Chapter Text
Time moves differently without Davos.
The evidence of their lovemaking fades from the sheets, but still he does not let the maids take them.
His stomach swells gently beneath the palm of his hand, yet still he refuses visits from the maester.
He gets sick in the mornings, then the sickness abates, only to be replaced by a hunger that he thinks might be cousin to the one Davos spoke of enduring in childhood, an ever present gnawing in the pit of his stomach for something he knows he cannot have.
News comes periodically through missives, their contents spreading through the smallfolk who work in the castle until they eventually reach Aeron’s ears. His maid, Nira, is a sweet girl who likes to fret over him. It’s from her that he learns of Jacaerys Velaryon’s death.
“Does Cregan—Does Lord Stark have any family?” Aeron blurts at the maid when he hears of the other omega’s fate, the urgency in his voice startling Nira badly enough to widen her eyes in alarm.
“Family, ser?”
“Anyone he’s… close to. I don’t know. A mother, or sibling perhaps.” Aeron isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but when Nira nods her head he stands.
“Aye, Lady Sara. She’s taken charge of running Winterfell in her brother’s absence. May I ask… why…?”
“I must speak with her.” Aeron turns to his vanity, grabbing a brush to yank through his hair as Nira flutters about him, worry etching her gentle face. “Have you any clothes that will fit me?”
“Of course, ser. Lady Stark’s seamstress has been working on—”
“Something plain, if you will.”
Nira huffs but does as she’s told, rummaging through the wardrobe that he’s only now realizing is much fuller than it had been a few months ago to pull out a gray woolen tunic in the old omegan fashion, the high collar adorned with the three black ravens of the Blackwood crest. Aeron stares at it a moment before putting it on. It fits well, disguising the small bump of his stomach beneath the warm fabric. A pang of anguish washes through him, but he pushes it aside in favor of focusing on his half formed mission.
“Will you take me?”
Nira leads him down a series of corridors towards Sara Stark’s solar. “She’s been worried about you,” is all she says before she goes in ahead of him to announce him, something of warning in her words but their meaning too subtle to resonate with him just yet. He steps forward, finding himself confronted by a tall woman with dark hair and equally dark eyes.
“Ser Aeron Blackwood, I am very glad to finally meet you. I’ve long meant to stop by your chambers and check on the progress of your confinement but alas, the running of Winterfell has kept me rather busy. Nira also mentioned you haven’t been taking visitors.”
Aeron blinks. It’s the first time he’s been addressed by the name of his husband and the part of him that is still Bracken, small though it may be, rears up at the change like a spooked horse.
“It is an honor to meet you, my lady. I apologize that it took me this long to come thank you in person for your family’s hospitality, I’ve not been… myself, of late.”
Sara Stark smiles then, the small uptick in the corners of his mouth transforming her face. “Of course. I’ve heard the first few months can be quite awful. Did the maester send you the tea I requested?”
Aeron thinks back to the countless steaming cups of foul smelling liquid that had been left by his bedside each night during his illness. He hadn’t touched a single one.
“Yes, thank you my lady. It was very helpful.”
“Of course. Now, I believe you came to see me for some purpose?” Sara stares at him expectantly.
“I—yes.” Aeron licks his lips, his eyes darting around the tidy room before returning to the woman before him. “I heard of the crown prince’s fate.”
Sara’s expression falls an appropriate degree, though no more than would be expected from a fellow ally to the crown.
“Yes, tragic news. I grieve for the queen, who’s now lost both her eldest sons. To think all this could’ve been avoided, had the Hightowers not chosen to scheme against the rightful heir… It’s truly a shame.”
“Aye,” Aeron says cautiously, eyeing Sara. “It’s terrible. I’m sure Lord Stark has not taken it easily.”
Sara’s brows knit, confusion hedging into her expression. “I—Yes, I imagine he grew fond of the boy during his brief stay here. Though I admit, it can be hard to know with Cregan.” She offers Aeron a wane smile. “But yes, I fear we’ll all feel this loss greatly in the months to come. Jacaerys would’ve made a wonderful king; his kind and shrewd nature was more than evident when we met, however briefly. His loss, and the loss of his dragon, is a great blow to the cause.”
“And is there no… talk?”
“Talk, ser?” Sara cocks her head. He cannot tell if it’s an act or if she truly does not know.
“That this might mark… the end of things. For Lord Stark.”
“End of the war, you mean?” Sara gives him a long look, then her eyes dart to his hidden stomach. “I fear not, ser. Northerners always fight to the last man, and the queen herself still lives. My brother may have felt friendship for the prince, but so long as Rhaenyra walks this earth then all is not lost. I’m sure he has no plans of slowing or returning home any time soon.”
She doesn’t know, Aeron thinks bleakly, nodding as he turns his gaze to the stones beneath his feet to disguise the crushing disappointment that sits heavy in his chest.
