he helps her rearrange her gown, her own nimble hands reaching up to straighten his diadem and adjust the collar of his dress uniform. 

Shouldn’t I be asking you that? He brushes a curl behind her shoulder. Am I allowed to cut out tongues this time?

Somewhere further along the stairs, he distantly registers Garrick and Sloane ringing cutlery against their wine chalices. 

Violet harrumphs — but doesn’t explicitly say the word ‘no’. “Don’t keep your subjects waiting, Your Majesty.”

Xaden rolls his eyes at the hated title but turns to face the occupants of the courtyard peering up at him, firelight from the braziers highlighting and shadowing their expectant expressions in ebbs and waves. “The last person who gave a speech on my birthday was my father, exactly ten years ago today,” he begins, exactly as he rehearsed. The courtyard hums immediately with respectful, grim sympathy. “I don’t have to tell you what happened. We all know how that story ends, and it certainly wasn’t a happy one.

”It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Tyrrendor’s entered their first chapter of the new story. Once again, we don’t know the specifics, or where exactly we’ll end up, but we already know this story’s not the same as the last one, and that’s damned good enough for me. 

“There’s been a lot of change, a lot of shit that I don’t think my dad ever anticipated would happen,” Xaden draws a deep breath. “He’d hoped for independence and survival once we waged war against the venin. Even if he never saw it himself, we made it happen. Now we’ve achieved all of those. Now we’re free to speak our ancestors’ tongues, practise their culture and customs. For the Marked Ones, I know we all wonder what our parents would think of us if they could see us now. I wonder what Fen Riorson would make of his kid. Somehow there’s a crown on my head, a ring on my finger …”

He reaches out, hooks his fingers through Vi’s, turns his attention from the courtyard to his wife. “… and that by winter’s end, I’ll be a father as well.” 

He’s not quite sure what he expects, really. Some polite applause, a few cheers, shocked whispers. Instead, a few moments pass of silence as everyone absorbs and processes exactly what he means, and then there’s a fucking roar — namely led by Garrick and Bodhi, though the kids join in with the war drums and everyone else quickly follows their example, the little courtyard suddenly trembling with the overwhelming din of celebration. 

Come on, he squeezes Violet’s hand, ducking his head to kiss her before guiding her back down the stairs carefully. Let’s celebrate our qaoriis.

They’re swarmed, of course: everyone’s careful not to jostle Vi amongst a flurry of embraces and congratulatory exchanges. Xaden keeps an arm tucked around his queen, not that anyone could possibly forget who they are or how they belong to each other. 

“ You told me she wasn’t fucking pregnant!” Garrick pounds him on the shoulder far harder than necessary, but his grin is wide and entirely unoffended. 

Violet arches her eyebrows pointedly. “Care to explain?”

”He had some questions after Brennan defended your honour,” Bodhi explains. He squeezes Vi’s shoulder. “Congratulations on the baby, sister. Can’t say I saw it coming.”

”Lies,” Imogen rolls her eyes. “We all knew it was only a matter of time before Sorrengail —“

”It’s fucking Riorson , Im —“ Xaden starts.

”— got knocked up.” She finishes, rolling her eyes. “At least you’ll have something to look forward to when we’re all sick to death of being cooped up indoors this winter.”

”You know you missed the winters,” Sloane elbows over. “Perfect for fucking and fighting, nothing else.”

”You were old enough for neither , the last time you got a Tyrrish winter,” Imogen points out. “Shut the hell up, Mairi.”

”She just wants to be included , Imogen, why do you have to be such a dick —“

Xaden loses track of his wife once Vi’s own friends make their way over to her; Jesinia and Rhiannon both embrace her delightedly whilst Sawyer and Ridoc hover, apparently uncertain how to acceptably approach a pregnant woman. They better get over themselves in the next few months. Then Ridoc makes the fucking mistake of suggesting that they name the kid within Garrick’s earshot, and yup —

“Game fucking on, Gamlyn!” Garrick’s already drawing his sword. “We all know ‘Garrick Riorson’ is a way better name than ‘Ridoc Riorson’, anyway —“

That went well, Sgaeyl drawls. But if you name your precious offspring after either of those clowns, I’ll let Tairn permanently neuter you.

Chapter Text

The days are becoming darker, the nights longer and colder. The last of the stockpiles for food and fuel have been safely sealed away, and the dragons spend their days in their valley unless summoned otherwise. Snow falls every night, thick and spiked with barbs of ice. The wind howls like a mourning god, and the seas beyond Aretia’s harbours blacken and roar like a primordial beast.

Rather than dread the coming winter, the residents of Riorson House anticipate the coming months with baited breaths: for the children of the Apostasy, it’ll be their first Tyrrish winter in ten years. 

Bodhi Durran is no different. He finds himself smiling as he listens to the furious rattle of early blizzards heaving against the window-panes; mage lights flicker, and his footsteps echo as he strolls briskly through the corridors. It is warmer when he lets himself into his cousin’s office, enough that he sheds his pelt before he turns to greet the room’s occupants. “Brother.” He inclines his chin. “M’lady.”

”We’ve been over this before, Bodhi,” Tyrrendor’s queen stresses. Predictably, Violet is holding court, occupying Xaden’s desk with a slew of papers and scrolls fanning around her. She looks like she’s spent the day looking over admin — her hair is fixed into a messy bun with several pens, and she’s wearing a simple wool dress that’s loose enough to shroud the telltale bump that Bodhi knows now protrudes from her figure, the dress’ cuffs and collar beaded with Tyrrish runes.  “You can call me ‘Violet’ like a normal human being.”

”You’re not a normal human being, love,” Xaden remarks from where he stands before the fire, a hand propped on the mantel. Of course, he hasn’t even tried to dress all kingly today — flying leathers, the usual cache of weapons, a heavy shawl secured with a pin fashioned to resemble Sgaeyl. “Don’t do yourself that disservice.” He catches Bodhi’s eye. “You want a drink?”

Bodhi shrugs. “Thank you, but pass. I’ve got a policy against drinking alone.” 

“Try and pass that policy onto Garrick, will you?” Xaden snorts. “Anyone mention a leadership summit in Cygnisen to you?” 

Bodhi shakes his head. “I’m second in line for the throne now. Why would they bother?”

He still can’t get used to saying that; the words don’t seem to sit right in his mouth, like an ill-fitting item of clothing. It was absurd enough saying first in line ; even stranger that only a matter of months have passed before he’s had to change to saying second instead. 

”They don’t know that,” Violet points out. She hands Bodhi a missive stamped with the various seals of Cygnisen’s city-states. It’s addressed, by name, to the King and Queen of Tyrrendor — no polite mentions of the Assembly or their southern court, as other missives tend to do. 

“They might ,” Xaden persists. “There’s no way of controlling who knew about the baby when we announced it, we’re unstable enough that there’d be spies —”

”It doesn’t matter,” Violet sets the missive back down. “I’m grounded until the spring, regardless. Take Generals Tavis and Aisereigh instead of me.”

“I don’t fucking like this,” Xaden grits out, and Bodhi’s beginning to see why he’s been summoned. “The fuck are they playing at, trying to draw us out of Tyrrendor when we’ve just headed into our winter —“

”We’re allied with Cygnisen, Xaden. They’re not Navarre.”

”It’s over a thirty hour flight,” Xaden persists. “No sane diplomat would announce shit like this on short notice. Call in Ridoc and Sawyer, I want confirmation with Luceras and Elsum —“ 

There are few things that Bodhi could claim to truly be an expert at, but interpreting his cousin’s moods is certainly one of them. 

For a very long time, Bodhi believed that he’d born witness to the full spectrum of Xaden’s temperament — the good, the bad and the ugly. They’d been raised together as brothers rather than cousins, thick as thieves, reigning terror throughout the corridors of Riorson House, then Aretia and the surrounding harbours and mountains once they grew old enough to be allowed beyond their family’s fortress. Even when they lived through and survived the Apostasy, Xaden’s moods didn’t necessarily change — they simply shifted, less of the ‘good’ and more of the ‘bad’ and the ‘ugly’. He was at his breaking point when he was at Basgiath, and then at rock bottom during those unspeakable weeks when he was claimed by the venin. 

