The Promised Princess - Chapter 18 - deaddolphins - Shingeki no Kyojin (2024)

Chapter Text

“He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.”

Rhaegar Targaryen. Daenerys IV, A Clash of Kings.

XVII

A Wolf of Royal Blood

Year 855

The North, near Shiganshina.

The biting wind swept through the barley fields, stirring up spirals of golden leaves that danced and twirled in the air before settling back to the earth. Despite the lateness of the hour, a lingering light cast the landscape in a surreal, buttery glow. It was the waning of the eleventh month, and the midnight sun was gracing the northern skies.

Atop a hill, astride a plump Pinto with a mane as dark as the night, Ares Yeager watched the workers below. The icy breeze toyed with the fringes of his sable cloak. Though there was no trace of a beard on his youthful face, his demeanour seemed to have the weight of a man who understood the gravity of his responsibilities.

“You know,” he said to the fellow at his side. “I once heard from my old nurse a tale about the midnight sun, a gift from the gods, she said, endless days of light to quicken the harvest.”

Jean grumbled with amusem*nt, a rumble as deep as distant thunder. “I see it clear as day—like your father, you hold the gods’ gifts close to your heart. You haven’t given me a moment’s peace, boy.”

Ares chuckled, aware that Jean’s jest held some sort of truth. Indeed, for the past few weeks, their days had been completely consumed, a never-ending cycle of toil from dawn to dusk.

And why such relentless labour? Not solely due to the encroaching winter, though that was paramount. The fact was that, for the first time in his existence, Ares had been entrusted with the duty of overseeing the northern lands entirely on his own. From the moment Lord Eren and his lady wife departed Shiganshina on their journey to the south, he had been serving as the Warden of the North while his father delved into the political machinations of the capital.

“Listen closely, dear Ares,” Lord Eren had imparted to him in the days preceding their departure, his voice warm. “If you hear the whispers of the wind, you shall learn the shifting of seasons within it. As a northerner, you grasp this, and though I would prefer to remain here during the midnight sun, my presence in the capital is imperative. I have concluded that someone must oversee the harvest in my stead, and that someone shall be you, my son. You shall stand as the Warden of the North in my absence, and you shall work diligently when the midnight sun arrives. It’s the duty that comes with your birthright.”

Though his father’s confidence should not have taken him aback, for he had long been aware of the expectations placed upon him, Ares found himself nonetheless surprised. Taking care of Shiganshina during his father’s hunting affairs or journeys to nearby towns for business was one thing. The harvest, however, was an entirely different matter. It was an intense task that demanded not only supervising the peasants to ensure their efficiency, but also the readiness to tackle any adversity that might arise.

For Ares, it entailed far more than merely being present; it required a wholehearted commitment to the welfare of his people and a deep understanding of the myriad challenges and opportunities they faced in their harsh, demanding world. Yet he was a Yeager—the firstborn of the current Warden of the North. From the moment he drew his first breath, he was destined for this. The mantle of leadership would one day fall upon his shoulders, as he would wield Oathkeeper to guide his people. This destiny was his birthright, and his father was resolute in preserving it.

So, with the fervent passion of youth throbbing in his chest, he gave his response. “Count on me, Father. We will make the most of the midnight sun, and the polar night will find the harvest complete. I assure you.”

Though the words might have seemed youthful, Lord Eren betrayed no hint of amusem*nt. Pride adorned his face instead when he smiled at him, highlighting his profound trust in his son. And so, Ares knew that he would keep his word, for his father, for his family, and for the North.

To achieve this, since the first day that the entourage departed at the end of the ninth month, Ares had woken up long before dawn. By first light, he was already in the fields, supervising and helping the workers, ensuring each task was executed with precision and haste. In his mind, the words that had been spoken to each Winter Lord resonated—his success was the success of his people. And following that, he believed that his triumph in those weeks would also be his father’s triumph.

When he returns, he will witness my capability as a worthy heir, he told himself steadfastly. He will find me entirely trustworthy. I will earn his pride.

The task had been far from easy; that much was true. The vast and rugged northern lands demanded constant attention. The harvest had to be gathered with alacrity, with each grain and vegetable carefully stored. The rudimentary yet invaluable machinery grappled with the unforgiving cold and rugged terrain. Wooden ploughs groaned against the frozen earth, while horses strained to carve deep furrows for the crops to take root. Moreover, a handful of silos had been found in perilous condition, some needing complete reconstruction to ensure the safe storage of grains. Days prior, several threshers had shattered, squandering precious time in their repair. Ares and the farmers laboured tirelessly for hours, knowing that each minute lost could spell disaster for the harvest.

Despite these trials, the collective resolve remained unwavering. They toiled tirelessly, day in and day out, ensuring that each crop was reaped in time. And as the final days of the midnight sun dwindled, it became evident that the most arduous phase had passed. It was certain that upon Lord Eren’s return, there would be scant tasks left for him to undertake.

“The polar nights approach,” Ares remarked to Jean, “and there you shall find respite.”

Jean’s expression soured. “I’m not so certain of that.”

“Why do you say so?” The boy raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“The air carries a change. I sense a coming winter, Ares. Your father will perceive it too, and he will persist in preparations even through the polar nights.”

Jean’s demeanour towards his own words was not annoyance, but rather a gravity that Ares could not dismiss.

Ares was a young summer child who had only known a brief, mild winter spanning three years. He remained deeply connected to his northern roots, understanding the harsh realities that winter imposed on everyone. He knew well that winter would arrive unyieldingly, showing no mercy period or feeble ones.

Yet, despite the daunting prospect of winter, something within him whispered that perhaps its severity would peak and wane. In his thoughts and heart, he envisioned it as another mild one with gentle snowfalls that would celebrate the warmth of family. For this to hold truth, though, he knew the worst would first have to pass. What was the worst? It was something alien to him, a fleeting memory akin to an icy dream.

We’ll make it… We’ll make it… Little pup… We will make it.

“How do you see the progress?” Jean queried beside him, taking him out of his reverie.

Ares shivered, as if a chilling gust from the depths of the earth had suddenly gripped him. “The fields?” he inquired, chastising himself for his momentary distraction. “I think we’re making good headway. The remainder will be easy.”

“Indeed. We have weathered the worst of it. With a bit more effort, everything will be safely stored before the darkness descends. Let us join the workers, hmm?” Jean proposed in his odd silence. “Let’s give them some hands.”

The boy nodded, unable to shake the chill that had seized his body—a sensation he couldn’t quite explain but found unnerving. It struck him as ironic, considering the Yeagers were known for enduring cold with fortitude.

Below, in the expanse that sprawled at the hill’s base, the land stretched out in furrows and contours. Peasants moved among the fields of crops, their hands weathered by the sun and toil. The joyful laughter of children reverberated in the crisp air, mingled with the autumnal scent that hung delicately on the breeze. The tools of the farmers gleamed in the twilight’s gentle glow, while the wooden carts, with their rhythmic creaking, bore the bounty of the harvest.

As they descended, some people greeted the young lord with bows and deference, gestures that he had witnessed his father receive a thousand and a million times. It still felt strange to be the recipient, but he made sure to respond with a friendly nod and a gracious smile.

They are my people, he reflected with a sigh. Not only because I am the heir, but because my very roots are entwined with this soil, my blood is from this land.