“I’m sorry, Aeron,” Sara says suddenly, her voice much closer than before. Aeron startles back, almost tripping backwards but Sara holds him steady with strong hands. Her expression is equal parts compassionate and pitying. She offers him a smile. “I know you long for your husband’s return, as I long for my brother’s. I’m sure it cannot be easy, being separated from your mate so early into your union. I… would be grateful for your company in the months to come, if you might spare the time. This castle is large and its people worry, even if we northerners are not always the best at showing it. It would be good to have an omega helping me keep the peace. Your kind are sacred under our gods. It would bring many comfort to see you acting as my companion—my friend, even, should you wish.”
“I am a man and knight, Lady Stark,” Aeron says gruffly, both flattered and annoyed by the offer. “I haven’t the first idea of how to run a great household.”
“And I was a bastard, before my brother petitioned our late king to legitimize me. We are all capable of learning, Aeron. Let us keep each other company in the months to come, yes? Let us teach each other what we know, so that we may meet our men as stronger and more capable versions of ourselves when they return home. Agreed?”
Aeron meets her eyes, his surprise melting into respect as he registers the steely confidence he finds there. “Agreed,” he says at last, smiling when she claps him on the shoulder.
“Wonderful. Come sit, I’ve much to catch you up on, then we’ll call for luncheon. Don’t worry, Aeron. We will keep ourselves busy, and before we know it this war will be behind us. We must only wait it out.”
With Sara’s help, Aeron finds purpose. He helps oversee the training of the younger men, practices his stitching on their shallow wounds when they grow too eager and cut each other on their blunted swords. They all say he has an omega’s touch, though he thinks his success as a healer has more to do with his dogged insistence on cleanliness than anything else. He spends time with Maester Ulwyck too, learning the rudiments of his craft under the guise of maternity appointments. Not that Ulwyck doesn’t subject him to a good number of examinations. He certainly does, scolding Aeron for not having come to him earlier, but despite the old man’s cluckings Aeron and the babe are both eventually declared perfectly healthy and in the meantime Aeron learns a great deal about blood letting, boil lancing, poultices and other remedies that help him not feel quite so useless.
He also learns that he does indeed have an eye for household planning, his nightly routine of reviewing the logs of the castle’s resources with Sara becoming a mental exercise in trying to think of the best ways to stretch what they have and get what they don’t in order to keep their residents comfortable while still stockpiling for every ‘what if’ scenario they can think of.
His belly grows every day. Sara, Nira, and Maester Ulwyck are the only ones he allows to press their hands to his taut skin when the pup finally quickens, the insistent little kicks a comfort on some days and a torment on others. They’re a constant reminder of what he had and what he now lacks, of the man whose scent has all but faded to a memory.
Davos always made such a great fuss about Aeron’s scent. He spoke of it as if it were the nectar of the gods, the sole thing that tempted him as a boy and healed him as a man. And yet, what he always failed to realize was that it was he whose scent turned heads.
At night, Aeron lays on his side and tries desperately to remember it in perfect detail. Oakmoss and damp earth, the deep green of the riverlands at night with a hint of almond sweetness that acted like a promise that any looking to root the foundation of their life in such soil will be rewarded with all the richness an alpha like Davos has to offer. Aeron shoves a hand beneath his nightgown as he imagines it, the wetness between his legs like a dewdrop suspended on the underside of a leaf, ready to soak the insides of his thighs as soon as he breaks the tension of its surface. He works his fingers inside himself as he imagines his alpha draped across his back, his mouth to Aeron’s ear whispering of his obsession for his needy mate, the one he chose before either of them knew such a choice even existed.
He cries after he peaks almost every night. It becomes somewhat of a routine.
Then he grows too fat to successfully pleasure himself and spends the last weeks of his term absolutely miserable, angry at his husband for having left him in such a state.
When the babe finally comes, it’s a tremendous relief. The night is long and terrifying, but Nira and Sara hold him through it as Maester Ulwyck barks orders at him from the foot of the bed, treating him not like some delicate omega but like the soldier in training he was before he met Davos. He’s grateful.
He gives birth to a tiny squalling pup, a girl with thick black hair and milky gray eyes that Nira assures him will change with time. He names her Della.
Three months later, Rhaenyra dies.
“They say he fed her to his dragon in front of her pup. The second youngest, what was his name? I can’t remember.” Sara rubs her forehead roughly, her skin permanently creased with worry. She looks older now than she ever has before. “I don’t know… I don’t know what to do. Word from the Vale is that all is lost. My scouts…” She looks up at Aeron, her lips a thin line. “They could not find Cregan amongst the remaining graybeards. It’s said his battalion lost contact with the rest after—” She stops again, putting a palm to her mouth as she stares into the fire. Aeron’s nails dig into the meat of his crossed arms. He’s glad he’s sitting, his eyes on his friend as he concentrates on breathing. In, out, in, out. Each breath is shaky, but at least he’s managing them. In, out, in, out.
“They think Cregan’s dead.”