Ten years after they’d been forced to watch their parents’ execution, Bodhi had truly believed that he had really seen it all. Naturally, he was proven wrong, not long after word got out that the young rulers of a newly independent Tyrrendor would be expecting their firstborn at the end of the coming winter.

There’s a lightness in his cousin that’s never been there before — no, a giddiness would be a more apt description. He’s far less of a surly asshole these days, though his temper is as formidable as ever, if somebody’s stupid enough to insult his wife. Xaden’s spent years of his life in a permanent state of being strung out, but these days he settles at the simple sight of Tyrrendor’s queen, better yet if he can lay a careful hand on the swell of her stomach. He’s calmer, more patient — not exactly softer , but there’s a mature levity that’s settled into him, making his peace with the lives dependent on him rather than reluctantly accepting his fate. 

Well, until other kingdoms make the mistake of assuming Xaden’s willing to go to the other side of the continent, a solid three-day flight from his queen and their unborn child. 

“Easy, brother,” Bodhi intervenes. “Vi’s correct. Most of Cygnisen doesn’t have riders or fliers now that they’re independent; it’ll take months for any of their post to reach this side of the continent. You ought to go, take Brennan and Garrick with you. I’ll keep an eye on our queen if it helps you sleep.”

”He’s not going to do that regardless of what you do,” Violet reminds him, dryly. 

“No, but at least this stubborn bastard knows you’re safe and accounted for,” Bodhi rolls his eyes. 

Vi’s eyes narrow. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

”I won’t be your bodyguard,” Bodhi promises. “We’ll just hang out — all the time — until Xade’s back and he can go back to being a fucking mother hen.”

“Not a fucking mother hen,” Xaden harrumphs, making a show of huffing and brooding into the fire. 

“Bullshit,” Bodhi and Vi chorus, grinning like teenagers when they realise that they both perfectly mimicked one another. 

Xaden flicks an annoyed look between the two of them but sensibly seems to accept defeat, now that they’ve ganged up on him. “If I’m out of Tyrrendor and you’re grounded with the baby, then we’re pulling a riot back to Aretia. No excuses.”

”Half from the Lewellen outpost, half from the one at Carmitha,” Violet compromises. “As unnecessary as it is. And take Tairn with you.”

”I’m not taking your fucking dragon with me —“

”You are for Sgaeyl’s sake. Otherwise we’ll all go insane after the three day mark.” Violet pushes back her chair, evidently meaning to get to her feet; both Bodhi and Xaden start forward to help, but she settles upright without a hitch. “Besides, I’ll still have Andarna with me, and she’s far more inclined to roast somebody than Tairn is. Any more complaints for me to point out the logical solution to?”

Bodhi snickers. “For your sake, Xaden, I hope your kid doesn’t inherit Violet’s negotiation skills. You’d be fucked.” 

“He’d never win another argument in his life,” Violet agrees, obviously delighting in this turn in the conversation.

”It’ll be good for him. Call it character building or some shit.” 

Under his breath, Xaden swears at him in Tyrrish, but both Bodhi and Violet only smile wider. The queen makes her way around the desk, pausing at Xaden’s side. “I’m turning in for the evening.” She and Xaden are quiet for a few moments longer — obviously having another of their damned mental conversations — but Bodhi’s not sure why they’re bothering, since it’s clearly another dispute, either about Cygnisen or Xaden insisting on escorting her back to their quarters. She must win the argument — he’s clearly learnt sweet -fuck-all — because she cups a hand to Xaden’s neck and pushes up to kiss his cheek. “Stay here with Bodhi. You’ve been meaning to speak to him, anyway.”

That gets Bodhi’s attention. He gives Xaden enough time to track Vi’s departure from the office — deploying a handful of shadows darting after her, of course — before accosting him, joining him up against the roar of the fire. “What have I missed?”

Xaden’s expression is entirely unreadable as he rests a hand on Bodhi’s shoulder — he takes note of this. His cousin’s never been one for physical gestures to express any degree of affection, Violet exempted. “About the baby,” he prompts.

”Definitely didn’t miss that,” Bodhi quips. 

“Not what I meant, brother,” Xaden rolls his eyes. “You should have learnt about it earlier than you had. You deserved to, being an uncle and all.”

Bodhi can’t pretend this conversation is going the way he expected it to. “Hardly an uncle,” he scoffs quietly, unsure what else to say. 

“Fucking uncle ,” Xaden persists. “We’ve always been more brothers than cousins, and for a long time we were the last of the Riorsons.” The hand resting on his shoulder, squeezes. “You’re this kid’s uncle just as much as Aisereigh is. You’re just as fucking important to this family.”

Bodhi breaks eye contact and stares into the flames, unsure what to say. Family. The word burns into his skull, hangs heavy in his heart. For so many years he’s had such a rocky relationship with the word. “Thank you, brother.” 

“Of course.” Xaden claps his shoulder once more before letting his arm drop. “Means I have to let Tavis be the damned godfather, though. I want to hear fuck-all from you when I have to take a pin to his head, it’ll be that inflated.”

Bodhi snickers. “When are you planning on telling him that?”

”As late as possible. Naming ceremony, two minutes before he’s supposed to do his bit,” Xaden pulls a face. “Means he’d have to somehow know the words.” 

“I’ll make sure of it,” Bodhi promises, grinning. And then, because he can’t fucking help himself, when his cousin’s standing in front of him with crinkling eyes and a content expression, his posture loose and relaxed for once in his life — “You’ll be a good dad, Xade.”

Xaden starts a little. “Think Vi’s the only other one who thinks that.”

”Vi’s the smartest person in our fucking kingdom,” Bodhi points out. “I’ll look after her when you’re in Cygnisen.”

”I know you will,” another rare smile, “You don’t have to tell me that, brother.”

Sgaeyl’s rider would like an update on your queen, Cuir intones, sounding bored. 

Sgaeyl’s rider is mentally connected to our queen, Bodhi points out, despite that his dragon is well familiar with this. 

The queen ‘has a track record of downplaying her own needs’, Cuir argues. That’s a direct quote. Sgaeyl was very clear on passing that along, and I’d prefer not to aggravate her. 

Bodhi rolls his eyes — even a three days’ ride away on the other side of the continent, Xaden’s still finding ways to be a fucking mother hen, and apparently has no qualms about using his dragon’s bitchy reputation to get his point across — but relays a message anyway. He glances up; he’s sitting in the office across from Violet, both busy with composing missives. She’s dressed comfortably, hair down, her diadem resting on the desk beside her. All signs that she’s weary but perfectly okay. The queen’s fine. Her sister’s still being a dick, but Vi’s too busy dealing with those Navarrian assholes who wanted compensation after we got our kids back. She saw a midwife today and the baby’s healthy as well. 

Cuir withdraws from his mental archives for a few minutes before returning. Sgaeyl would like to pass on her rider’s thanks. 

Bodhi rolls his eyes, good-naturedly, and returns to his work, just as Violet looks up. “Andarna wants to see me in the rotunda. She’s flying up from the valley now.”

He sets aside his papers and gets to his feet. “I’ll walk you there.”

”To the rotunda?” Violet rolls her eyes, muttering something about fucking Riorson men.

”It’s snowing, and icy underfoot,” Bodhi points out, following her from the office. They make their way through Riorson House down to the dragon rotunda; it’s early evening, and a milder snow storm is beginning to sweep through Aretia. The sun has been lost to thick clouds, the sky grey and miserable, and the wind is like whiplash as it tugs at their clothes and hair. He opens the heavy doors for Vi so that she can step out into the outdoors, offering his arm as they descend the stairs towards the rotunda — sure enough, they’re slippery with ice as he predicted, but he says nothing as Violet leans a little more weight into him than she ever would’ve six months ago. 