Upon reaching the valley floor, Ares paused, taking in the ceaseless activity that filled the fields. Barley threshing was underway, with farmers employing horse-drawn threshers to separate grain from the chaff. The rhythmic cadence of the machines melded with the rustle of wheat and the gentle whinnying of horses, forming an earthly symphony that reverberated through the hills.

“Good morrow, good sires,” Ares began, his voice resonating with a touch of warmth. “How fares the harvest? Do you require some help?”

Approaching him, one of the seasoned labourers detailed the dilemma gripping one of the threshers. “It is clogged with the density of the barley, my lord. We have tried all but require more brawn. If you could aid us in unclogging the thresher, milord, it would be a boon.”

Without pause, Ares nodded. “Then let me help.”

He shed his sable cloak, for it was too heavy for toiling, and rolled up the sleeves of his kaftan. The young lord had no aversion to grime, his hands eager to join the collective endeavour. With deft skill and strength, he lent his might. And so long, the thresher resumed its steady churn, barley grains cascading in orderly heaps. Pride lit Ares’ gaze as he surveyed their triumph.

“Is there anything else?” He inquired, while Jean smiled proudly.

Thus unfolded another day beneath the midnight sun’s gaze, where Ares and the northern men toiled ceaselessly. With each dawn, the looming spectre of polar nights drew near. Ares resolved to eschew the previous year’s setbacks, as he harboured hope that his father and Mikasa would return from the capital by then.

I wonder how they are doing, Ares mused to himself during the midday respite. Astro was sitting by his side, both relishing a momentary reprieve beneath the shade of an oak tree. The gentle breeze kissed their faces as they watched the avian exodus in the sky, all of them migrating towards warmer climes.

Jean, ever effervescent and gregarious, mingled among the men, regaling them with expedition tales and eliciting laughter. Ares observed him momentarily, with a blend of admiration for his talent to uplift spirits and a subtle disquiet at his yearning for solitude. It wasn’t that Ares shunned their company, but rather, he craved moments of introspection alone with his wolf.

“Do you miss them, Astro?” He asked as if the direwolf could give an answer.

And so, Astro raised his head, his small, yellow eyes betraying a blend of longing and curiosity. With a soft growl, he seemed to convey his nostalgia and yearning.

“I understand, old friend,” Ares murmured. “But fear not; they shall return soon. Until then, we shall stand by each other’s sides.”

The absence of Gabi and her Nightmare in recent weeks had cast a shadow over Astro’s behaviour. It was not surprising, given that the young direwolves, so close in age, had spent most of their time together, mirroring the bond between Ares and Gabi. Once energetic and playful, Astro now seemed more withdrawn and melancholic. Ares could sense the shift in his companion, and though he too missed Gabi, he knew Astro felt Nightmare’s absence just as keenly.

Yet, Astro was not the only one with a melancholic heart. Ares himself longed for the presence of Greystorm, the wise old direwolf, whose steady companionship had always instilled a sense of security and calm. He also missed the direwolf pups his father had rescued from the forest of giant trees. Their boundless energy and overflowing curiosity had brought a spark of joy to their home.

Ares remembered the days spent watching the cubs play in the weeks after the fás, nibbling on branches and chasing each other in a whirlwind of legs and tails. He had developed a special attachment to them, finding solace in their company.

“The pups must be missing you too, Astro,” he mused, glancing at the direwolf beside him. “They’re probably wondering when they’ll see you again.” They’ll be back. All of them; Father, Gabi, the wolves, and Mikasa.” A smile touched his lips. “Now, we have duties to fulfil and lands to tend; let’s go, my friend.”

Astro’s ears twitched, attuned to every sound, as if comprehending each uttered word. And as Ares straightened himself, a chilling noise sliced through the air, freezing him in place.

“Lad,” a voice, rough and resonant, bellowed from behind. “Good morrow, lad,” the voice spoke again.

The brown dire wolf tensed—its fur bristling, eyes locked on the figure emerging from the dense shadows of the nearby woods. Ares, responding to his companion’s reaction, turned slowly. His hand instinctively crept towards the hilt of his sword. Before him stood what seemed to be an older man—swathed in a shabby, dark cloak that seemed to meld with the surrounding darkness.

“Leave it, lad. I’m no threat to children.” The man’s voice carried a gravelly authority. Though Ares couldn’t make out the man’s features clearly, he felt the sharp intensity of the stranger’s gaze, meticulously tracking his movements and noting the barely perceptible grip on his sword’s handle.

The boy hesitated. The man, with his threadbare clothes and unsettling presence, was a stranger, an intruder in his known world. It wasn’t just Astro with his bristly fur and his distrustful look directed at the man that alerted him to such an anomaly. It was a visceral sensation, a fear that coiled in the pit of his stomach and spread to his face—a disturbing tremor running through every pore of his skin.

He could sense that he was not from these lands. Yet, there was something more—a kind of inexplicable intuition whispering that this man was indeed from the north. His bearing and movements betrayed him. But, from which part exactly? He couldn’t say.

It was another fit of dry coughing from the hermit that shattered Ares from his reverie, jolting him into action. He reached for his canteen at his side, releasing the grip on the pommel of his sword, and offered it to the man, without uttering a word.

“Ah, thank you. In these times, kindness is a rare coin, seldom spent on an old man like me. Indeed, thank you.”

“You are not from here,” Ares managed to say at last, the words tumbling from his lips like stones down a hillside. “Are you lost or something?”

The man drew back his hood ever so slightly, unveiling eyes akin to the deep, cold sea, their intensity unsettling as they gleamed. Ares swallowed hard; his nerves taut as bowstrings.

“I used to be from around here. But I seek quieter places now, untouched by the blinding glare of excessive light.”

“And why is that?” He inquired, curiosity mingling with apprehension.

The old man took a long draught from the canteen, the water revitalising his parched lips. “In my youth, I chased after the light, believing it to hold all answers,” he recounted. “But within its radiance, I found only corruption, deceit, and darkness deeper than the blackest night. The light blinds and deceives. In the quiet, in the shadows, truth reveals itself.”

Handling the canteen back, the hermit’s gaze remained fixed on the boy, his stare piercing. Ares shivered under the scrutiny, feeling as though the old man gazed into his very soul. “In shadows lies freedom,” he declared, his voice resonant with conviction. “Freedom from prying eyes, from burdensome expectations.”

An uneasy sensation prickled at Ares’ neck as he scanned the surrounding woods, the shadows seeming to stretch and thicken. Truth be told, he couldn’t fathom what this person was prattling on about; every word of his seemed like a jumble of nonsense. Yet despite his confusion, there was an inexplicable force that anchored his feet to the ground, tethering him near this seemingly mad wanderer from god knows where.

“Freedom?”

“Freedom from the shackles of scrutiny, from the weight of expectations.”

“And…” Ares gulped. “Why do you want freedom?”

The hermit chuckled, a sound devoid of mirth, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the boys, as if searching for something unseen.

“Eager to unearth secrets better left buried,” the man said. “But answers elude you for now. To grasp my freedom, you must first embrace the darkness.”

“I do not fear the dark, if that’s what you mean,” Ares declared, though his bravado faltered at the edges.

The man’s laughter echoed once more, yet it held no warmth, no joy, just a hollow emptiness that chilled the air.