“And the men that went with him?” Aeron asks, staring with a distant sort of fascination as he watches the water gather in Sara’s eyes.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Aeron.”
It’s all the confirmation he can handle. He gets up and sees himself out, uncaring of the abruptness or the way it makes Sara’s guards jump.
Della is asleep in the nursery when he goes to fetch her, her now hazel eyes fluttering half open when he whispers her name. She doesn’t fuss when he picks her up and takes her to his chambers, opting instead to paw at his chest when he lies her down next to him, her little nose rooting for his nipple until he acquiesces and gives her what she wants.
He watches her nurse, trying not to see the similarities between her and her father. She’s too young, he thinks, to really have a face of her own, and yet he can see the shadow of Davos in the slope of her nose, the pinch of her brows, the wavy frizz of her hair. He wonders sometimes if it would be easier if she only looked like him, if it would make it more possible to let go if she wasn’t such a constant reminder of her other half, but he hasn’t decided yet. The probable truth is, nothing could or can or ever will make this any easier. His mother used to say that the only way past an unhappy situation was through. Aeron curls himself around his daughter and lets the tears fall. What else is there to be done? They’ve lost the war and he’s lost his husband, so he lashes himself together as best he can, anchors himself to his pup, and just tries to get through.
Aeron wakes to the ringing of bells he doesn’t recognize. It’s been six weeks since Cregan and his men were declared missing, over a year since he first arrived at Winterfell, and yet… he’s never heard these bells before.
He checks on Della before rising from the bed, her little body curled into the nest he made for the two of them, perfectly cradled on her back by the furs he painstakingly formed to keep her in place at night. It’s instinct, mostly, that makes him lean in to inhale the sweet smell of her skin before ringing for the nurse, her little legs kicking out in a stretch as she scents her dame nearby. Aeron runs a hand through her hair, soothing her, the deep pur that rumbles through his chest lulling her back to sleep until Nira silently lets herself in to conduct the pup into the arms of her nanny before turning to Aeron with a feverish light in her eyes.
“They’ve returned!”
Aeron doesn’t bother dressing, instead wrapping himself in his dressing gown before donning his cloak and boots. The days have grown short as of late, the winter winds having made their home in the hills around Winterfell, but he can hardly feel the cold with his blood as up as it is, Nira nipping at his heels as the two of them race to the courtyard where Sara is already waiting. Her face is currently adorned by the impeccable mask of Lady Stark, but beneath it a bright fire of hopefulness that Aeron can hardly stand to see shines. She beckons him forward, despite his lower rank, shaking her head when he tries to signal that he’ll stand elsewhere. In the end, he stands to her left, their hands clasped between them in the folds of their cloaks, waiting with bated breath amongst all the others who have silently come to wait.
Even from a distance, the band of northerners look obviously diminished and visibly weary. The horses are thin, the mens’ hair long. Though many left as graybeards, they’ve returned as old men, their proud faces haggard and strong backs strained beneath the losses of the war.
Truthfully, he expects not to see Davos among them. His Davos was reckless, young, and quick to fight, and he has spent countless hours over the last few weeks convincing himself not to get his hopes up about a man like that ever returning from a war like this one. And yet he squeezes Sara’s hand hard when Cregan first comes into view, his eyes darting between the faces of the men that surround him, his heart in his throat as he tries to identify a nose, a cheekbone, a wisp of dark hair.
A hateful part of him thinks, too, that even if Davos did survive, he’d surely ride at the back of the band just to prolong Aeron’s suffering, and as his initial hope fades and his search starts to slow, that voice in his head begins to grow louder, but then—
There he is. Davos Blackwood, riding atop a great roan steed just behind Cregan Stark, his head held high, his face white and unblinking as he scans the crowds to his left and right again and again like he thinks he might find Aeron among the peasants. Aeron lets out a watery laugh. Gods above, his perfect idiot—right there in the flesh, home at last. Seven help him, he’s alive. He’s alive.
As soon as the men are through the gate, Aeron can restrain himself no longer. He half hears the series of sharp inhales that follow him, stumbling, into the snow between the civilians and soldiers but he doesn’t care. He’s laughing now, or maybe sobbing, he doesn’t know that either. All he knows is that Davos’ eyes have gone wide, his mouth parting, hands extending as Aeron cries out his name.
“Davos!”
Davos practically flings himself from his horse, his momentum sending him staggering directly into Aeron’s arms who does a poor job of catching him, the two of them collapsing backwards into the snow with a mutual yelp that’s part pain, part joy, all blessed relief.
It’s silent for a moment, then a child across the courtyard calls out, “father?” and immediately the northerners thaw.
In gentle silence, the crowd steps forward to collect their men off their horses, helping them to their feet and into the arms of mothers, fathers, wives and children. It’s quiet, their losses too great for raucous celebration, but it’s tender too, the hushed ‘ welcome home’s that whisper through the yard muffled and soothing, like the beat of a dove’s wing or the rush of the wind through the high grasses back home.