Andarna’s already waiting in the rotunda, wings shifting impatiently, and makes an eager beeline for Violet, as carefully as her imposing size allows. Once Violet’s standing firmly on her own two feet, Bodhi takes a firm step back, not wanting to somehow offend the notoriously peckish adolescent. He gives them a few minutes before Violet suddenly calls him over. 

“I want to ask you something personal,” Vi starts, still facing Andarna as she offers chin scratches. ”You’re more than welcome to tell me to fuck off, by the way.”

”I’m not going to tell you to fuck off,” Bodhi scoffs, entirely unsure where she’s leading with this. 

Violet hesitates for a long moment, turning away from Andarna to face him. “Your parents’ murders,” she starts. “How often — do you still have dreams — nightmares, really, of that day?”

A familiar heaviness settles low in his gut; ten years later, the grief hasn’t gone away. It’s easier to deal with these days, softened by the blows of Tyrrendor’s independence and defeating the venin, but if there’s one thing that Bodhi Durran will never forget, it’s the way his mother set her jaw and stared unflinchingly at her fate when Melgren’s monster reduced her to ash and bone. 

For a moment he’s a little blindsided to why Vi’s asking now, of all time and places, and then he places it. “Has Xaden —“

Violet nods, stiff and small, but even the greying snow storm does little to disguise the moisture collecting in her eyes. “He started getting the dreams again, right after the decision to go to Cygnisen. Only this time, I’m — I’m standing next to Fen.”

Bodhi groans, quiet and sympathetic. It’s an incomprehensible cruelty of the gods to send Xaden such dreams, especially right before his departure; small wonder that he had dragged his feet until he couldn’t make any more believable excuses or delays. “The baby?” He can’t say anything more. Doesn’t dare to.

Violet presses bloodless lips together, hard, as Andarna nuzzles her shoulder affectionately. “He didn’t give many details, but I think I’m a little more along than I am now.”

”They’re only dreams,” Bodhi cringes at his own callous rationality. “Nobody could hurt you like that, Vi —“

”I know that ,” she cuts him off. “It’s just — he was so terrified that I was pregnant at first, and then after the campaign and we knew we were all safe, he was so pleased and excited, and now — now it feels like he’s back to square one, and I don’t know what to do about it.” 

“There’s not much else you can do about it,” he says after a long, careful moment. “You and the baby are both safe and healthy; it’s already the top priority for every damn member of this household —“

”— tell that to my sister —“

”— Your sister should have been stationed out of Aretia weeks ago,” Bodhi rolls his eyes. By this point, he’s heard enough about Mira Sorrengail’s less-than-helpful theatrics to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “It’ll be the end of winter when you’ll be at your most vulnerable, Vi, nothing even trying to pose a threat to either of you could survive even a night if it was exposed to our winter. Besides, we all know that by then? Xaden won’t leave you and the baby alone under any circumstances — another war could break out for all he’d care.” 

“I had to make him go,” Vi admits. “He wasn’t happy about it. I think he’d stand guard over us day and night if I let him.”

”I don’t have to tell you why he’s acting like this, do I?”

Like so many of the Apostasy kids, the last decade or so had been — isolating for Xaden, to say the very least. The loss of his father and all of the other role models he’d spent the first seventeen years of his life looking up to; the dangerous bargain with General Sorrengail, the responsibility of one hundred and seven lives carved into his very flesh; the hellish years of forced adoption into a foreign household in a tyrannical country; the years at Basgiath, the sacrifices and commitment to the Revolution, the venin — for a very long time, Xaden Riorson had gave and gave and fucking gave , until he had nothing else left of himself at all. His marriage to Vi, the woman who chose him again and again, and the treasured promise of a child — a child , not an heir — is the first thing in over a decade that Xaden truly gets to himself.

In short? ’Course he’ll hoard and protect them no less zealously than a dragon with its clutch of eggs.

“No,” Vi admits dryly. “You don’t.” She gives Andarna one last parting caress before the massive dragon carefully steps back, evidently preparing to return to the dragons’ valleys. Once Andarna’s backed off enough for Bodhi to be in the clear, he steps forward to offer his arm once again. “I just — I just really hate seeing him like this, when he was so happy for so many weeks about it.” 

“So why wait it out?” Bodhi suggests. “Shit, I dunno what new parents are supposed to do — talk about what gender you want?”

“He wants a little girl,” Vi confides, grinning a little. “ Refuses to hear out the alternative.” 

“Xade wants a little girl?” Bodhi repeats, a little caught off guard, just to be sure. He’s not entirely sure that he can picture his brother to want a daughter instead of a son — waiting, yes he fucking can, if his spoiled treatment of Vi in the last few months has been any indication. “At least you know what fucking colour to paint the nursery, or whatever the damned saying is.” 

“It’s already green after House Riorson,” Violet states clearly as they ascend the stairs, back towards the sheltered warmth inside. “Trust me, Rhiannon’s made more than one stupid joke about painting it purple.” 

“Does that mean she’s getting named after a flower instead?” 

“No,” Violet asserts firmly as he opens the door for her. “And it won’t be after somebody’s gods-damned dragon or a namesake that’ll make the rest of us cry every time we hear it, for that matter.”

“How was Cygnisen?” Bodhi asks Garrick as they stride to the royal office from the kitchens. It’s been almost a full ten days since Xaden departed with Garrick, Brennan and the rest of the riot, and it feels like Riorson House has finally released a deep breath that it had been holding in. 

”Don’t fucking ask,” Garrick cautions, then takes a hearty sip of his wine. “They wanted Xaden there to make themselves feel important, not because they actually needed his input. I’m still surprised he didn’t declare war on them there and then.” 

“I don’t imagine he would be,” Bodhi shakes his head as he recalls his brother’s dreams that Violet had confided about. Aretia had been trapped in the throes of a fucking blizzard when Xaden’s riot landed; he insisted on making the descent to Aretia in the middle of the storm himself, whilst the rest of the riot retreated to the warmer shelter of the dragons’ valley until the worst of it passed. Garrick and the others have only just made it back.

“How’s our queen?” 

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” he shrugs. He steered well clear of Xaden and Vi for the last several hours; his brother only had eyes for his wife when he first barged in from the rotunda, wind-blown and ruddy, covered in sleet, evidently a little unhinged, and Violet didn’t seem to be much better, judging by the way she’d flown down the stairs and thrown herself at him. 

”… Did she say anything about who the kid’s getting named after?”

Bodhi laughs. “It’s looking like it’s more likely to be a character from one of her books than your dragon will ever be.”

Garrick has the audacity to pout as Brennan joins them in the corridors, freshly showered and clothed in cosy layers, nursing a cup of tea. “Tavis given you the heads up?”

”Don’t mention the war,” Garrick advises, sarcastically.

”The hypothetical one with Cygnisen or the question of naming Riorson Junior?” Bodhi has enough tact not to make jokes about a little princess; Violet told him that under confidence, after all. 

“Both,” Brennan grunts, as they let themselves into the office. The rest of the royal couple’s inner circle is already there, spread around the room in a familiar dynamic; in a show of some highly un -royal PDA, Xaden and Violet are snuggled up together on one of the armchairs situated by the fireplace, whilst everyone else sprawls around across the other furniture, helping themselves to the alcohol cabinet that hasn’t been touched by either royal in a matter of weeks. Bodhi, Garrick and Brennan follow their example.

At some point, once they’ve adequately debriefed (see: bitched ) about Cygnisen — mostly further talking down Xaden from declaring war for the insult of pulling him away from his pregnant wife for no decent fucking reason , to use his words — the room’s occupants relax into a routine of drinking, gambling and conversation. That’s when Xaden takes the opportunity to pull him aside. 

His cousin’s quiet, genuine smile and crinkling eyes is a rare sight; Bodhi silently memorises it for later recollection. “Brother,” Xaden plants a hand on his shoulder, his voice low enough so nobody else can hear, and suddenly Bodhi is thrust back to a very similar situation several weeks prior. “Thank you for taking care of my girls.”