“Truly, you bring to mind someone I once held dear as a brother.” His eyes narrowed with sudden intensity. Within their depths, a flicker of menace danced like shadows cast by an unseen fire. “You remind me of a son I might have cherished. Yet…”

The hermit’s words hung in the air ominously, trailing off like mist dispersing under a darkening sky. Ares hesitated, torn between curiosity and an instinctual fear that had gripped him from the moment he first encountered this stranger. Despite the inexplicable pull toward the hermit, Ares couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeply sinister beneath the hermit’s tranquil demeanour.

It was a revelation tinged with dread, something insidious that seemed to pulse with the extremes of heat and cold. Ares felt the weight of impending danger settling upon him, a sensation that crawled beneath his skin like a venomous serpent ready to strike.

His better judgement screamed at him to remain silent and to withhold the question that burned on his tongue like acid. Yet, against his will, the words slipped out in a rush of breathless urgency: “Who are you?”

And so, the silence that followed stretched taut and daring: had Ares crossed an invisible line? It seemed so.

The man’s demeanour, previously veiled in layers of mystery and guarded nostalgia, now seemed to crackle with an undercurrent of danger. His eyes, dark and inscrutable, bore into Ares with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine.

His voice, when it finally came, was low and measured, yet carried a weight that chilled Ares to the bone. “Who am I?” The question echoed back at him, imbued with a hint of mockery. It was not an answer, but a challenge—a dare to ask again.

But Ares snapped back to his senses as a primal instinct pulsed through his cerebral cortex, urging him to flee. He took a step back, then another, each movement driven by an urgent need to escape.

“Don’t leave,” the man called after him, rooted to his spot. “I’ve told you already; I don’t harm children. Especially those who could be family.”

Family? How could this stranger claim such a connection when they had only just met? Ares was tempted to speak again, feeling a strange force pulling him towards this stranger—without being able to ignore the persistent fear and chills that had invaded him from the beginning. However, just as he was about to open his mouth, the sound of a horn resounded in every corner of the place, shaking the surrounding air with its clamour.

Ahooooooooooooooooooooooooo. The call came drifting through the brilliance of the midnight sun. Ares turned around, gazing at his surroundings. The long, low note lingered at the edge of hearing, then faded into silence. Just one call, he thought. One call of the horn could mean only one thing: someone was approaching.

Whatever was approaching must have been somewhat friendly, for Astro’s tail began to wag as he stuck out his tongue. The direwolf turned, trotting off and disappearing into the fields.

“A wolf shouldn’t leave you like that alone; he needs more training,” the man remarked, leaning on his long staff. “You’re fortunate that, as I’ve told you, I don’t harm children.”

What was that supposed to mean? Ares didn’t know, and the man’s riddles were beginning to grate on his nerves. Yet the stranger said no more. Raising a hand in farewell, he left no room for questions. With slow, deliberate steps, he departed.

Who is this one? Ares pondered, straining to recall if he had ever seen the man before. But it was a titanic task to remember such a detail. The North was vast and wild, harbouring people of all kinds. It would be impossible to remember all the people he had met so far. So, he told himself that he had merely stumbled upon one of those little oddities that occasionally emerged from the wilderness. Convincing himself that he had simply crossed paths with a lonely and almost mad old man was more comforting than recalling the fear he had felt in his presence.

Following the path his direwolf had taken, Ares returned to the fields, where the workers had long since resumed their tasks. He realised he had lost track of time and felt a flush of embarrassment. But there was little time for such thoughts as Jean approached him.

“Where were you?” The man asked, frowning. Ares hesitated, but Jean continued regardless. “Well, never mind. Take your horse and call your wolf. We are returning to Shiganshina.”

“Why? Is anyone hurt? Why did the horn sound?”

“Our scouts, Ares,” the man of Trost told him. “They are escorting your father’s entourage to Shiganshina. They have returned.”

As they departed, Jean forging the path ahead, Ares glanced back once more, casting a final gaze over the fields. Not a trace remained of that strange man he had encountered.

Shiganshina, The Wolf Tower.

The voting happened in the aftermath of the calamity. It had been when the city cloaked in a sombre grey, as though the heavens themselves arose in a melancholic reflection of the unrest that floated like a spectral whisper in the air.

As duty and honour demanded, Eren cast his vow in the sept before the eyes of gods both old and new, ensuring that no shadow of perjury could stain his pledge. Clad in his finest attire, he stood in that hallowed hall where destiny itself was forged amidst murmurs and furtive glances. His wife accompanied him. Draped in a veil, she concealed her reddened eyes, the remnants of a night spent in tear-soaked dreams.

The atmosphere, thick with unease and fear, enveloped him like a suffocating shroud. In those ephemeral moments, Eren pondered his decision not once, not twice, but millions of times in a fleeting second. Was his vote wise? Would he regret his steps? What disaster might his choice invite? Brief yet eternal, visions of an uncertain future flashed before his mind—the sorrows, the promises, and the sacrifices intertwined with his vow. His heart had beat with a painful force, as though it sought to flee from the burden laid upon him.

But escape, in such a situation, was an elusive notion.

So, summoning determination from the depths of his soul, he approached the altar, his steps resolute despite the tempest within. He knew that his decision, fraught with complexities and peril, was necessary. The gods, serene and impassive, seemed to regard him with ageless wisdom beyond mortal ken. He wrote the name of his chosen prince to inherit the crown, feeling the weight of his choice settle upon his spirit. Sighing, he then slipped the piece of parchment into the golden urn, knowing that his deed was done.

Then he took Mikasa, his beloved Mikasa, by the hand and led her away. Not to the Royal Keep, which she claimed no longer felt like home. They had left Mitras behind, enshrouded in mist. They had departed from the city in the first galley, setting sail at dawn to the songs of shy morning nightingales. They left the wrangles of golden kings behind, yet with a certainty that they would linger—an unresolved chord echoing in their hearts henceforth.

And now they were home once more—their true home, wrapped in the waning midnight sun.

“I thought you would remain a few more weeks in the capital for the crown prince’s coronation,” Carla said, her gaze wandering from Eren to Mikasa. “Did something happen?”

Eren opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he rubbed his tired temples.

“It was Gabi, was it not?” Lady Carla’s voice cut through the silence; a mother’s chiding laced with frustration. “That girl, I bid her to behave herself with decorum.”

“I behaved myself well enough, Mother,” Gabi interjected, her tone petulant. “Perhaps not to your lofty standards, but I did. The truth is…” Her voice faltered while she cast a sullen glance to her sides, her petulance giving way to a pout. “I am not the one to say it.”

“What is it that you are supposed to not say?” The Yeager matriarch opened and closed her mouth, her eyes wide with a burgeoning incredulity. “You are frightening me, all of you.”

“I’m pregnant, Lady Mother,” Mikasa finally said, her voice firm yet burdened, a sigh stifled upon her lips. “I am with child, and we had to return because… because it was necessary.”

Lady Carla’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “Pregnant?” Her voice was a rare thing between disbelief and joy. She took a hesitant step forward, her gaze darting between Mikasa and Eren, searching their faces for confirmation. “A new member of this household? A pup?”

Eren nodded, a faint, almost tentative smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yes, Mother. Mikasa is with child.”

For a moment, the tension in the room dissolved. It was as if frosts of doubt melted away, giving rise to the dawn of a new hope. Carla Yeager’s amber eyes sparkled, her entire demeanour softening. “Oh, this is wonderful news!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to envelop her daughter-in-law in a warm, heartfelt embrace. “A grandchild! Oh, gods! What a blessing it is!”