Aeron sits up with Davos half in his lap, their cheeks pressed together as the returned soldier whispers over and over “Aeron, gods, Aeron—” with an urgency that Aeron can’t help but laugh wetly at. How could he ever have doubted that Davos would come back to him? He’d promised to return, hadn’t he? And here he is, returned, his face buried in Aeron’s hair as he cries and shakes and promises never to leave again.
Over Davos’ shoulder, Aeron catches the eye of the last man still atop his horse. Cregan Stark stares at him with haunted eyes and a stricken expression, his gaze tracing the arms Aeron has brought up to wrap around Davos’ back. He looks so young, suddenly. Young and lost and deeply in need of someone he will never see again. It’s easy to guess of whom he thinks when he looks at Aeron, and despite having never properly met, Aeron aches for the man. He offers him a sad smile. Cregan nods once, then turns away.
He hopes Sara finds him soon. He hopes Cregan will let her pull him from the dark. For now, though, he has his own family to tend to. He coaxes a still unsteady Davos to his feet and brushes him of snow. Then, with careful hands, he leads him back into the castle where their daughter awaits. Nanny stands just behind the door with the babe, his girl finally fully alert as she watches her parents approach. Her large eyes find Davos’ face and rivet themselves there, as though waiting for him to introduce himself at long last.
Aeron steps forward, taking his pup into his arms and dismissing the nurse with a smile. “Her name is Della,” he says when at last they’re alone.
Davos, looking half terrified, swallows hard then says, “h-hello, Della.”
Della regards him, then stretches out her hands expectantly. Aeron chuckles, shifting her to one arm so that he can do the same.
“Come.”
The first time Aeron places Della into Davos’ arms, she lets loose her first real laugh.
They spend the next hour or so remaking the nest on the bed to accommodate all three of them, Della in the middle happily kicking her legs and babbling every time Davos leans over to pinch her toes or whisper silly nonsense into the pink skin of her stomach. Eventually, though, she drifts to sleep, leaving the two of them to look at each other over the top of her head, Davos’ eyes crinkling when he smiles at Aeron.
“She’s so beautiful.”
“Aye, she looks just like you.”
Davos’ smile grows into a grin. Aeron rolls his eyes.
“Smells just like you, though. Sweet as can be.”
There’s a shyness between them now. Aeron finds himself glancing up then quickly away every time he finds Davos staring at him, only allowing himself to really look at his mate when his eyes are on their pup between them.
He looks a little older now. His hair is longer, wavier, and his jaw looks like it’s been badly shaved. There’s a gauntness beneath his cheeks that speaks to the hard life he’s lived this past year, and a tremor in his hand that Aeron suspects must be the result of a badly healed injury hiding beneath his clothes. He’ll have to take some time to examine him later.
The greatest difference, though, is the steady air of calm that surrounds his alpha. A certain serenity, an assuredness in one’s own self. Even relaxed in bed, smiling like an idiot at his sleeping daughter, Davos radiates the quiet confidence of a predator, the kind of nonchalant strength that could only have been born on the battlefield to a man whose spirits had not been broken. He’s dangerous, Aeron realizes, and for the first time in over a year Aeron finally feels safe.
Eventually Della wakes and wants her luncheon. Aeron complies, pretending not to notice the rapt way Davos watches him untie the loose collar of his gown to bring the pup to his chest.
After a while they call the nurse, letting her take Della to the nursery to rest so that the two of them might have a moment alone.
“Do you want to speak of it?” Aeron asks after a while, his hands gently peeling Davos’ out of his soiled clothes while they wait for the water in the bath Aeron called for to cool enough to enter.
“Which parts?” Davos asks, grunting when Aeron finds a long and gnarled stab wound on his shoulder and presses his fingers into the scar tissue, feeling at the muscles beneath while mentally calculating the oils and tonics he’ll need to massage into the area to loosen the ligaments.
“Any of it. All of it.”
Davos turns to give him a sobering look. “Not really,” he says with a shrug, stepping out of his breeches when Aeron directs him to. “Not yet, at least.”
“Alright, not yet then.” He sponges Davos down with a wet cloth, getting rid of the worst of the grime before leading him to the bath. Secretly, a part of him never wants to hear about the horrors Davos lived through this last year. He’s heard the stories, read the missives, learned through Maester Ulwyck what to expect of dragon injuries—the acid in their blood, the heat of their fire. He doesn’t want to imagine the things his alpha saw on the battlefield, and yet… Guilt gnaws at him until he feels sick. Unaware of his omega’s inner torment, Davos lowers himself into the steaming water, letting loose a hiss of relief as the warmth envelopes his battle honed body. Aeron grabs a cup and fills it, tipping Davos’ head back as he starts to pour. “Next time, I’ll go with you.”
Davos sits up so quickly he sends water sloshing over the sides of the tub.