”Of course, Xade,” he assures. “Anything for our family.”

Chapter Text

“Riorson’s gonna go ballistic,” Ridoc declares, far too gleefully for Violet’s liking. 

“Xaden is not going to go ballistic,” Violet reprimands, rolling her eyes for added effect, despite she quietly agrees that Ridoc is going to be entirely correct in his prediction. 

“Not at all,” Rhiannon inputs, even as she digs dried blood out from the underside crescents of Vi’s nails, “he’ll just attempt to perform necromancy on the asshole who tried to kill you, just so he can do it all over again.” 

“He probably won’t be alone in that exploit,” Sawyer adds, from where he’s resting on the cot next to Vi’s. 

“ Nobody is going to be performing necromancy,” Violet clarifies sternly. “Besides, Andarna’s already eaten the body. There’s not going to be much of a corpse left to work with.”

Her friends titter their disagreement, but Violet lets the matter slide; they’re visibly still all on edge from the incident.  

It had taken less than a minute; one moment they’d been perusing the markets in one of the covered pavilions at Aretia’s harbour, a fleet of merchant ships from Braevick having docked the evening before; the next, a masked assassin had knocked Sawyer’s prosthetic from underneath him and practically dived headfirst at Violet, a poisoned dagger aiming for the baby. The only thing protecting her from his poisoned knife had been the chain mail she’d taken to wearing, now that she’s too swollen to fit into her trusty corset. The blade had torn her tunic but slid cleanly over her protected abdomen; by the time he drew the dagger back for a second strike, Violet had already electrocuted him into subconsciousness. 

There’d been an instant uproar; the Aretians certainly weren’t pleased that there’d been an attempt on the Queen and her unborn child, surrounded by foreign seafarers no less. The Braevick merchants were more or less chased back to their ships by an angry mob that had to be intervened by her guards, whilst Rhiannon and Ridoc attended to Vi and Sawyer. Then they turned their attention to the assassin; Ridoc had done the dirty work of hacking off the head and then the arm bearing guild brands and a ring that they couldn’t identify, before they dragged the body outside to where Andarna was eagerly awaiting her next meal. 

In hindsight, a little brash. Perhaps not her cleverest move, disposing of the body so quickly. But she’d been so angered by the attempted attack on her baby that Vi had been unable to look at the assassin at all, especially once Ridoc pulled off the face coverings to reveal that it was a young woman.

It’s dark now. The merchants have been hauled into the dungeons for questioning once Xaden’s back, and an extra patrol of guards are policing Aretia’s streets for the night. Her husband’s on the other side of Tyrrendor with a riot including Garrick and Bodhi; there’d been flash floods after the last blizzards, and they’ve apparently spent the day evacuating several villages close to the Poromiel border. Brennan hasn’t left her fucking side, despite that there’s literally nothing for him to do except hover and fuss and clean the blood off her hands. He’s only just left her side, only to cross the infirmary so he can examine the assassin’s body parts that Ridoc brought back.

Xaden still doesn’t know? She confirms with Tairn and Sgaeyl.

I don’t see why you insist upon this, Sgaeyl retorts sourly. 

Those villagers needed his help more than I did, she argues. Besides, he would have driven himself insane on the flight back. 

He’ll spend the entire night interrogating those merchants, she snarls. 

He would have done that regardless of when he found out, Tairn inputs. 

Sgaeyl makes a long-suffering sound that could almost be a sigh. We’re almost there. I’ll tell him when we’re landing. 

“Vi-Vi?” Brennan calls, from where he’s still standing over the assassin’s decapitated head and arm. “Can you come over here?”

”Of course I can,” Vi pushes up from her cot, ignoring both Rhi’s and Ridoc’s offered hands, and crossing the infirmary to where Brennan’s standing over. In the mage lights, now that the adrenaline’s finally worn off and the day’s events have caught up to her, it’s impossible to deny the grisly sight. It reminds her a little of spoils of war, the challenge blades you’d walk away from the mat with at Basgiath. 

She makes herself look at the head first. The young woman is hardly older than she is, fair-skinned and hook-nosed, the hair shaved close to her scalp the colour of a peach. Both of her nostrils are pierced with golden hoops, and there is a thick streak of dark blue war paint over her eyes and brow. Vi doesn’t recognise her, of course, but her heart beats faster all the same. Then she looks down at the arm, severed at the bicep, taking in details carefully. Calloused palms, stubby nails, a family ring perched on her thumb, the branding of an unfamiliar guild branded on the inside of her wrist. Brennan gestures to the guild, specifically to the script written in characters that Vi hasn’t been able to place, more images rather than actual letters.

”Recognise these?”

Vi flicks him a flat look. “You’d know if I did.”

”Right,” Bren snorts. “There’s a series of isles off the northern coast of Luceras. Most of them are scrappy, poverty-stricken, ruled by crime syndicates. Most of the population isn’t literate, so they use these hieroglyphics instead.”

“You’re talking about the Fissures, right?” Sawyer calls. 

“Can you read their hieroglyphics?” Brennan demands.

He shakes his head. “I’m from the south. I only know the stories.” 

“What would an assassins’ guild from the Fissures want to hurt Vi or Baby Riorson?” Ridoc demands.

”The client probably wasn’t from there,” Violet shrugs. “They would have wanted to cover their tracks, so they would have outsourced.” 

“One of the hieroglyphs looks like a cat,” Brennan decides. “I’ll look into guilds with a feline motif.” 

“Oh, I can do that —“

Brennan waves her off. “Don’t bother, Vi-Vi, you’ve got enough on your plate.” 

Before she can get in another word, there’s a pulse in the bond between her and Xaden; unadulterated panic floods the connection. Violence? Why the fuck didn’t you say anything about a fucking assassin?

We’re both fine, she soothes. I’ll meet you in the rotunda. 

I’ll kill the bastard, Xaden promises. I’ll shred him limb from limb. That miserable fucking cunt, going after you and our baby —

She’s already dead, Vi corrects, flooding the bond with warmth in a half-assed attempt to calm him even though he won’t cool down until he’s properly clapped eyes on her. She calls Ridoc and Bren to come to the rotunda with her, asks Rhi to stay put with Sawyer. As they stride from the infirmary in the direction of the rotunda, Sgaeyl releases a greeting keen that seems to rattle through the entirety of Riorson House. She hasn’t even made it halfway down the staircase before the double doors are flung open, snow and shadows furiously billowing in from the outside chill. Xaden practically erupts through the doors, looking like a god of death, half deranged with paranoia and fury.

“Where the ever living fuck is my wife —“ He pulls up short as Violet makes it down the last of the stairs, his onyx gaze scanning her from head to toe, and his shoulders slump with relief. 

“Quit your dramatics, Xaden,” she offers him a wry, soft smile as he strides across the foyer to her, promptly bundling her into his arms. He’s covered in a clammy layer of sleet and ice, but neither of them mind as she burrows closer. His hand cups her abdomen, as if he needs to feel the unharmed bump for himself. “The chain mail did its job,” she adds shakily.

”I was hoping we’d only ever have to know that in theory,” Xaden remarks gruffly, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head as the rest of his riot traipses in from the rotunda. Most of the other riders make a beeline for the kitchen, some sparing the royal couple a few curious looks, but both Garrick and Bodhi hover, evidently more in the loop than the rest of their riot. 

“We’ve got the assassin’s head and arm,” Brennan reports as he draws close as well. “There’s guild brands on the wrist — from the Fissures in Luceras.”

Xaden narrows his eyes. “No body?”

“Andarna was feeling peckish,” Ridoc supplies.

”We can’t declare war on Luceras, before you get that idea into your head,” Violet adds, her fingers playing with the inky curls at the nape of his neck.

“We can still threaten them,” he grumbles. 

“That’s completely unnecessary —“ 

Bodhi clears his throat. “What about the Braevick merchants? Did they have anything to do with it?”

”They’re claiming not to. It’s most likely the assassin came in on one of their ships.” Brennan steps in. “They’re spending the night in the dungeons. We’ll speak to them in the morning.” 