It is it truly is, Eren thought at his wife’s side. The birth rate among the children of wolf blood had always been sparse. For generations, lords and ladies alike were fortunate to bear one or two children—three if the gods blessed them with luck. They were never a large family; they never had been. That’s why each new pregnancy was celebrated as though the child had already drawn breath into the world.

“Thank you, Lady Carla,” Mikasa managed to say softly.

Turning to Eren, his mother cupped his face in her hands, her joy evident in every line of her face. “My dear son, I am so proud of you. This is a new chapter for our family, a chapter filled with hope and promise.”

He smiled, but the sparkle of it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“But… why do you both seem so troubled?” The brightness in Lady Carla’s eyes dimmed slightly as she noticed the subtle shadows in his expression and the weariness in Mikasa’s posture. She stepped back, her brow furrowing with concern. “Is something wrong?”

It is far from wrong, indeed, Eren pondered. Before he or anyone could respond, Gabi exploded with indignation, her voice sharp and filled with anger.

“They want to steal Mikasa’s child!” she yelled. “That cursed c*nt of a prince and his scheming lot! They’re plotting to snatch Mikasa’s child to secure the throne, just because he couldn’t have his own children and now seeks to dismantle the harem! He’s a fool; he’s—”

Lady Carla’s face hardened, her maternal instinct guiding her response. “Oh, mind your tongue, you, impudent girl,” she said. “You speak of Mikasa’s kin!”

Gabi’s defiance didn’t waver as she kicked at the ground, her frustration evident. “So what? They are schemers, manipulating everything for power! How can they do this to her, hmm?? This is not love of family—it is wickedness!”

Eren sensed the precise moment when Mikasa recoiled, her hand finding solace in her belly. No words slipped from her lips, yet her stance spoke volumes. She had a pain inside her, but she would rather not say it.

“Enough, Gabi,” he interrupted sharply. “Go to your chambers, now.”

The girl glared defiantly at him for a moment longer before storming out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

So, silence settled heavily upon the room as Lady Carla turned back to Eren and Mikasa, her eyes still wide with shock. “Is what she said true?”

“It’s… complicated, Mother.” He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “There are political tensions surrounding Mikasa’s pregnancy.”

Lady Carla’s breath caught, her mind racing to comprehend the implications of such evil machinations within the royal family. “But… why?”

“My mother and brother brokered this match for me, not solely for the forging of alliances, but with the keen ambition that I might bear a child for their cause,” Mikasa said at last. Her voice carried a weight of revelation, laden with unspoken burdens that strained beneath the surface. “It seems that this was always their aim…” Her voice wavered, her brow knitting in pained realisation, tears threatening to spill over. “I truly had no inkling—no inkling at all. If only I had known, then… but I fear even that knowledge would have changed nothing.” Her gaze turned towards Eren, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry, Eren. I’m really sorry.”

“None of this is your fault,” he said immediately as he stepped closer to her. “You couldn’t have known, and even if you had, I’m afraid that nothing could have been done regardless.”

The atmosphere shattered as a cry escaped Mikasa’s lips, a raw and anguished sound that ricocheted through the room. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, tears streaming down her cheeks unchecked, a poignant expression of loss—of innocence, of trust.

“I’ve only ever done what was expected of me,” she choked out, her voice thick with emotion. “I was bred for marriage, raised to fulfil this duty. If I had rejected you the moment you offered to annul our betrothal, I would have forfeited everything. Yet perhaps I should have done it.”

Eren stood frozen, his heart breaking at the sight of his wife’s torment. “Mikasa,” he whispered, struggling to find the right words amidst the complexity of their situation.

But it was Lady Carla who stepped forward, her voice gentle yet firm. “My dear child. No one should ever feel their worth depends on such decisions.”

“I never wanted any of this,” Mikasa rasped hoarsely, her voice cracking with sorrow. “But I had no choice.”

“You must rest now, my dear,” his lady mother insisted. “This is all too much for you, especially with your babe on the way. We will talk more later, alright? Rest now, my daughter. The journey has been long, and the midnight sun is restless. You need a peaceful sleep right now.”

With that, Lady Carla signalled to her attendants, who approached quietly and guided Mikasa from the room with the utmost care. She gave them clear instructions—closing shutters against the cold, drawing curtains to shield her from the light, and ensuring the maids attended to every need of the pregnant Lady of Shiganshina from now on.

As Mikasa was led away, Eren stood in his place, frozen. He found himself compelled to embody the role of a true man, not merely by title but by responsibility—husband, father, leader of his pack. A primal instinct urged him to devise a steadfast strategy to safeguard those under his charge. How could he fathom relinquishing his child to distant hands? How could he consent to this when he eagerly anticipated raising a little wolf alongside his beloved wife? How could he condone the separation of his child and stand by as others shattered Mikasa’s heart? He could not, he should not, he must not.

However…

However…

Eren’s eyes, once vigilant and keen, were now wandering like a lost man in a dense fog. His mind, which had once conceived elaborate strategies of siege and defence, was now faltering, akin to a vessel adrift in tumultuous waters. How could he mend this shattered situation? How could he shield Mikasa from the repercussions of decisions made long before their time together? These questions tormented him, each one tightening like a knot in his chest. He felt a profound helplessness, an overwhelming sense of guilt that gnawed at his resolve.

“I am at a loss,” he murmured, his voice a fragile thread that carried to his mother’s attentive ears. “Truly, I don’t know what I should do.” He, the man-child who had reclaimed a stronghold and borne the weight of northern heritage unprepared, now found himself at a crossroads of uncertainty.

“There must be a way,” his mother interjected, approaching him with a firm yet gentle hand, and guiding him towards a seat. It was as though she feared his fall more than anything else.

Eren clenched his fists, trying to steady his breath as he felt his mother’s presence still there with him. Her wisdom had guided so many of his choices in the past, and now he longed for her counsel, though the right words to ask for it seemed to elude him. So he focused on his breathing, inhaling the crisp, invigorating air of the north, letting it cleanse his lungs of the stale southern air.

“Her father gave her the title of Princess Royal on the eve of our wedding, and she says it gives her authority without having to answer to her mother and brother,” he said softly. “Yet, she grapples with turmoil. Torn between allegiance to her kin and the longing for a simple family life. She knows that her decision will reverberate across the realm.” Another pause, another catch in his voice. “She is afraid when all I ever desired for her was happiness.”

“I can fathom their predicament.” Lady Carla sighed. “I can grasp, to some extent, that their barrenness may be their undoing. The machinations within that place might be treacherous, unimaginably so. However, to conceal it from Mikasa, to manipulate her so callously and keep her in the dark even when their future hinges on her…” She turned to Eren, meeting his gaze with a solemn intensity. “To use you in such a manner, my son…”

He clicked his tongue. “I’ve been in that position before, haven’t I?” Take a wife, produce an heir, and make this heir have his direwolf too. “Truly, the least of my concerns lie with myself. What troubles me the most is that she was blissfully happy, brimming with joy at the prospect of motherhood, only to discover the machinations of others.” He huffed, exhausted. “You should have seen her on our journey back home, mother; I saw her sorrow, though she tried valiantly to shield it from me.”

Eren paused, the weight of his words catching in his throat. Suddenly, a twinge between his eyebrows signalled the onset of tears, inevitable and poignant. This anguish wasn’t for himself; it was for her, for Mikasa, for the selfless hope she held of giving him a child and granting him the cherished role of fatherhood from the very beginning.

