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For days now, Gwayne had found a grievance in every timber and scrap of wool in their chamber.
He had already had the velvet window hangings taken down twice—once because they trapped too much light, and once because they trapped too little—before leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor. He had cross-examined the steward regarding the lineage of a mahogany writing desk that looked, to Gwayne’s raw, prickling eye, entirely untrustworthy.
Nine moons had passed—nine moons swelling with an indignity he was certain the gods had invented purely to spite him. He stood by the window, hands locked hard behind his back, fingers digging into his spine to out-breathe the dull ache settling low in his hips.
The air in the tower room felt stale, thick with the scent of dried lemon and the suffocating heat of the hearth. For a full fortnight, he had been cooped up within these masonry walls like a hawk hooded and chained to a perch, forbidden from mounting a horse, forbidden from walking the bailey without an escort of anxious guards, and driven half-mad by the unyielding woe of waiting.
Outside, the wind whipped off the bay, carrying the sharp, salt-laden tang of the harbor and the teasing call of gulls wheeling over the docks.
"I could ride," he muttered to the empty room, his voice tight, burning with a bitter edge of confinement. "I could take a horse out to the headlands right now, clear this wretched fog from my head, and be back before a single soul noticed I was gone."
The sound of footsteps echoed on the stone floor behind him. Ormund walked with the steady pace of an alpha who had heard this exact complaint every morning for the past week.
"The headlands are two miles of steep, uneven cliffside," Ormund observed, a gravelly rumble carrying from just behind Gwayne's shoulder. "And unless my memory fails me, a horse does not possess the capacity to catch you when your body decides to betray you mid-canter."
Gwayne did not turn around, though his jaw locked tight enough to ache. "My body has been betraying me hourly for nine moons, Ormund, and I require neither your ministrations nor your leave to do as I please."
"You require both," Ormund countered smoothly.
Before Gwayne could snap out a retort, another contraction bit deep—sudden and fierce enough to steal the breath straight from his lungs. His fists clenched tighter behind his back, color draining completely from his face, and for a split moment, his knees buckled.
Ormund’s reach was instant—hot and immovable—catching him by the waist before he could falter, pulling him back flush against a chest that felt as solid and unyielding as the fortress itself.
"I tire of this," Gwayne choked out, his forehead resting against the leaded panes as the pain crested and rolled away, leaving him quivering and slick with cold sweat. "I hate you, and I hate this tower, and the next time you look at me with that insufferable satisfaction, I am going to find a dagger."
"You may try," Ormund murmured into his hair.
Gwayne made to complain further, only for Ormund to scoop him effortlessly off his feet before another word could leave his lips. Gwayne’s hand shot out to bat uselessly at the alpha’s shoulder, but the movement lacked its usual strength; he was too dizzy and fatigued to fight as Ormund carried him across the room and placed him upon the bed.
Gwayne groaned and tried to curl inward to drown out his discomfort, but Ormund’s touch was already there, guiding him firmly onto his side against the mattress. Braced at an angle, Ormund pressed a palm flat against Gwayne’s lower back, kneading the cramp with a grounding pressure.
"I am going to survive this," Gwayne muttered through clenched teeth, glaring blindly toward the foot of the bed. "And when I do, I am going to write to the High Septon before the week is out, demanding to know by what statute the Mother invoked such torture."
Ormund leaned over him, dropping a gruff admonishment near his ear. "You may argue the wills of gods with him later. At present, I believe your body has elected to ignore your petitions."
Hours passed, and the pains did not recede; they intensified, carving a deeper trench into the marrow of Gwayne’s hips with every turn of the hourglass.
And on it went, until he had managed to fall into a fitful sleep only to rouse again when he heard the oak door creak open. He watched through weary eyes as the maester entered with the midwife, stepping with the careful, hushed tread of people accustomed to walking through a nobleman's temper. They brought with them the scent of boiled linen and herbs, and their faces wore the quiet inevitability of what was to come.
The maester, a thin old man with knotted fingers and a face like a wrinkled prune, took one look at the tightness of Gwayne’s frame and the grey sallowness staining his skin and immediately set his leather kit upon the trestle.
"My lord," the maester began, adopting a practiced register meant to soothe. "It is time we shifted you. The contractions are too close; the posture must—"
Ormund moved as the old man began his instructions, stepping away from the mattress as he prepared to leave—the instinctive retreat of an alpha making space for the attendants, a standard, expected courtesy in any highborn bedchamber.
Yet, for a fraction of a second, as Ormund’s frame lifted from the bed, a frantic, unreasoning panic tore through Gwayne.
The omega’s arm shot out from the sheets, fingers blindly clawing at the empty air before finding the edge of Ormund’s sleeve. He gripped it with a desperate, white-knuckled force that nearly tore the fabric.
The words rose to his throat—stay, don't leave me here to face this butcher's work alone—clamoring for release. But they hit the wall of his lifelong pride and shattered into dust. He could not say it. He could not make himself plead, could not lower his head and hand his husband the absolute victory of a spoken submission. To beg was to break everything he had spent years building.