Garrick, of course, takes this as an invitation to crack his knuckles and begin bouncing on the balls on his feet, like a child that’s just been told the Summer Solstice Festival is starting several days early. “Why wait?”

”Give me an hour to take Vi to our chambers —“ Xaden begins. 

“Keep them waiting. Make them squirm.” Vi disregards, smoothing an assuring hand over Xaden’s forearm. “They won’t expire overnight — they have drink and blankets down there.” 

You’re being far too nice, Xaden presses. Even if it’s winter. 

I’m not going to punish foreigners for a crime none of them may have committed, Violet points out. The assassin could have just as easily been a stowaway, or paid her way without revealing her plot. 

Garrick appraises her. “Of course, m’lady. You’re all right?” 

“Perfectly.” Violet gestures to both him and Bodhi. “Both of you ought to eat some food, warm up. You’ve been working all day.”

“I’ll go with them. I need a damned drink.” Ridoc steps forward, his gaze lingering on Bohdi. He grins. “Watching the badass queen electrocute assassins is apparently exhausting work.”  

Garrick and Bodhi accept the dismissal without further argument, likely sensing that she’ll have her hands full with Xaden this evening — and perhaps that he intends visa versa. ”Do you need anything from the kitchens?” Bodhi offers.

“Please.” She feels Xaden’s hand land on her lower back; even without the bond, she can tell he’s itching to sweep her back to their chambers so he can more effectively mother hen. “Can you bring a tray of whatever’s on offer for Xaden?”

”And Vi’s spiced flatbread,” Xaden adds. 

The only person left with them is Brennan. His earnest eyes narrow a little. “See you downstairs at dawn, Riorson?”

“Be civilised, Bren,” Vi cuts in before Xaden can agree, knowing he’ll need to properly rest after the gruelling day he’s had. “At least have your morning coffee and pretend to read your papers before you go and interrogate Braevick merchants.” 

You’re being way too calm about this, Xaden accuses, squeezing her hip.

I fed our only source of evidence to my dragon, Violet retorts. There goes my daily quota of rash decisions.

”I’ll go research those hieroglyphs,” Brennan promises. They part ways, Brennan in the direction of Riorson House’s vast library collection, Violet and Xaden towards the quarters of the royal family. Of course, they’ve barely made it up the stairs to their floor when they’re intercepted; by Mira no less, wild-eyed and slightly out of breath.

”Vi?” Mira takes a step forward. “I heard about what happened earlier. Are — are you okay?” 

Xaden stares her down with visible dislike, and Vi doesn’t bother to reprimand him. Ever since her sister found out about the baby and voiced her opinions, they’ve been trapped in an awful dance of avoiding each other. She presses a hand to his chest, urging his silence. “We’re both fine.”

”I was asking about you ,” Mira meets her gaze steadily. “Figured everyone else would be too preoccupied fussing about your baby to give a fuck about you.”

Xaden all but bares his teeth at the implication; Violet digs her elbow into his ribs. “It’s a perfectly reasonable concern for them to have, considering the assassin was aiming for my stomach and not my throat.”

”Right. Whatever.” Mira’s brow pinches. “I’d — I’d like to talk, when you have the time.” 

Who the fuck does she think she is? Xaden demands.

My sister, Vi retorts, more sadly than she’d like. She plasters on an apologetic smile. “Not tonight, Mira.”

”Of course not,” Mira drops her gaze. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

Doubt that, Xaden remarks, already leaning her in the direction of their chambers. Violet lets him this time, making a point not to look back at her sister. 

“Let me run you a bath,” he offers as he opens the door to their quarters for her, sweeping her in. “You’ve had a long day.”

”Says the man who’s been evacuating villages all day,” Violet tries to argue. “We should talk about that.”

”Not much to report,” Xaden shrugs as he seals the doors behind him. Their quarters are tidier these days, now that they no longer have a war to keep them preoccupied, but the grand desk has been moved out for a baby’s crib and another case of books for the third trimester when Vi’s expected to be bed bound more often than not. 

“You need to warm up too,” Violet points out. He’s draped in sensible layers, including watertight leathers and furs, but spending hours airborne in the winter rain couldn’t have been pleasant.

”Looks like I’ll have to get in with you,” Xaden rolls his eyes as he drops a kiss to the crown of her head. He releases her to stride in the direction of the bathroom, pausing only to shuck off his saturated furs and boots. As Violet takes off her own layers and fetches towels, one of the staff delivers their requested tray of food — her spiced flatbread, a generous pot of tea, hearty lamb stew with greens and potatoes for Xaden. She hauls it into the bathroom, where Xaden’s leaning over the enormous bathtub, dribbling oils and salts into the gushing hot water. 

“I don’t want to talk about the assassin right now,” Violet decides as she sets down the tray, pulling at the drawstrings of the gown she’d hastily pulled on when the kitchen attendant knocked on their doors. “I’ve spent all afternoon talking about it, and we’ll spend all of tomorrow going over it with the merchants. Let’s discuss something else.”

Xaden’s lips thin as he follows her example, stripping down his remaining layers. “ We’ve barely discussed it. I don’t even know the full story.” 

“There’s hardly much to tell,” Violet scoffs as she reaches for one of her flatbreads. “I was in the markets that the merchants were putting on with Rhi, Ridoc and Sawyer. I had guards nearby, and the others were keeping me in the middle, so don’t you start fussing about my level of security.”

She takes a moment to appreciate how the muscles of Xaden’s back shift and flex as he hauls his tunic over her head. “The assassin knew that Sawyer relies on a prosthetic and aimed for that. Once he was down, she went for me —“ she cuts herself off at Xaden’s flinty expression. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no bruising, and I’ve already been checked over by two midwives and Bren. I’m mostly just cut up that she slashed one of my favourite tunics.”

Xaden releases a long suffering sigh as he directs her towards the bath. “I almost wish you hadn’t fed her to Andarna.”

He can have the next one, Andarna snipes. 

Don’t tell him that, Vi replies. He’ll definitely have a heart attack at just the suggestion of a second round. 

“I’m honestly fine,” she repeats for about the thousandth time that day. “I just want to know who her client was.”

Xaden’s eyes flash as he helps her lower into the steaming bath. “You’re not the only one.”

“It makes sense,” Violet rolls her eyes. “We’d have plenty of enemies, anyone who benefited from Navarre’s unification since we’re the ones who galvanised independence for the other provinces as well. There’s plenty of Tyrs who wouldn’t be happy with their king marrying Lilith Sorrengail’s daughter —“

”Don’t fucking say that, Vi —“

”— it’s the truth , Xaden. Don’t pretend our marriage wasn’t controversial. Bad enough that I’m your queen instead of your consort.” She cups a hand to her belly, scooting to make room for Xaden as he sinks into the bath behind her. She leans back into him, eyelids fluttering closed as he tugs her flush against his chest, cradled between his knees in his lap. 

Xaden drops a kiss to her damp shoulder. “Didn’t you want to discuss something else?”

Violet scoffs at her own words being parroted back at her. “I suppose I did.”

”Something happy,” Xaden decides firmly. “Nothing about flooding villages, or assassination attempts, or your fucking sister.”

Violet squeezes his knee as an idea comes to mind. “When the midwives checked in on me,” she offers, “Taegan asked if we have our names. Apparently we need six.”

”No, we don’t. Only three.” His voice is calmer, as she predicted. Softer, when they’re talking about the baby in a context that isn’t how their life is threatened by unseen, unknown enemies both within the borders and beyond.

”Is there some Tyrrish custom going on here that I don’t know about?” Long before she was ever crowned as their queen, Violet was well aware that the Tyrrish were a proud, superstitious people, who clung tenaciously to the surviving threads of their culture and language comparatively more than Navarre’s other provinces. The scribes were always sure to emphasise this, and despite their failures in other areas, this fact has always held fast. 