Struggling to suppress his emotions and maintain composure, he began to weep softly, muffling his sobs with a hand over his mouth. He had yearned to build a family with Mikasa ever since he first realised his love for her, striding purposefully towards the future they could share. There had been no hesitation; he had pursued her with unwavering determination, and she had embraced him with open arms and tender smiles.

He dreamed of a future where they would be parents together, sharing in the joys and responsibilities of raising children. From the moment he acknowledged their love, he had envisioned a home resonating with love and the laughter of children. He longed for a sanctuary where their offspring could grow unburdened by the constraints imposed by society, free to forge their own paths without the weight of external expectations. He was weary of a world that predetermined each person’s fate from birth, yearning to offer his children the freedom to discover their true selves without constraint.

Yet, fate had intervened cruelly. In the unforgiving world they navigated, they found themselves unexpectedly burdened with a responsibility they had not sought—a crown meant for the child for whom they had so much prayed.

“Her position is suffocating,” her mother mused. “From being raised to accept a marriage to now bearing the weight of producing an heir for her brother.”

“She wasn’t given a choice. All her life, decisions were made for her. Now, with this new burden placed upon her, it’s as if she’s trapped in a labyrinth with no way out.”

Lady Carla nodded in silence, extending her hand to rest on his shoulder, caressing him with the love only a mother could give. “And what of you, Eren?” she inquired, her voice a gentle reminder that his feelings, too, held weight, even if he failed to see their worth. “You fret endlessly for Mikasa, and rightly so. Yet I ask, my son: What stirs within your heart at the thought of fathering a child destined to be a king?”

Eren’s eyes clouded over, the weight of his mother’s question pressing heavily upon him. His thoughts drifted to the tiny life that might soon rest in his arms, unaware of the vast destiny looming ahead.

“I never sought this,” he began slowly, his voice betraying a blend of uncertainty and resignation. “If ever I held fast to the promise of the king, it wasn’t for power or glory. It was…” He faltered, unable to articulate why he had clung so fiercely to that childhood promise. Back then, in Liberio, had it been to evade the marriage his father arranged? No, such a simplistic explanation felt inadequate to him.

If he had ever consented to be bound to Mikasa, it was because he sensed her calling him with a melody that transcended time and space, as if she had always been destined for him and him for her. To sire a male child and perpetuate the wolf bloodline in the ancient tradition of kingship was a thing that had never factored into his reasons. It was something that he had never imagined happening. Yet, how could he utter all of that without feeling utterly foolish?

So, instead, he said, “The idea of our child being thrust into a life of duty and expectation from birth terrifies me. I want to protect him, to give him a chance at a normal life, but how can I when the entire realm’s future will rest upon his shoulders from the first breath? And more importantly, how do I know that the future king will not come here to seize our child or demand another, should the babe be a girl instead of a boy?”

The thought of his family being subjected to the crown’s whims and requirements was simply unbearable. It was a notion that starkly contradicted their house words.

“I can’t deny the gravity of this responsibility,” he continued. “I cannot deny the importance the crown places on this matter, but no matter how great of a king Levi may become, he just cannot come here and take away my child. Neither he nor the future Queen Mother.”

His mother listened attentively, her brow furrowing slightly at the weight of Eren’s concerns. It was as if she knew his fears were not unfounded, and as if she shared in his desire to protect his family from the demands of royalty.

“That will not come to pass,” she asserted firmly. “They cannot, for if your words about Mikasa’s authority in this affair are true, it stops them. Moreover, they remain her kin, and they cherish her.” Carla gazed at him intently, her hands clasped in her lap. “While he was here, Prince Levi fretted over his sister’s well-being, from the weighty concerns to the trivial: Will she be too cold? Will she have enough warm attire? Are there enough books for her to read? It was taxing, yet I understood his inquiries; he was anxious for her well-being in what he deemed a foreign land.”

Eren absorbed Lady Carla’s reassurances. Her words offered a glimpse of solace amid his apprehensions about the future.

“While the responsibilities of royals are vast, so too is their understanding of family bonds,” she continued. “Levi’s concerns for Mikasa during his brief visit revealed everything you need to know about him; it showed caring beyond mere duty—a brother’s love for his sister. He loves his family so much that he forgets that love drives us to brave storms and cross fiery seas to protect our beloved with reckless abandon. He forgot that love turns us into both saviours and destroyers.”

There fell a silence, broken only by the distant hum of life beyond the tower’s walls. The rhythm of everyday life hummed through Shiganshina outside, but inside the Blue Keep, Eren felt himself caught in the clutches of improbability, as though fate had snagged him. He felt defeated, so defeated.

“This world has truly been cruel to your wishes, Eren, and it pains me greatly that not everything has turned out as you desired,” his Lady Mother said. “However, my son, we must press on with the burdens laid upon us and continue moving forward, always forward. You want happiness for your wife, and it can still be achieved; you are a Yeager, and to you, family comes first, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, feeling the comforting weight of his mother’s words.

“Even in the darkest moments, there is always a light, no matter how small,” she continued. “Life tests us in many ways, but each obstacle makes us stronger. I trust that you will find a way to overcome all this. I trust you will persuade her to see that none of this burden is of her own making, nor is she defined by it—”

“She is not a burden,” he interjected immediately. “She will never, ever be a burden. She is…”

He knew from the beginning that marrying a princess would never be easy, for it wasn’t just about marrying her—it was about marrying into the entire royal affair. But amidst these complexities, her love never felt burdensome. It was weightless as a feather and like a home he had never seen but somehow known all his life.

She was the laughter in the rain, the whispering wind that carried his dreams, and the gentle touch that healed his soul. In her eyes, he found a universe of wonder, and in her arms, a haven of peace. Every moment with her was a precious gift, a timeless dance of hearts that left him breathless, knowing he had found his forever in her love. She was his morning sun, the light that dispelled the shadows of his doubts, and his evening star, guiding him through the darkest nights. Her voice was a melody that soothed his worries, and her presence was a balm to his restless spirit. She was the compass that directed his heart, the muse that inspired his soul, and the breath that sustained his life.

And he loved her for all these reasons and more. He loved her because he had found the essence of his existence in her—the meaning of true love. He loved her and would walk any distance and face any peril, for he would always, always, always remember that she, and no one else, had awakened within him feelings he thought long dormant; emotions he had believed did not exist.

She is my sun and stars. The moon of my life.

“She taught me what love is and how simple it can be,” he said, his voice still trembling. “She makes me feel safe; she, a little bird in contrast to the warrior I’m supposed to be. This child of ours, this little wolf growing within her—it’s ours. No one can take it away from us; I cannot allow it.”

“And I am certain that neither you nor Mikasa will allow such a thing to happen until both of you find common ground.” Carla placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. “I’ve told you before that I have raised you to be a man of gentleness and kindness above all else. As your child grows within her, she will require all the gentleness and kindness you can offer. So, guide her through the myriad possibilities ahead, and together, find your way to a resolution when the time comes.”

Eren stood quietly, his thoughts swirling like leaves in the wind. The enormity of his task settled upon him; a mantle he knew he must bear with strength. However, it was nothing new; these oaths, he had already taken them. From the moment he first held Mikasa in his arms, he swore to protect her. With the news of their unborn child, he doubled down on that promise. And a prayer he chanted, reminiscent of all Yeagers before him, was that oaths must be honoured, as must promises.