“Davos, what—”
“There will be no next time.” Davos has captured his wrists with both hands. He shakes Aeron a little, as though to underline his point. “Never again. I will never leave you like that again.”
Aeron watches him carefully. “And when the next war comes?” he asks tentatively, ignoring the hard press of the side of the tub to his front or the good deal of water that is now soaking through the sleeping gown he’s still wearing.
Davos gives him a last chastising look before letting go and sinking back into the water. “If a new war ever comes, You and I and Della will make for the Free Cities. Braavos, perhaps, or Pentos. Either way, we won’t be here.”
Aeron regards him, then walks around the front of the tub to stoke the fire. A sharp inhale from his mate makes him look up.
“What?”
“Your—your gown…” Davos’ eyes turn towards the ceiling, his cheeks aflame.
Looking down, Aeron realizes that the water from the bath has turned the thin cotton of his shirt practically translucent, the white material doing little to hide the peaks of his swollen nipples or the thin thatch of hair between his legs. Slightly embarrassed but mostly amused, he approaches Davos slowly, smirking when Davos shrinks from him.
“I’m still your husband, ser, or have you forgotten? You’re allowed to look, you know.”
“Gods above…” Davos breathes, his eyes tracing every contour the wet gown reveals to him, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he grips the sides of the tub and looks.
Aeron gives him a wry smile. “My body is different now. The babe—” he starts to say, but Davos cuts him off with an indignant noise.
“Don’t do that. Gods, Aeron, you’re so beautiful it makes me—I feel like I can’t control myself around you. I only wish…” He stretches forward, putting a wet hand on either side of Aeron’s hips. “I only wish I had been here to watch you change, is all.” He looks up at Aeron with tears on his face. “Gods forgive me, my love, I should’ve been here.”
“Hush now, hush.” Aeron hurriedly soothes a thumb under each of his eyes, hating the regret he finds in their depths. “There’s nothing to forgive. And that, at least, I can promise you another go at.” He steps out of Davos’ hold to strip out of the wet garment, letting it drop to the floor as he braves a foot over the side of the tub and hoists himself in to stand between his husband’s parted legs. “What say you, husband? Any interest in giving Della a brother?”
His alpha’s expression transforms from that of a shocked supplicant meeting his god for the first time to that of a wicked boy who’s just been rewarded for what he was sure could only end in reprimand. He pulls Aeron down to him, roughly setting him into his lap so that he can kiss him soundly.
Despite their urgency, when Davos reaches between his legs he’s careful. He palms at Aeron’s straining cock and strokes the wetness of his aching cunt until Aeron’s all but bucking into his hand, his nails biting into the skin of Davos’ shoulders while he pants and whispers his name. He pleads with his alpha in a way he would not have allowed himself a year ago, his pride too great then. Now, pride is of little consequence. He’s missed this too much, been too long without his other half. He pleads and paws at his alpha until Davos, eyes wild, gives him what he wants.
When Davos finally sits him on his cock, it feels like coming home. The water’s half on the floor and the tub thumps on the uneven stone floor when it rocks a certain way, but he hardly notices. All he sees or hears or feels is Davos Davos Davos. Davos’ hands on his waist, guiding him up and down the length of him at a steady pace that has him shaking apart with orgasm in so little time that it would be embarrassing were he not half out of his mind. Davos’ scent blooming around them in the still warm steam, filling his head and making him reckless, his hand coming up to tug at Davos’ hair until he’s gasping up into Aeron’s mouth, groaning when Aeron bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. All that exists in this moment is his alpha, his touch, his scent, his eyes. They both have their eyes open when they crash together a final time, watching each other as the loop of pleasure they’ve created wracks both of their bodies, Davos’ knot swelling to tie them to one another as the bond between them sings.
“Love you,” Davos gasps in the aftermath, his hands running up and down the curve of Aeron’s spine.
“Love you too,” Aeron whispers back, taking Davos’ jaw in his hands to kiss and kiss and kiss him until his lips feel tender from the effort.
Eventually, they register the coolness of the now half filled tub and, snickering like boys, maneuver their way to a standing position. Aeron with his legs wrapped around Davos’ waist, his alpha’s cock still buried in his cunt, allows himself to be lifted from the water and spread out on the furs of their bed so that Davos can grind himself inside him for several long minutes, only stopping once Aeron has come again, dry, with a pathetic mewl that makes Davos growl back.
“Did you lay with anyone else, while I was away?” Davos asks after a long silence, the nervousness in his voice and the suddenness of his question making Aeron lift his sleepy head to squint at him.
“I spent the majority of the war swollen like an Essosi melon. I’m not sure anyone would’ve wanted me, had I even cared to try.” Davos gives him a look like he very much doubts it. Aeron exhales hard through his nose, trying to beat back the anxiety starting to creep up his spine at this turn in conversation. “Why, did you?”
Davos blanches. “Gods no. Seven hells—no, absolutely not.”