She’s also aware that Tyrrendor’s smaller communities each have their own unique customs; the remote mountain clans, the shepherding villages, the hunting nomads, Aretia’s merchants and fishermen. There’s also a certain set of expectations exclusive to the royal lineage and their household, that have somehow survived the test of time — and Navarrian imperialism — like braiding runes into their hair, particular piercings, what colours to wear or proverbs to say at certain festivals, that sort of thing. 

As it turns out, there’s also specific rites for when you’re pregnant with the heir to the throne. 

She’s not supposed to wear red, for one; it’s the colour of blood and death, and also menstruation, and there’s several awful old wives’ tales about women suffering miscarriages after donning red gowns — that one’s a Tyrrish tradition. The Tyrrish also dictate that men should bring gifts to the mother of their children upon every new cycle of the moon, which explains all the clothes and food and pretty things Xaden’s been routinely presenting to her, albeit more frequently than the moon’s shifting phases. According to the Aretians, she can’t wear an animal’s pelt if it hasn’t had offspring or wasn’t skinned by a blade that didn’t belong to somebody in her own household. Since she can’t eat seafood, then she should wear beaded belts of seashells around her hips, so that the babe is always kept close to the sea, just like Aretians are. And because she’s the Queen, she should only wear emeralds, opals, or jade while she’s carrying the firstborn, sapphires during any future pregnancies. There’s also some stupid rule about the King — Xaden — being the only one permitted to physically carry her, any emergencies be damned, some bullshit about the common people being unfit to bear the weight of the Riorsons’ dynasty. 

”Nothing gets past you, does it, Violence?” Xaden outstretches towards where she’s propped their tray of food. He spears some lamb and greens onto his fork, offers it to her. When Vi wrinkles her nose at it — red meat hasn’t been sitting well with her lately — he downs it himself, chewing quickly as he pours them both cups of tea. “When a Tyrrish couple’s choosing the name for a babe,” he explains as he hands her one of the mugs, “you choose three, not one. Depending on what time of the day the babe’s born — before sunrise, during the day or after sunset — then whatever name you’ve correlated with that time of day is what you name the child.” 

“So Taegan was right,” Violet follows. “We need six names.”

”Only three,” Xaden persists. “Just means that each has to be perfect for when we get to finally meet her .” 

“If you don’t take it seriously, then we’re naming the babe after Chradh, Cuir or Marbh,” Violet rolls her eyes, cumulatively listing Garrick’s, Bodhi’s and Brennan’s dragons. “ If he’s a boy.”

”We’re not naming our qaoriis after anyone dead,” Xaden relents, stroking his fingers over Vi’s shoulders. “It’s too fucking soon for that.”

“I want to,” Violet presses. “I’d — if — when we have more babies, I want them to be named after some people.”

Xaden holds her gaze levelly. “Liam?” He guesses. 

“And maybe my dad,” she admits. “Yours, too, if you want that.”

“I’ll think about it.” He slips his fingers through hers, brushes a kiss over her soapy knuckles. “But for this one? Any names in particular?”

“Coming up with six feels a little daunting,” Violet muses. “I definitely need to dig out a book of baby names.” 

“Like you don’t have three squirrelled away already.” Xaden scoffs. Then, to her surprise, he makes an admission, “If I’m somehow wrong about all of this, I like the name Cillian.” 

“Of course you do,” Violet laughs. “But don’t try to tell me you haven’t thought about what we’d name our qaoriis .”

” ‘Course I have.” He grins as he loads his fork again. “Lavender, Aster and Iris. Thought we’d continue the trend.” 

They’re all purple flowers. Fucking bastard. Of course he thinks he’s being funny.

“I can live with Aster,” Violet sighs. “But the other two, forget it. I’d rather name her after Sgaeyl.” 

Not a bad idea, Sgaeyl chuffs across the shared bond. 

Hey! Andarna declares indignantly. I ate somebody today for you! 

Trying to forget that right now, Violet reminds the dragons. “Let’s look through the books before we make a decision,” she reminds Xaden. “We’ve still got another four months or so. Compared to everything we’ve already gone through, that’s all the damnedtime in the world.”

Chapter Text

“I’m serious, Mira,” Brennan cautions. “Fuck this up, and I won’t say a thing when Riorson wants you exiled.”

Mira rolls her eyes. “Nice to know who the favourite is.”

“That’s rich coming from you, sister.” His grin is smug, all-knowing. She speculates if it’s too late to drag him to the mats afterwards. 

Most of the time, she fucking hates this whole apology thing. She hates groveling. She hates having to justify her actions and talk about her feelings and then listening to the person whine about how butthurt they are. Usually, it shits her to tears and she’d rather dance around it and toss it behind her. She’s a rider, after all; what’s the chance that she’d spent the rest of her limited lifespan stationed with whatever idiot?

Typically, her baby sister is the exception to this mentality. 

The weeks of cold, stiff distance between her and Violet has royally fucking sucked. Yeah, she hadn’t reacted well when Vi sat her and Bren down and told them about the baby. She could have handled it better. She definitely could have kept some of her thoughts to herself. Vi was clearly nervous and asking for help, for once in her damned life, and Mira had shat all over it. Then Vi hadn’t wanted to look at her, which was all the confirmation Riorson needed to be even more of an asshole than usual, and everyone else in the household took the hint to ostracise Mira too. 

The assassination attempt was a damned reality check; thank fuck she’d already been in Aretia when it happened, otherwise she’s pretty sure that nobody would have let her through the gates to let her see Vi for herself. Her sister was fine, of course, but it was all the proof that Mira really needed to pull her head out of her ass. When it was apparent that Riorson wasn’t willing to let her within proximity of Violet, no matter how nicely Mira asked, she’d turned to Brennan instead, who’d reluctantly mediated to arrange this meeting.

Now she has to schedule meetings just to talk to her baby sister. 

This might be an indication of where you overstepped, Teine supplies unhelpfully. 

I know that, Mira bites back. It’s just — bullshit. 

Even without her dragons, your so-called baby sister now significantly outranks you. Unfortunately, the Queen may do what she wishes. 

Don’t I know it. 

Brennan draws to a stop outside the double doors leading to the office that used to belong to Fen Riorson’s, now technically the royal couple’s — but yeah, everyone with half a brain around here knows that Violet is the only one calling the shots in that room. 

“I know you’re not happy about any of this,” he reminds her, for about the thirtieth time since they found out that their baby sister had been accidentally knocked up at the tail end of the campaign. “But it’s always been Vi-Vi’s call. Not Xaden’s, not the Assembly’s, not ours. Hers. ” 

Mira shifts from foot to foot. “I knew that already.”

”Good. Make sure you bloody remember it.” Brennan’s stern look is fierce and hard. He raises his fist and knocks — two swift raps, one longer slam — using the rhythm that the three Sorrengail children used in childhood. They wait for perhaps thirty seconds before the doors are opened from the other side; Riorson lounges nonchalantly in the doorway, his dark gaze narrowing as he claps eyes on Mira. 

“I want to see my sister,” Mira starts.

”Should you start by throwing a dagger at my face?” He retorts dryly. 

“She’s on her best behaviour,” Brennan promises. “Give us twenty minutes for our family meeting?”

”I’m legally part of this family,” Riorson says, because of course he does. 

“But you’re not a member of the ‘Offspring of Darragh Sorrengail’ club,” Bren pats him on the shoulder. Evidently they’ve already hashed out the details, because Riorson relents and steps aside far sooner than Mira would have expected him to.

“I’ve promised to feed you to Andarna if you make my wife cry again.”

She rolls her eyes. “Empty threats.”

You already know that the smaller of your sister’s dragons is the more temperamental, Teine advises. I wouldn’t goad Riorson, if I were you.

You could take her, Mira encourages.

I’d prefer not to insult Tairn and Sgaeyl. Unlike you, I know when to reserve my dignity and back down from a fight I cannot win. 

”Fucking hell, Mira,” Bren mutters. “You two can have a dick-measuring contest once you’ve cleared this up with Vi-Vi.”

