The corridors leading to the Queen’s private wing were unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
Lyn moved slowly, her cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, blending into the shadows. Her footsteps, light and deliberate, barely made a sound on the polished marble floors. Yet for someone like her—someone used to secrets and the soft tremor of change—this stillness screamed.
Two guards stood at the chamber’s entrance. Not the usual rotation. These were handpicked by Catelyn—faces Lyn recognized from the battlefield, not from palace duty. Hardened. Loyal. Silent.
That was the first sign.
The second was Catelyn herself. The commander hadn’t left the doorway all morning. She wasn’t pacing or alert—she was watching. Like a hound waiting for something to go wrong.
Lyn lingered in the alcove beyond sight, waiting. Observing.
A servant approached the chamber—one of the few allowed to pass. She carried a basin of water, nothing unusual. But the way Catelyn’s eyes followed her, then gently nodded before stepping aside—it spoke volumes. The queen was being protected, yes. But not from assassins.
From questions.
Lyn waited until the servant exited. When she did, she caught a fleeting glimpse of something on the cloth she carried—fine crimson thread embroidered around the edges. Personal linens. Scented with lavender. Stained faintly with vomit.
Her eyes narrowed.
A whisper stirred in her mind. She turned away, disappearing before the servant even noticed the flicker of movement.
Later that day, in the deserted corner of the royal library, Lyn found the same servant—Meiya, one of Siera’s trusted girls. The girl jumped at the sight of her.
“Lady Lyn—”
Lyn held up a hand. “Don’t speak. Just listen.”
Meiya’s throat bobbed. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“I know.”
A beat of silence.
Then Lyn stepped closer, voice quiet, without malice—but undeniably edged.
“You’ve changed the queen’s sheets three times today. She hasn’t eaten a full meal. She smells of mint and ginger root.”
Meiya paled.
Lyn tilted her head. “You’ve been binding her corsets looser. She hasn’t worn a full gown in days. And Catelyn would never guard a wound that tightly—unless it was something more fragile than steel.”
The servant lowered her gaze. Her silence was answer enough.
Lyn leaned in, her voice soft now, almost sympathetic.
“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”
Meiya hesitated. But the guilt in her face sealed it.
“I can’t say,” she whispered.
“You just did.”
Lyn stepped back, her mind already racing—not with judgment, but calculation. What this meant. Who knew. Who shouldn’t.
And what it would mean if the wrong people found out.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The air inside the war chamber was colder than the corridors. Gwi stood before the great oak table, hands braced on its edges, staring at a map he couldn’t see.
Since the discovery of his pendant at Lord Maren’s death scene, sleep had become a stranger. Thoughts gnawed at him endlessly—Siera’s expression that night, the way she froze when the guards laid out the bloodied evidence.
He had told her once, long ago, that she should never be made to see his darkness. But now she had—and she hadn’t said a word since.
A soft knock. He didn’t look up. “Enter.”
Lyn stepped inside, her gait graceful yet hesitant. "Gwi," she greeted, bowing her head—not in deference, but in quiet familiarity.
He barely nodded.
“I passed the queen’s wing earlier today,” Lyn began, voice light with feigned curiosity. “Silver Blades were stationed at every door. The rotation was tight, sharper than usual—as if someone high up had ordered a full lockdown. No servants allowed in. Not even those who raised her. Not even me.”
Gwi frowned. “I gave no such order.”
“I assumed not,” Lyn said, watching him. “I wondered if it came from Lady Catelyn. She never leaves the queen’s chamber now. Not even at night.”
That earned his full attention. “Why?”
“I asked around,” she replied, tone neutral. “They say the queen hasn’t left her bed in days. Eats little. Sleeps less. Fainted twice.”
Gwi froze. The word fainted lodged in his chest like a blade.
He turned slightly, breath short. Memory clawed at him—Siera collapsing once in his arms, her lips pale as ash, the healer’s grim whisper: The strain. The risk. The loss.
Now—again?
“She fainted?” he asked, voice rough.
Lyn nodded, her eyes never leaving him.
Gwi’s grip on the table tightened. His pulse roared in his ears.
“She’s always been strong,” Lyn said softly. “Even after the party attack, she stood. Even after Lethea’s claw nearly killed her. But now, suddenly—fragile. Sheltered.”
The words sliced deeper than they should. Gwi’s thoughts reeled. The pendant. Siera’s flinch at the sight of it, bloodied and damning. Had that moment shattered something inside her? Broken her body in ways grief had once before?
Was she crumbling beneath the weight of yet another wound tied to him?
His jaw clenched. Guilt pressed down like a mountain.
“She’s not ill, is she?” Lyn asked quietly. “But her steps slowed before the party. Her breath shortened. The healers come and go but never speak. And…”
She tilted her head. “Her maid changed the sheets three times today. She hasn’t eaten a full meal. There’s a faint scent—mint and ginger root. Her corsets have been looser. No full gowns in days. And Catelyn... Catelyn would guard her sword-tight, yes—but this? This feels like something more fragile than steel.”
The air between them tightened.
“So I wonder if the queen is…?” Lyn let the sentence dangle.
Gwi stared at her. She didn’t continue. Only tilted her head and whispered:
“Perhaps there is a reason she’s being guarded so closely. Perhaps there’s something… someone… worth guarding now.”
The words struck harder than she knew.
"There are many reasons a queen is shielded, but only one reason Catelyn guards her like a dragon curled around an egg." she continue
He said nothing. Couldn’t. His breath snagged like glass in his throat. For a moment, he was back in that shadowed room years ago—a bloodied bed, a midwife’s solemn shake of the head, Siera turning to the wall in silence.
His child. The one they had lost.
No. Not again.
But everything aligned now. Her pallor. Her silence. The guarded halls. The secrecy.
Pregnant.
The word struck him like lightning—brilliant, devastating, undeniable.
A wave of memories surged—Siera’s trembling hand resting over her stomach, the whisper of hope that once flickered and died. And now… again?
He stumbled back a step, clutching the edge of the table. The breath left him in stutters.
Why didn’t she tell me?
Joy and dread twisted into a storm. He should have known. Should’ve been the first to know. But instead, it came in fragments, stitched together by someone not even allowed near her door.
He had promised to protect her once. Had he failed her so deeply that she’d rather face this alone?
His voice cracked. “She... didn’t tell me.”
Lyn said nothing.
He turned from her, as if the war maps could offer direction through this. They didn’t.
Had Siera feared the child would suffer because of him? That his blood would curse it?
Or—had she truly believed he would abandon her again? That duty would outweigh the life they'd created together?
The thought hollowed him.
His fists trembled.
“She should’ve told me,” he whispered, barely more than breath.
Lyn stepped back, bowing her head. “Maybe she had her reasons. Or maybe... she didn’t want to give you another burden. Not when the kingdom already weighs so heavily.”
She reached the door and paused.
“Whatever the reason... you deserve to know. It’s your child too.”
Then she was gone.
Silence rushed back.
Gwi sank into the nearest chair as though the floor had crumbled beneath him. His breath came shallow. He looked at his hands—calloused, blood-worn—and imagined them trembling against soft skin. Felt the ghost of a heartbeat not yet formed.
He had not dared to dream of this again. Not after the last.
He closed his eyes. Guilt clawed at him, cold and deep.
But beneath it—beneath the weight and silence—something pulsed.
Not hope. Not yet.
Just the aching need to see her.
To know for certain.
To kneel before the life they thought had been lost forever.