“Hmm…” Aeron intones, running his fingers idly through the wiry hairs on his husband’s chest. “Why ask, then?”
Davos shrugs, looking up towards the ceiling. “I don’t know. The other men… They said it was a possibility. That it happens, you know. I wouldn’t’ve blamed you, if you said yes. I used to—” he stops, his mouth twisting unhappily before continuing again. “Sometimes, on the nights before a battle when I thought I was surely awaiting my end, I would imagine you with a lover. It made me half mad with jealousy, of course, but I also liked to think that you’d… I don’t know, found someone here to take care of you. Someone who could hold you in my absence.” He looks down at Aeron with a sardonic smile. “Then of course I’d fantasize about riding home and killing him but, well, I’ve never claimed to be perfect.”
Aeron looks at him sadly, then leans up and places a kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry you had to resort to such thoughts. I promise I never even considered straying. Not even when I thought you were dead.”
Davos’ smile wobbles. “And I’m sorry you thought that at all. You are the only person who truly exists to me now, Aeron. You and Della. So long as I have the two of you, I’ll never want for anything else.”
Aeron wants to echo the sentiment but the naked devotion in his husband’s face makes him press his lips together and nod instead, a lump at the back of his throat as he tries desperately not to weep with relief. Honestly, he’s such a fool. How could he have ever doubted that they’d end up here. Not that it hasn’t cost them—the gods only know it certainly has—but they’re here now, together, and nothing else matters.
“Now tell me,” Davos prompts with a smile, “you were standing with Cregan’s sister when we arrived this morning. I assume the two of you have grown close? What else you have managed to accomplish in my absence?”
So Aeron tells him. He tells him of his talent for medicine and split duties with Sara. He tells him of his early fumbles in childrearing and describes every lurid detail of his daughter’s birth. He tells him all, every thought he had while he was away, every fear, every reprieve, all of it. After a while Davos drops into sleep with a smile on his face, and reminded of his duties, Aeron gingerly exits the circle of his lover’s arms. It’s still only late afternoon and he has a list of things to do, but first he must speak to Cook about tonight’s dinner and then see if there’s anything Sara needs before he nips down to the Maester’s to retrieve whatever he thinks might help his husband’s healing wounds.
With a smile of his own, Aeron readies himself for the rest of his day.
Davos wakes with a start to the wail of a dragon dying.
No, wait—that’s not right.
He wakes to the piercing sound of his daughter crying and to the patter of several feet on the stone floor of his family’s chambers in Winterfell. He sits up abruptly to find his husband, his husband’s maid, and the child’s nanny all rushing about the room.
“Her stuffed dire wolf,” Aeron frets when he spots Davos staring. “We’ve lost it. Nira took her for a walk—it was lovely, Nira, really, thank you—but now she’s exhausted and she can’t sleep without her wolf—”
Davos reaches for his girl, ignoring the way the nurse hesitates before handing her over and only nodding his dismissal once she’s safe in his arms. Her tiny body shakes as he instinctually cradles her into the crook of his neck, letting his scent wash over her as he rumbles a reassuring purr that immediately has the child quieting.
“Oh thank the gods,” Aeron breathes, looking at the two of them with evident relief.
“Ser Aeron, it’s nearly dinner. Will you need help getting ready?” the maid, Nira, asks, drawing his husband’s attention to a silvery gray tunic in her hands. Aeron takes the proffered garment with a shake of his head.
“We’ll ready ourselves, thank you Nira.”
“And the child?”
Davos looks down at his daughter, smiling when she bats a hand up at him, wide awake now and clearly curious about his hair.
Aeron sighs. “We’ll take her with us.”
He watches his lover dress in a hurry, trying not to let his interest grow obvious in front of their pup as Aeron’s lovely body is revealed to him slowly before quickly getting covered back up again.
“Alright, your turn,” Aeron says once he’s through brushing his hair, trading Davos their daughter for a set of clothes in various tones of black and gray. He dresses quickly too, presenting himself for Aeron’s approval who smirks and runs his fingers through his hair before nodding. It’s then that he notices the three black ravens embroidered onto the collar of his lover’s shirt. Despite his abandonment of House Blackwood, there’s something powerful in seeing a part of his sigil wrapped softly around his omega’s neck. He leans in for a kiss that he tries to deepen, but Aeron just pushes him off with a laugh.
The great hall in Winterfell is a rather somber place. It dawns on him that he never actually stepped foot in here, prior to the war. In fact, he hadn’t done much in the way of exploring the place he eventually left his family to fend for themselves in for an entire year. He tries to shrug off the guilt as he watches Aeron greet a few people he doesn’t recognize before leading them to their seats. He’s clearly very familiar with the castle and its residents, and from what he told him earlier, it seems he’s found more than a few friends in the north. Davos bounces Della lightly on his knee when they sit, watching with anticipation as the food gets served. His hand finds Aeron’s beneath the table when Aeron turns to reintroduce him to the old man who hobbles over in a hurry to sit across from them.