Riorson lets them into the office with another sweeping glare but thankfully doesn’t follow them; Mira trails after Brennan, apprehension settling in her stomach for the first time since Bren told her that the meeting with Vi had been confirmed. 

It’s been about five weeks since she was last in this office, but little has changed; the maps and lists, the books and stacks of papers, the roaring fireplace surrounded neatly by leather couches, the overcrowded desk, the collection of framed portraits on the rear wall. Mira’s pretty sure that there’s an addition of her own father that wasn’t there previously, tucked proudly between the depictions of Fen Riorson and Liam Mairi. 

Seated behind the desk, comfortably propped up by pillows and fur throws, is her little sister. No diadem, no furs, no armour or finery indicative of her station.  

Violet doesn’t smile. “You wanted to see me?” 

Mira’s throat closes up. “Hey, Vi.” She flounders. She’s spent all day rehearsing exactly what to say, but of course it goes flying from her head the moment that she’s under her sister’s paralysing gaze. “I’m really fucking sorry.” 

And then she bursts into tears.

( It’s been seven years since she cried in front of another living soul. )

It’d be easier to hate Riorson, if he didn’t take care of her sister in the way she’d always deserved but never received.

And yeah, that’s including the fact that he’s put a baby in her before her twenty-fourth birthday. Motherfucker. No matter how much Vi insists that it was an accident and certainly not something that either of them had intended, it doesn’t stop Mira from wanting to clock him in the face — again — every time she sets eyes on stupid Riorson. Bren’s had to talk her down from screaming at him — again — a number of times, Gods bless him, firmly maintaining that Violet’s got enough on her plate between an unplanned pregnancy, her own health, and learning how to rule a kingdom. 

Vi’s carried the pregnancy relatively well, all things considered with her medical history, until the attempted assassination a few weeks ago. Nobody’s forced her, reportedly, but she’s not straying far from Riorson House any more, cycling quietly between her quarters, the throne room for Assembly meetings, and the rotunda when Tairn and Andarna fly up from the dragons’ nesting valleys to visit her. The stress of the baby’s weight on her joints is too unreliable for her to make any longer trips, not that anyone would be interested in venturing too far when it’s this fucking freezing. The library used to be in the equation, of course, but Riorson had every title of her choosing relocated to their chambers when Vi started to spend more and more time confined to her bed. 

At the very least, it’s the infernal arse-crack of the Tyrrish winters, when they’re lucky to get several hours of grey sunlight each days, and the barracks and meeting pavilions heave with farming families from the upper mountains, Riorson House open to those trying to escape the deadly conditions. It’s abominable flying conditions — Riorson’s effectively grounded his riders until the next blizzards pass, and since she now defers to him, that includes her. Dick. 

She’s also learning that the Tyrs’ comments about spending the winter fucking and fighting isn’t entirely hyperbolic. Mira’s not stupid enough to sleep with anyone in the Riorson household or barracks, knowing entirely well that it’ll quickly get back to Bren or Vi, but she itches that scratch when she’s stationed elsewhere. While she’s grounded in Aretia, she focuses on working out, sparring, and trying to make up lost time with Vi. 

The attempt on her sister’s life had more or less pulled Mira’s head out of her ass; it had taken a few days of flagging Vi down long enough for a decent heart to heart, without anyone hovering moodily (see: Riorson) or barging into their conversation with some new theory about the assassin’s motivations. Violet hadn’t been as forgiving as she might’ve once been, once upon a time, and it’s definitely taken a few weeks of grovelling to get back on the same page, but it’s worth it to be back involved in her sister’s life. 

It’s fucking feral today — snow blizzards, howling wind, frozen waves in the harbour below — so Mira’s paid a visit to her sister’s quarters, knowing that her joints are even more dysfunctional when it’s this hideously cold. She catches Vi just in time; Riorson’s walking her back from an Assembly meeting, supporting her weight probably more than he would’ve several months ago, their heads bowed in conversation. As much as she dislikes Riorson, she can admit that Tyrrendor’s rulers make quite the sight: young, attractive, battle-tried. The fact they’re expecting their firstborn doesn’t hurt either, for the sake of dynastic continuity or whatever the hell  it is that narrow-minded traditionalists like to view Violet’s pregnancy. 

You’d be hard-pressed to guess that Riorson’s the king of Tyrrendor: he doesn’t bother with ceremonial headgear or finery, usually dressed in furs and his riding leathers, maybe a Tyrrish coat of arms somewhere if he can be fucked. One of his creepy shadow-tentacle thingies coil around Violet’s shoulders like a pet snake, ready to strike. Her hair’s held back from her face in a thick braid, held in place with ivory pins — she suspects it’s Riorson’s handiwork, because he insisted on learning when Vi was too sore to keep her arms upright for long enough to do it herself, back during the campaign. She’s dressed like Tyrrish royalty — fine fur pelts, a long cardigan embroidered with her dragons over a navy wool dress, another silvery woven shawl belted comfortably above her belly with interlinked plates bearing protective runes, ears dripping with healing silver piercings.  

Fucking hell , Mira thinks, he’s playing dress up with my little sister. 

I thought you liked that he looks after her, Teine rumbles. Make up your mind, Colonel. 

Mira clears her throat. “Can I steal you for a few hours, Vi?”

Violet looks up, her expression brightening as they make eye contact. “As long as it doesn’t involve going outside, then sure.” 

“It’s cold enough to make my tits drop off,” Mira scoffs. “I’d argue they’re one of my better features.” 

Riorson scoffs, clearly disagreeing, but doesn’t voice his opinion. “We’ve been in meetings all day. Make sure she puts her damned feet up, Sorrengail.”

It’s as good of a blessing as one can get from Riorson these days. He’s notoriously refused to let Violet out of his sight since the attempt on her and the baby’s lives; thank gods they’re holed up indoors, otherwise it’d be way more insufferable than it already is. Mira steps forward. ”You don’t have to tell me how to look after my baby sister.”

”Bit weird to be calling a pregnant woman that,” Riorson quips. He opens the door to the chambers for Vi, then presses a kiss to her hairline. “Let me know if you need anything, love.” 

“Can you bring up a tray?” Violet turns those big, doe-eyes of hers on him; Mira privately wonders if she’s aware of just how paralysing that particular look is. Probably. She’s definitely clever enough to use it in getting her way; she certainly weaponised it often enough, growing up.

“Flatbread and tea?” Riorson guesses. The spiced flatbread is apparently Vi’s pregnancy craving. 

“And whatever fresh fruit the kitchen has on hand. And something spicy.” Vi grins, impishly. “You want anything, Mira?”

”I’m good,” Mira shrugs. Truthfully she wouldn’t say no to a nice, greasy chicken sandwich, but she knows that even the smell of meat is making Violet ill these days. She can eat later.

”I’ll bring it up as soon as I can,” Riorson promises quietly, before leveling Mira with a threatening look; Vi’s let her off the hook, but he definitely hasn’t forgiven her. Mira can live with that. 

Mira grinds her teeth but forces her expression into something pleasanter when Vi shoots her a questioning look, ushering her into the royal family’s quarters. “What’s crawled up your ass and died?”

Your choice in life partners, Mira wants to retort but doesn’t, tactfully. Vi’s always had a bleeding heart, but she’s set off by everything in the last few weeks. Besides, both Bren and Riorson would have her head for intentionally upsetting her.

”Going stir crazy without flying. I bet you know how it is.”

“Don’t I ever.” Violet’s laugh is wry and sympathetic. Both dragons pulled the pin on bearing her when she began properly showing, back in the autumn when they were still frantically rebuilding and stockpiling for winter. She cups her belly protectively. “It’ll be worth it in the end.”

Sure. Months of being unable to fly at all, too fragile to leave the house, only to end up sleep deprived and shackled to a squirming, screaming baby, one that the Assembly will want their hands all over if it’s a boy and will pointedly ignore if it’s a girl. Sounds like a great trade. 

Wisely, Mira doesn’t voice this either.