After a long moment of silence, he finally nodded solemnly, finding his words again. “I will not falter,” he said in a hushed tone. “I will always protect my family with all that I am.”

Reality settled upon him, bringing a calm acceptance of the choices that lay ahead. He faced the undeniable truth that they now stood on the brink of an inevitable reckoning. His thoughts wandered to Mikasa, his sweet Mikasa with eyes of steel, ever radiant and beckoning him. Once, she had drawn him in with her melody, and now, here he stood, knowing that everything driving him was her love and all she could offer.

I will always protect you…

“Father?” a voice called, pulling him back from his reverie.

“My son,” he said, catching sight of his firstborn. He embraced him, holding tight, as if seeking an anchor to tether him back to reality. He had missed him, and the familiar touch grounded him.

Eren realised he had left the Wolf Tower a long time ago. When had he left his mother? He couldn’t recall. It felt as though he had sleepwalked, driven by some unseen force, leading him to the covered bridges that connected the tower of the Great Hall with the Great Keep.

“I heard the horns, and we rode to find you. Naturally, I thought you would come to rest, but I’ve been told that only Mikasa is in her chambers,” Ares said once they separated, though Eren kept a firm grip on his elbow. “Is there something wrong?”

Eren frowned, searching for the right words to explain the tumult of events unfolding. “Many things have happened,” he began, “and…”

“I thought you would take a little longer,” Ares interrupted, easily achieving it when Eren couldn’t even properly connect one word to another. “I wanted to finish the harvest before you returned, but I’m afraid it’s still a little while away; we’ll need a couple of days more. I, uh, sorry”

“Gods be good, Ares,” he said, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth. “I’ve been watching the fields since we entered Yeager lands. You’ve done enough and more.”

“T-thank you,” the boy stammered, scratching his head, his cheeks as rosy as the sky at midnight sun. “I just wanted to make you proud and ensure…”

Eren cut him off, embracing him again and planting a kiss on his cheek, holding him in his gloved hands.

“You always make me proud, son. Never doubt that.” He stepped back, sighing. “And now, I’ll need you more than ever. It turns out that Mikasa is pregnant.”

Ares’ eyes widened, the colour draining from his face before it returned with a flush of excitement. “Mikasa… pregnant? But that’s… that’s wonderful news!”

A smile tugged at the corners of Eren’s lips. Genuine happiness radiated from Ares’s eyes, and he cherished the sight. The boy had grown so much, the innocence of youth yielding to the steadfastness of manhood. He would make an excellent older brother; of that, Eren was certain.

“Yes, it is,” he said. “But it also means we need to be even more vigilant. There’s much to discuss with the family, and it will take the better part of a day.”

“I suppose everything will unfold in time. But we have time, don’t we? You should rest, Father. I can manage the harvest today, tomorrow, and any day you need to be with Mikasa.”

Eren regarded his son with a blend of pride and gratitude. He has grown wise beyond his years, he pondered. The toiling and the days in charge had shaped the man inside him. That’s a good thing to see. “Your offer warms my heart,” he finally said. “In any case, I shall accompany you for the final duties of the Midnight Sun, agreed?”

The boy chuckled, giving a brisk nod in response.

When Eren finally retired to rest after the long journey, he quietly entered their chamber to find Mikasa already asleep in their soft feather bed. It was a sight he had missed deeply—the gentle rise and fall of her peaceful sleep, her mouth slightly open, and her fingers curled around the blankets for warmth in the cool room. The soft light filtering through the window cast a warm glow on her features, highlighting the curve of her cheek and the strands of hair framing her face.

Feeling a surge of tenderness, he slipped under the covers beside her, careful not to disturb her peaceful sleep. Gently embracing her from behind, his touch traced the curve of her belly—soft and already showing the gentle swell of their unborn child. The little one nestled within seemed to carry a destiny all its own, yet they were parents who would fiercely protect their future.

Shiganshina, The Great Keep.

“What did you say?” Mikasa murmured, her voice laden with the weight of dreams, as she clutched the furs of the double bed against her body. “Breakfast?”

“It’s already laid upon the table,” said Septa Nanaba, standing vigil by the bedside. “Dawn has broken, or so it seems.”

“How can you be so certain that it is dawn when the sun has graced the sky since our return, hmm?”

“The cooks made it clear that this was meant for your breakfast,” Septa Nanaba pointed out as she approached the bedside, her arms crossed in a gesture of mild reproach. “Moreover, your lord husband and his men have departed for the fields, toiling to gather the last of the harvest.”

“I know. I was merely jesting with you.” Mikasa chuckled, a light sound that danced through the room as she shifted her feet beneath the covers.

Warmth softened the stern lines of the woman’s face. “A princess and a jester, all in one. Truly, my lady, you are a marvel.” Her eyes, crinkled with age, glimmered with affection as she clasped Mikasa’s hand, aiding her in rising from the bed. “But soon, the little girl I have nurtured so tenderly will herself be a mother.”

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? It seems only yesterday you were teaching me embroidery, and now…”

“Now you prepare to weave a bond even mightier.” The woman handed the princess her attire. “That’s why you must break your fast early and eat heartily, more than ever before. You no longer eat for yourself alone. Now you eat for yourself and for the little wolf growing inside you.”

Mikasa nodded quietly, her mind turning to the life burgeoning inside her. It felt surreal to contemplate that within her, within the sanctuary that was her very body, small limbs and tender thoughts were shaping—a new existence flowering in the cadence of a heartbeat. It was a reminder that she would soon cradle someone in her arms, someone who would carry a shard of her soul.

My little wolf, she pondered, gently cradling her belly. If I cannot have phoenixes or direwolves, I shall cherish this child and any others that come. They shall all be bound to me, and I shall love them endlessly.

The oak table in the parlour groaned under a lavish spread: golden loaves of warm bread, eggs steaming in their shells, and sweetened porridge drizzled with honey and dotted with butter. Ripe strawberries nestled next to thick clotted cream, while cured ham and sharp cheese offered their savoury allure. As for drinks, there was no coffee, for Maester Marco—at Eren’s insistence—had conducted his examination and decreed its avoidance, along with wine. Instead, Mikasa could partake in water, tea, milk, and occasionally unfermented fruit juices.

But I venture, it was not Maester Marco, but Eren who has forbidden it utterly, and my maids shan’t fetch me a cup of coffee even if I command them to, she pondered, settling herself as she awaited her morning repast to be served. It had been no secret to her that her husband had grown overly protective of her. Ever since they confirmed her pregnancy, he has shadowed her every step like a vigilant hawk.

For instance, upon setting foot on the lands of the North after disembarking at Port Merisma, he demanded a midwife confirm the pregnancy. That was nothing out of the ordinary, save for the fact that Eren besieged the woman with a torrent of questions before she could lay a hand on Mikasa. “Are you certain your hands are clean? Have you delivered many children? How many years have you practised your craft?” His inquiries flowed like a river in flood, leaving the poor woman scarcely able to respond. And not until the woman confirmed that, after weeks of travel in the galley, both the future mother and the babe were healthy, and hearty did he finally breathe easy.