“Maester Ulwyck, you remember my husband Davos Blackwood, don’t you?”
Ulwyck turns out to be a blustery old windbag, but he and Aeron seem to get on well enough. The occupants of the hall all look to Cregan when he enters with his sister, the pair of them the very picture of the unapproachable northern lord and lady as they sit at the head table with straight backs and blank faces. To anyone else, Cregan might look unaffected by all that’s transpired, but Davos knows him too well now to be fooled. Jace’s death was hard on him, and for it to have happened so early on in a war that turned out to be as grueling as it was… It’s safe to say the man he rode out with is not the same one who returned with him. It seems Sara Stark has learned as much.
Once the tables are laid, all turn to the Starks out of respect, waiting for their lord to help himself first before digging in as he’s sure so many of them want to. It’s been a long time since the soldiers had a proper meal.
Cregan reaches for the serving dish then stops, his eyes widening a fraction before he turns to look at Sara. Sara gives him an unreadable look, then looks at the dish, then up at where Davos and Aeron sit. Cregan’s eyes follow, his gaze locking with Davos’ mate’s for a moment before he nods and turns back to his plate. It’s a peculiar exchange that no one else seems to notice, the hall erupting in conversation as soon as the meal is underway. Davos shoots Aeron a questioning look, but Aeron just shakes his head.
“She’s going to act like she wants everything on your plate. Don’t let her have any, she’s much too young,” Aeron says instead, leaning over to waggle his finger at their daughter who gurgles delightedly at the attention. Davos laughs, glad for the distraction. He knows Aeron has built a life for himself here in his absence and he should be grateful—he is grateful—but there is a certain twinge that comes with feeling as though he’ll need to play catch up before he fully finds his place here too. It’ll be alright, though, he knows that. He has his family to guide him.
Dinner is a rowdier affair that he’d expected, all the soldiers taking to heart the few words Cregan stands to deliver halfway through, the sincerity of his thanks and assurances that, come what may, the north will continue to hold its own giving enough cause for celebration that by the end of the night the men have grown rather loud.
Aeron abandoned him hours ago, taking their daughter with him but insisting that Davos remain behind for as long as he’d like. Truthfully, he’d like nothing more than to sneak up after him to maximize the time they’ll have in bed together tonight, but first he’d like a word with the Lord of Winterfell.
From the corner of his eye he sees Cregan excuse himself and exit towards the ramparts through a side door. Davos follows stealthily, waiting until his friend breathes a sigh of relief into the wintery night before revealing himself from the shadows, smirking when Cregan stiffens and puts a hand on his sword before realizing it’s just him.
“Blackwood.”
“My lord.”
Cregan shakes his head, equal parts annoyed and amused. Davos seems to have that effect on the man.
“Shouldn’t you be tending to your husband, Davos?” The telling grin Davos gives him makes Cregan snort. “Well, I’m glad at least one of us is happy.”
Davos lets his smile slip, bumping his shoulder against the northerner’s as he steps up to stand next to him, the two of them looking out into the dark. “I’m sorry, Cregan,” he says in a low voice, no longer jesting. “It shouldn't've ended the way it did.”
Cregan sighs, a rare show of vulnerability for the man. “Aye,” is all he says in reply.
Wanting to lighten the mood, Davos asks after a moment, “what was that at dinner, by the way?”
Cregan, ever the Stark, doesn’t bother feigning ignorance despite the vagueness of the question. “The dishes served were ones from my childhood, foods my mother would have made for me when I wasn’t feeling well, before she died. I asked Sara. She thinks Aeron must’ve requested them from the kitchen. Cook’s been around since before I was born, I’m sure she enjoyed pulling out the old recipes.” He turns to look at Davos. “Your omega seems especially considerate. I haven’t had anyone extend a gesture like that in a long time. I’m afraid I was caught rather unaware.”
“Oh, well—that does sound like something he’d do,” Davos says, too surprised to think of any better response.
They stand in comfortable silence for a while, eventually walking along the length of the rampart to look out over the eastern wall. When Cregan turns to Davos again, there’s a numbness in his expression that Davos knows all too well. “These men will be leaving soon, you know.”
“Aye,” Davos agrees, nodding. “I’m sure they’re all eager to return to their wives and homes.”
Cregan nods too. “That, and they’ll be wanting to forget all that they’ve just seen.” He gives Davos a long, searching look. “I want you to know that you’re welcome to make your home here, in the north. There’s plenty of land. But… Sara says Aeron’s become somewhat of an invaluable advisor to her this past year, and I’ll admit I’d prefer to keep you as mine. So while I won’t blame you for leaving if that’s what you’d prefer, you’re also welcome to stay in Winterfell.”