They take a seat before the fireplace; the chambers are tidier and not as lavish as Mira might expect them to be. The sitting room is cosy, all bookshelves and squashy couches and throw blankets. There’s a separate armory and walk-in closet, a master bedroom as well as four smaller bedrooms currently repurposed, but Mira suspects will be occupied with a brood of nieces and nephews further down the track. They’ve also got a dining table, but it currently seems to be used as storage for all the shit she supposes you get gifted as royalty. There’s far more ugly vases and jewellery boxes than Mira can be ever inclined to count. 

There’s also a few clues about Vi’s pregnancy: the books on parenting, a basket of children’s toys and blankets, a weapons’ cabinet with a locking mechanism situated just outside the master bedroom. Mira has to reshuffle a stack of papers bearing Tyrrish baby names before she can sink down into her chosen armchair.

”Thinking about names, then?” she asks. As much as it hurts her heart to see her little sister in the predicament she is, nobody can deny the fact that Vi’s happy about the baby. About getting to be a mum. And even if she hates Riorson on principle, she has enough faith that he’ll be a decently involved parent. No doubt that he’ll have Tairn and Andarna to answer to, if Vi’s less than impressed with his child rearing duties. 

Vi’s whole face lights up. “We’ve talked about it.” The look on her face reminds Mira of when she was younger and was telling the nearest person about whatever new fascinating topic she’d discovered in the Archives that day. She still has those bouts, mostly when she’s knee deep in whatever niche sector of Tyrrish history or culture she’s come across. She drops her voice, “I think everyone’s expecting us to name her after somebody that we lost, but it’s way too soon for that —“

”Her?” Mira repeats, dumbfounded.

”Xaden’s been convinced ever since I started showing. Refuses to hear otherwise,” Violet rolls her eyes affectionately. Mira can’t even pretend she saw that coming — her asshole brother-in-law’s holding out for a little princess, not a male firstborn. What the fuck is happening to the world? “The dragons haven’t told us otherwise, so he’s taking that as gospel.”

”Right,” she says slowly. “Bet Tavis is disappointed you won’t be christening your kid Chradh.”

”Garrick’s getting godfather. He can shut the hell up and sit down.” Vi runs a hand over her belly. “The Tyrrish are superstitious about this sort of thing — you’re supposed to pick three names and settle on the one depending if the babe’s born before the sunrise, during the daylight or after the sun sets.”

”So it’s going to be Rose, Daisy or Lily,” Mira deadpans, knowing how much Vi resents being named after a fucking flower. A ‘shrinking’ one, no less. Typically, the only person who seems to get away with shitty flower jokes is Riorson.

Sure enough, Violet sends her a narrow, dirty look. “Sorcha if she comes during daylight, Aisling if it’s before dawn, and Aster if she’s a night owl.”

”You could just say three for the sake of it and pick the one you actually want,” Mira points out. “Fuck superstition.” 

“It’s important for a lot of Tyrrish families,” Violet argues. “Besides, it’s not the worst custom. There’s this ridiculous one where Xaden’s the only one allowed to physically pick me up. Like, what if there’s an emergency?”

”Because he’s the baby daddy?” Mira guesses.

”Because I’m the Queen ,” Violet rolls her eyes. “ ‘Mother of the lineage’ sort of idea, therefore the King is the only one that is allowed to bear my weight.”

”That seems dumb,” Mira agrees. “Not even Bren could do it, if it’s an emergency?”

”Technically it can be somebody else in the Riorson line,” Vi shrugs. “So it could be Bohdi, but he’s not allowed to because of his surname.”

Mira sniffs. “That doesn’t feel very progressive.”

”It’d be worse if I married into the Navarrian monarchy,” Violet points out. “I’d only ever get the title of consort, and that’s as long as the baby’s male. If I had a little girl, then it would be perfectly acceptable to be divorced and paid off to raise the baby by myself, unless the Navarrian court wanted to keep her around for an arranged marriage.” 

Mira shudders at the prospect. “Fuck that,” she mutters, “though the Tyrrish practise arranged marriages.”

”We’re working around that,” Violet points out. “We’ve just outlawed making any arrangements with somebody under the age of sixteen, and I’m drafting up another decree so that either party can back out of the marriage without repercussion. Xaden’s quite touchy about the subject, funnily enough.”

Mira pulls a face at the mere reference to Catriona fucking Cordella. If that bitch comes within range of Vi while she’s pregnant — or gods forbid, postpartum — she’ll gut Cat herself, political consequences be damned. “Has Cat been sniffing around?”

”She tried to corner Xaden when he was at that summit in Braevick,” Violet reports, irritably. “He wouldn’t have a bar of it, of course. He banned her from entering Tyrrendor on the spot.” 

That redeems Riorson. Marginally. Less than an inch. Teine chuffs at her decision. “For how long?”

”Until the baby’s fifth birthday.” Over five fucking years without having to cross paths with Catriona Cordella? Fucking heavenly. Hopefully she falls off her gryffin before time runs out. “Tecarus threw a fit, of course, but Bodhi dealt with it for us. Told him that an emotion manipulator with her history isn’t coming within range of the heir, and it’s not negotiable until they’re old enough to learn how to shield.” 

Mira worries her bottom lip. “Any chance that Cordella could have employed that assassin?”

Violet’s eyes blow wide, just as Riorson chooses this moment to stride into the sitting room, bearing Vi’s requested tray. “You’re not the first with that particular idea.” He sets the tray of food and tea on the coffee table. “There’s been a strongly worded missive sent to Krovla, courtesy of Imogen Cardulo.” 

“Imogen threatened Cat?” Mira interprets. 

“More or less.” Vi leans forward to accept the cup of tea that Riorson pours her. “I don’t think it was her, though. She wants my place more than anything, and that’s not possible if she also takes out Xaden in the same throw.” 

“She’s delusional,” Riorson says, frankly, as he stokes the fire with his lesser magic, before ducking his head to press a lingering kiss to Violet’s lips. Mira pulls a face and looks away. “I’ll be sparring with Garrick in the training pavilion. Let me know if you need me.”

”She’s fine, Riorson,” Mira points out.

”He’s just being a mother hen,” Violet scoffs, starting to shuck off her layers now that she’s cosied up next to the fire. “We’ll be fine, Xaden. We’re just talking girly shit.” 

“My point still stands,” Riorson mutters, letting his thumb drag over Vi’s cheek before he turns on his heel, shifting exiting the chambers. 

“He’s on edge,” Mira mutters once he’s gone. ”For good reason, I guess.”

A troubled expression crosses her sister’s face. “We still don’t know who sent that assassin after me.”

”You’re the Queen of Tyrrendor, Vi-Vi,” Mira reminds her, none too gently, “Your maiden name is Sorrengail, and you’re one of the most powerful riders on the continent. It’s not worth losing sleep about it.” 

“They were after the baby, not me,” Violet persists. 

“I know,” Mira says, limply. Then, not sure what else to say, she offers, “You’re gonna be a great mum.”

”Everyone’s been saying that,” Vi grouses. 

“It’s the truth. You’re already the best of us.” Mira fidgets with one of the throws. “But fucking hell, points to Riorson for making sure Cat doesn’t get access to you.” 

“You don’t have to always pretend to hate him —“

”Oh, you know I do.” She laughs, a little sardonically. “But any ill will towards Riorson is always drastically outweighed by the fact you’re my baby sister.”

Violet pulls a face. “Your baby sister who’s about to have a baby. You might need to think up some nicknames for them.”

”I can think of a few.” Mira makes a show of thinking about it. “ ‘Grub’. ‘Maggot’. ‘Hellspawn’. What are your thoughts on ‘sprog’ —“

”This is technically the future heir of your kingdom.”

”This is also my future niece or nephew.” She kicks her feet up onto the coffee table, careful to keep her boots away from Violet’s tray. “Dibs on getting to teach them to fight, by the way.”

Violet grins, brighter than the sun, radiant as a goddess in the firelight. “Garrick’s already beaten you to that. He’s claiming it’s his necessary duties as a godfather.”

”Has he really? That little shit. ”