The situation had indeed proven to be quite amusing. Mikasa could do nothing but watch the scene, caught between amusem*nt and exasperation, as her husband’s protective instincts unfurled. Yet… she could not help but wonder if it was truly his alpha nature stirring within him, sensing the fragile moment of one of the links in the chain that bound their pack. Or perhaps it was the lingering shadow of the events in Mitras that had set him on edge.

It was then, before even a morsel of food had graced her tongue, that bitterness crept into her mouth like an unwelcome guest.

“Do you think I’m being unfair, Septa?” Mikasa’s voice broke the silence, her fingers tracing the edge of the table.

“Unfair to whom, my child?” The septa’s voice was gentle, carrying the weight of years spent in counsel.

“Oh, you know. To my mother for not aligning with her plans. To my brother, for denying a crown to a potential son of mine when he cannot have one himself.” Her words trailed off momentarily. “And to my husband for keeping my thoughts hidden these days.”

The septa regarded Mikasa with a knowing gaze, a blend of empathy and understanding in her eyes. “The choices we make may seem unjust to others, but that does not make them so,” she said softly. “Your mother harbours her own hopes and aspirations for you, yet you are not bound to fulfil them if they do not align with your own desires. As for your brother, the sorrow of barrenness rests upon him, not upon you.”

“And Eren? I’ve been distant from him lately. I know it breaks his heart, even if he does not voice it.”

“True love is enduring,” the septa replied tenderly. “Speak with him. Share your fears and uncertainties. He is your companion in all things, deserving to understand the worries that weigh upon you.”

Mikasa sighed, trying to let the words settle in her mind, but they seemed to slip away like mist before the morning sun.

“Isn’t it unfair to him?” She asked in the empty air. “That he was forced to accept my hand, and now…now to be used in this way, like when he was a child?”

“Yes, there is a measure of injustice in it, but that is not your doing. It is the hand of fate that has woven these threads around you.” The septa’s hand reached for Mikasa’s, a gentle, grounding touch. “You love him, and you have shown him nothing but true affection. He must already know that the children you wish to give him are born of that love, not the schemes spun in Mitras for you.”

“But how can I be certain he shares my sentiments? How do I avoid burdening him further?”

“Only he can provide those answers, through honest dialogue and mutual understanding,” replied the woman serenely. “Have faith in the love that binds you and the strength it affords. Together, you can confront any challenge, even the shadows of the past that seek to obscure your path forward.”

Mikasa absorbed the words, allowing their essence to trickle through the crevices of her anxiety. Then, watching as sunlight filtered through the window, turning dust motes into floating stars, she said, “I just wanted to bear his child, Septa. I just wanted to give him the joy of a son of his blood and mine. I never meant to bear a king.”

The woman regarded her with a sympathetic smile, her hand gently clasping Mikasa’s own. Yet she held her tongue, for which Mikasa was grateful; she had no desire to nourish the demons that prowled within her mind. Long ago, she had mastered the art of subduing them, but in recent days, as the vulnerability that came with the pregnancy deepened, she feared losing control.

Yet, I must not lose control. I cannot, and I shall not. Despite the uncertainty of our circ*mstances, even with the realm’s fate potentially resting on the child in my womb, what truly matters more than anything else is that my child is born healthy, she pondered, her hand resting tenderly on her swelling belly. According to Trost’s midwife, she was approximately four moons along, though such estimations were never exact. The paramount concern is the bond between Eren, me, and this child.

One day, she would have to face the demons lurking within her mind and those encroaching from the south, rather than keeping them at bay. But that day was not today.

“I vow to care for myself and this little wolf with all my might, Septa.” Mikasa said. “I only desire to keep my child safe in my embrace—this child and any other child that the world can give me.”

Septa Nanaba offered a smile. “That’s my girl.”

After breakfast, as the maids cleared away the remnants, Mikasa gathered her ladies-in-waiting in her chambers adjacent to the lord’s to spend the morning. She sought their opinions on modifications to her outfit and their thoughts on the tiny clothes she planned to embroider. Louise, Mina, and Zofia joined her, along with Gabi, who timidly approached at first but then apologised for her past remarks. Mikasa brushed it aside and simply hugged her. She understood that Gabi was young and sometimes reckless; there was no malice in her words; she had the blood of the wolf—restless and playful.

Also, Sasha, who had arrived in Shiganshina the day before, joined them. Mikasa knew that Lord Braus had attended the Phoenix Prince’s coronation, but she chose not to inquire further, and Sasha remained silent on the matter. Truly, she was a steadfast friend.

After the warmth of their reunion had settled like a blanket, her ladies-in-waiting turned the conversation, as if guided by some unseen hand, to the size of her belly. The instigator, of course, was none other than Sasha.

“It’s growing up,” Sasha pointed out. “It’s growing up swiftly.”

“Swiftly? I beg to differ,” Mikasa retorted, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Only a fortnight ago, it was scarcely more than a slight swell.”

“Mayhaps it’s the way your old gown draped, my princess,” Mina suggested gently, her gaze filled with tender concern. “But one cannot deny the subtle curve that has emerged. I’ve been tending to your attire throughout our journey, my lady. I can discern the moment you requested looser fittings.”

“And here I thought it was the indulgences,” the princess remarked with a sigh. Her words, though, were swiftly drowned out by the laughter of her companions, dispelling any lingering shadows of doubt.

“Does it feel different?” asked Louise, her eyes wide with curiosity. “I mean, carrying the babe. Do you feel any changes inside?”

Mikasa paused, her hand gently resting on her belly. “It’s difficult to explain… I haven’t felt any strong movements yet, like a kick or the like. But I sense something there, waiting to announce itself in due time.”

Sasha leaned forward; her expression tinged with. “You’ll start feeling those little flutters soon, I’m sure. My mother used to say that once you feel those movements, that’s when it all becomes real.”

“But I don’t expect mere kicks,” Mikasa said with a soft smile playing on her lips as she glanced at Gabi. “I think it’ll be more like scratches. What do you think, Gabi?”

The girl chuckled warmly; her eyes bright with anticipation. “Oh, undoubtedly scratches and fits, Mikasa! After all, the child is my brother’s, and you know how restless he can be.”

The laughter of the ladies resounded through the chamber, their mirth bouncing off the stone walls. However, the princess discerned a subdued air about Zofia. “And you, Zofia?” she asked gently. “What are your thoughts on all of this?”

Zofia gazed at her with eyes the colour of storm clouds, laden with doubt. Her brow furrowed, as if wrestling with some unfathomable mystery. “I have a question,” she said at last, her voice heavy with gravity. “How does a woman come to be with child?”

Soon, a hush fell over the room, disbelief etching itself upon the faces of the girls, each contemplating the query.

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Sasha chose to intervene with a playful smile. “Ah, Mikasa, surely you have an answer at hand? Perhaps you might regale us with tales of your lord husband’s charms and how you are now with child.”

“Oh no, not me! It’s… it’s… Maester Marcos could better explain such things with the little ones!” Mikasa’s cheeks flared a deep crimson, her embarrassment palpable as she quickly waved her hands in denial, desperately attempting to change the subject. Her voice came out in almost a yell. “Or perhaps Septa Nanaba!”

The other girls couldn’t contain their amusem*nt at Mikasa’s flustered response. Laughter bubbled forth, filling the chamber with a joyous sound that seemed to melt away any remaining tension.

“Fear not, my friend,” Sasha chimed in, still chuckling. “We have far weightier matters to discuss. Save the details for me later.”

Mikasa shook her head adamantly. “I won’t be divulging any secrets to you!”