Davos blinks. Despite everything they’d gone through together at the front, part of him had still half expected to have to beg for a place for his family in the north. He rubs his hand across his mouth, trying to swallow back the choked feeling threatening to overtake him. “I—Yes, thank you. Aeron has grown very fond of your sister, I think he’d be glad to stay in her employment. I only…” He looks at Cregan, trying not to wilt under the intensity of the northener’s stare. “I don’t want us to be an imposition. I mean—what would happen if Lady Sara ever got married? Or you, for that matter?”
Cregan looks off into the dark, brow furrowed. “Well, Sara’s welcome to find herself a mate if she wishes. I’ll not stand in the way of that. And if she ever leaves us… then she leaves us. I’m sure your husband will still find much to occupy his time here without her. As for me…” he stops, scuffing the snow that’s settled atop the rampart with the toe of his boot before continuing in a low voice. “Sara says it’s not fair of me to lay so much of my unhappiness on the grave of Jacaerys Velaryon. She says I couldn't possibly have known him as well as I think I did. But I did know him.” He looks up at Davos, voice stern. “I knew him. In the depths of who I am, I knew him. He was mine, and I lost him before I even got the chance to claim him. So… Yes, eventually I will have to find a wife, but it won’t be any time soon, and when I do eventually marry, I’ll just tell her that you and Aeron and Della—you’re family.”
“Simple as that, eh?” Davos jokes, his sorrow for his friend mingling with slow relief as he offers Cregan a grateful smile.
Cregan smiles back. “Simple as that.”
He climbs in bed next to Aeron about an hour later, plastering himself against his omega’s naked back as he gathers him to his chest to whisper confessions of love in his ear. Aeron swats at him sleepily, squawking indignantly when Davos presses his ice cold feet to his warm ones.
“You know,” he says after they’ve settled down, his voice muffled by the pillow he’s half speaking into. “I think I’d like to get married. Properly, I mean. A little ceremony, just for us.”
“There’s no sept in the north, my love,” Davos whispers back, his lips finding the old scars of his bites on Aeron’s neck and pressing a soft kiss there. Aeron indulges him, tilting his head to give him more access.
“Yes, well, I’m a Blackwood now. I’d take your gods as I have your name.”
Davos grins into the back of his neck, happiness swelling in his chest. “In the godswood then. Soon as it can be arranged. I’ll speak with Cregan.” Aeron hums his agreement, clearly struggling to stay conscious. Davos runs a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear before giving him a final kiss. “Sleep now, my love. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Who comes before the old gods this night?”
Sara clears her throat.
“Aeron, of house Bracken, comes here to be wed. An omega grown, true born and noble, he comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim him?”
Davos steps forward, back ramrod straight as he announces himself. “Davos of house Blackwood. Who gives him?”
“Sara, of house Stark, as godsmother to his eldest and his closest friend.” Davos watches Cregan smile at his sister’s nervously stiff tone, fondness alighting his face before he turns to Aeron and more somberly asks:
“Ser Aeron, will you take this man?”
Aeron turns to Davos, eyes bright in the dark of the winter’s night.
“I take this man,” he says without hesitation, head cocking just a tick to the left, like he’s daring Davos to meet him in this vow. Davos smiles wolfishly, always ready to hold his own against his omega.
“And you, ser Davos? Do you take this man?”
“Aye, I take this man.”
“You may now cloak your mate, and bring him under the protection of your name.”
The cloak is a beautiful thing, made of simple gray wool and trimmed with fur in the old Stark tradition, but with the three ravens of his house painstakingly embroidered on the back in silver thread so fine that in the light of the torches it shines white. The simplification of his house’s sigil had apparently been a mistake on the part of Sara’s seamstress originally, but Aeron decided they’d adopt it for their own after their last heat together. He’d said the three birds made him think of their little family, free now of both their houses and nestled happily in the gray of the north. Then Davos had suggested that a fourth could be added when the new babe came into the world, and that had made Aeron beam.
He settles the cloak around Aeron’s shoulders, pulling his hair gently free from the collar before leaning in to press a hand to his mate’s still flat stomach, smiling at the way it makes Aeron subtly preen.
“With the power vested in me as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I now pronounce you wed. May your house prosper and see many long summers.”
Davos feels Aeron laugh against his mouth when he dips him into a dramatic kiss that rouses hoots and jeers from Ulwyck, Nira, and their daughter who is now nearly a year old and cognizant enough to understand that her parents have just done something worth shrieking about.
Cregan congratulates them both warmly, Sara pulls Aeron in for a hard hug. There will be a small feast later that some of his old compatriots from the war have traveled to attend and at some point he’s sure Della will want some time with both of them after having defied her nanny and refused to sleep, but for now all that’s background noise. For now, all he can see is Aeron with his hair braided back, wearing his cloak and a secret smile meant just for him. All that matters is his mate, who he’s just married in the snow on a starry night in the godswood of their new home. He reaches for Aeron’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
All is well now, because they have themselves and Della and a little pup on the way. They have friends that love them and a place to call their own. It’s all he ever could’ve hoped for. He closes his eyes, grinning, and thanks the gods.