So he said nothing. He only stared up with narrowed, furious eyes, swallowing roughly, his fingers screaming the plea his mouth refused to form.
Ormund looked down at him.
He did not blink. He did not offer a comforting word or a soft solace that would have sounded like pity. He simply looked at the harsh grip on his sleeve, took in the silent war written across Gwayne’s wan face, and understood every unspoken syllable of it.
The maester, mistaking the delay for lordly interference, cleared his throat nervously. "My Lord Hightower, it would be best if you waited in the gallery. The blood and the labor—it is not fitting—"
Ormund turned his head. He gave the maester a single, flat look—cool, devoid of heat, and stern enough to pin a man to the flagstones.
The maester bit back whatever else hovered on his tongue, snapping his mouth shut without another word. Ormund did not leave. He simply stepped back to the edge of the bed, sat down on the mattress, and locked his gaze onto Gwayne.
The hours that followed became a blur of pain and sweat, measured only by the agonizing rhythm of the contractions and the smell of salt pooling through the chamber.
The blood came with the next merciless wave—bright and hot against the linen, soaking through the layers until the bed was a stain of ruin. Gwayne let out a thin, breathless gasp, his head snapping back against the pillows as a fresh spasm tore through his belly, bringing gushes of wetness.
The scent of copper hung in the air, and Gwayne caught the hard, familiar clench of Ormund’s jaw—the violent jump of a muscle in his cheek betraying a tightly leashed revulsion. Ormund had never had the stomach for the crude realities of the world, keeping them meticulously scrubbed from person and hall.
Yet the alpha did not flinch or make a smarting comment. He did not reach for the silver pomander hanging at his belt to ward off the stench of foul air. He left it untouched, leaning closer to Gwayne, further into the heat and the mess of it, choosing the room's misery over his own discomfort.
A palm slid down Gwayne’s arm, wrapping around his wrist before their fingers interlaced completely, skin to skin. Ormund squeezed with a steady pressure—not a gentle caress, but a solid hold offering all the reassurance Gwayne sought.
"Push, my lord," the midwife urged, her hands gripping his knees to force his legs wider. "The head is coming. Push through it."
Gwayne didn't have the breath to curse them anymore. He didn't have the breath to argue. The pain was a living thing, hollowing him out, tearing him apart from the inside. With a ragged sob ripping from his throat, he arched upward, fingers crushing the bones of Ormund's hand as he gave everything he had left.
And then, with one final, savage contraction that stole the wind from the room, the pressure broke. A high, piercing wail cut through the silence, clearing the cotton from Gwayne's ears as he lay frozen on the sheets.
Before his chest could settle from its heaving, a wet, writhing shape was laid against his bare flesh. The midwife moved with practiced speed, tucking a warm cloth around the child while Gwayne held her fast.
He collapsed back against the headboard, utterly spent, his breath coming in shallow pants as he stared down blindly at the tiny weight resting against his heart.
The armor was gone. Every biting word, every cynical defense, every bitter drop of pride had been burned away in the fire of the labor. His eyes welled with hot, unbidden tears looking down at the red-faced creature fighting for her first whimpers.
"You beautiful girl," Gwayne whispered, his voice cracking past all repair. His hand lifted, his fingers trembling as they traced the damp cheek of his daughter. "You nearly killed me, do you know that? You reckless thing..."
Gwayne stayed lost in the daze of it, transfixed by her, until a shadow fell over them both. Ormund had moved to the head of the bed, his dark eyes shifting from the child back to Gwayne.
"She has your disposition," Ormund said quietly, the hard line of his jaw finally softening a touch. He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against Gwayne’s as he looked down at the babe. "A terrifying prospect for the Reach."
Gwayne looked sideways at him, exhaustion and begrudging affection warring within him.
"I am not at fault," Gwayne sniffed, though his hand reached out blindly to catch the sleeve of Ormund's tunic once more, holding fast. "I never am."
"Of course not," Ormund agreed dryly. He leaned down and pressed a rough kiss to Gwayne’s damp temple. “You never are.”
Later that night, when the space had cleared of maesters, servants, and the general tenseness of the castle, the chamber was quiet again save for the crackle of the hearth.
The infant slept soundly in Gwayne's arms. The omega was still propped against the pillows, pale and wrung out, but he felt the willful stubbornness of a man who had survived a siege and intended to hold the stronghold against all comers.
At Ormund's behest, Gwayne had scooted over, and the alpha had carefully perched beside him, a heavy arm resting over Gwayne’s shoulder as they gazed upon their daughter.
"I’m not sure what to call her yet," Gwayne said softly into the room, blinking up to stare at the flicker of the fire. "Perhaps something entirely unreasonable, just to enrage my father."
Ormund merely hummed.
"Call her what you like," Ormund murmured. "So long as her being here means you will now cease looking as though you mean to slide a knife between my ribs while I sleep."
Gwayne let out a breathy huff of a laugh, leaning further into the alpha's side. "I make no promises, husband. The dark has plenty of hours left, and you are still insufferably well-pleased with yourself."