Long after the midday meal, when the hour of the dragon had come and gone, the girls scattered like leaves in the wind, abandoning the princess’s chambers to seek the comfort of a sweet mid-afternoon sleep. Yet Mikasa, even in her condition, found no peace in the thought of sleep. The sun’s rays poured through the windows, bathing the room in a golden glow, and the air itself seemed to hum with life. Sleep would not claim her now.

Instead, she turned to her desk, where parchment and ink awaited. Her fingers, delicate and sure, began their dance across the papers, the quill’s scratch a rhythmic counterpoint to the silence.

To her sister Hannah, Mikasa penned a brief yet heartfelt letter, assuring her of her well-being and the smooth progress of her pregnancy. Then, for Petra, she crafted a more formal one, though no less sincere, detailing her return journey and affirming her good health. No resentment lingered in her heart towards Petra; she knew herself incapable of such feelings. For her father, she wrote with equal formality, a touch of warmth creeping in as she sought his counsel on her next steps.

She also penned a letter to her dear friend, Historia. Oh, Historia! Mikasa longed to spend more time with her, but their meetings had been brief, and with preparations for winter around them, it seemed unlikely the blonde would visit soon. She inquired about pregnancy and birth, seeking wisdom from her friend. Mikasa also asked about trivial matters, such as the normalcy of craving specific foods. Lately, she found herself yearning for lokum, a sweet confection she had savoured in the harem.

When she tried to write to her brother and mother, though, her thoughts faltered, a heavy unease settling upon her heart like a shroud. No words came. The blank parchment before her mirrored the uncertainty and disquiet inside her mind. She turned her gaze to the window, seeking solace in the serene expanse of the golden sky, but the words seemed to elude her.

So, knowing that she could not force the words to come, Mikasa sought out the Septa—her heart was beating with a fervent need to draw closer to the gods she now worshipped. She found the holy woman slumbering, surrendering to the sweet fatigue that follows a hearty meal. Determined not to wake her, Mikasa draped a thick black wool cape over her red wool dress and slipped out of the chamber with careful, silent steps.

The hallway greeted her with shadows and whispers, and as she ventured forth, the plaintive whimper of a wolf reached her ears, echoing through the stone corridors.

“Why aren’t you with Eren, Greystorm?” Mikasa whispered softly when she spotted the creature of grey fur.

In response, Greystorm emitted another whine, his tail wagging in earnest as he approached her. For a moment, it occurred to Mikasa that perhaps, just perhaps, Greystorm hadn’t left with Eren at all and, in fact, had been hanging around nearby all morning. It wasn’t anything unexpected, really, since he had done it since Mitras.

However, before she could dwell further on such thoughts, the voice of Floch, her husband’s steward, resonated nearby. Reluctant to draw his attention, she hurried down the stairs, the direwolf padding silently at her heels.

Moments later, Mikasa crossed the covered bridge that spanned the gap between the main tower and the grand hall. Descending the steps into the entrance, she emerged onto the outskirts of the keep. Above, the sky stretched out in a canvas of gold, wispy clouds as light as feathers drifting lazily across its expanse.

Nearly a year had passed since her first arrival in the North, and still, its marvels had not lost their power to enchant her. From fleeting summer snows to endless polar nights, each spectacle deepened her fascination, steeping her in the fairy tales she had devoured as a child. Now, however, she was in front of something truly unparalleled, something that seemed otherworldly.

Midnight Sun, they called it in the North—a phenomenon foreign to the realms Mikasa knew. This one was said to emerge in the penultimate month of the year, casting its brilliance across the landscape for weeks on end. It was a sun unlike any other, relentless in its glow, a fiery orb of orange fire that defied the encroaching darkness of night itself.

“In the other kingdoms, one sun graces the sky, yet in the North, we are blessed with two,” Eren had elucidated to her before. “Young folks call it midnight sun, but in ancient tongues, it is known as winter sun. It beams ceaselessly, illuminating both day and night. In summer and spring, its presence is negligible. But come autumn, it becomes crucial, for autumns are fleeting and winters are keen to arrive unexpectedly. It provides ample light for the harvest.”

Mikasa had never encountered such tales before, nor had she deemed them plausible. Her education had been steeped in the doctrines of the South and the teachings of the Citadel’s maesters. Had someone told her of this phenomenon years ago, doubt—but mostly curiosity—would have clouded her thoughts. Now, as she witnessed it first hand—the fiery winter sun hanging low over the horizon, its orange glow nearly touching the conjunction of sky and earth—she beheld a truth that defied her previous understanding. This sight challenged all she knew of the world, while simultaneously enriching her knowledge of these ever-expanding northern lands.

It’s such a wondrous place to call home. A place of growth and life—a pure world.

In the godswood, all appeared immutable to the untrained eye, as if time had halted amidst the trees and shifting shadows. Yet for her, who had traced every path and explored every corner, the landscape unveiled subtle metamorphoses. The once-aureous light of autumn, which had bathed the trees in its warm embrace, was now slowly ebbing away. Crisp leaves lay scattered upon the ground, their vibrant hues fading into a muted carpet. Along the trail, hazel trees shed their ripe fruits, while oak boughs adorned themselves in blankets of moss and lichen.

With her shoulders eased, Mikasa sat on the earth near the heart tree, not caring about the dirt. She drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly. The fragrance of moss greeted her senses, mingling with hints of snow and the vaporous warmth rising from the bubbling ponds nearby.

By the sides of the weirwood, among the leaves steadfast in their crimson hues, she saw the beloved purple bellflowers her husband cherished. They seemed to draw inward, shunning the chill breeze threading through the branches. Amidst them, however, timid white-petalled blooms began to emerge—snowdrops, harbingers of winter.

“You’re bound to cherish this home, my little wolf.” Her voice floated through the gentle wind. “You’ll come to adore it as fervently as I do.”

As she lingered, savouring the fleeting beauty of the last flowers, and contemplating the subtle shifts in the landscape, her hand instinctively found the gentle curve of her stomach. The world around her might wither beneath winter’s icy breath, but within her, life thrummed. It was as if nature’s relentless cycle of decay and rebirth played out within her own body, a tangible testament to the enduring dance of seasons. Amidst the external decay and decline, she stood as vibrant as spring. This burgeoning life within her was a sweet, joyful defiance of the season’s darkest hour.

“Thank you for this child,” she whispered, her words a soft prayer against the weathered white bark of the ancient weirwood. In dreams past, she had seen its wood black as the deepest night, yet she didn’t know the reason for such a thing. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she repeated, each utterance a heartfelt acknowledgment of the gift bestowed upon her.

And as her fingers tenderly brushed over the swell where life stirred with burgeoning vitality, she closed her eyes, surrendering to the current of thoughts flowing like a ceaseless river. It was the gentle melody of golden leaves rustling and the subtle harmony of the gods within the tree that lulled her, until gradually she succumbed to sleep.

In the black expanse, where dreams dared not tread, a voice emerged. You will be happy, it said.

“Mikasa?”

Her eyes fluttered open at the first utterance of her name. There he stood, her husband, his gaze heavy with concern as always.

“Eren?”

“You must cease this, Mikasa,” he implored with a sigh, drawing in a deep breath as if to steady himself. “One day, you’ll be the death of me.” A wry smile tugged at his lips as he continued, “But Greystorm looks after you well. I can’t find fault in that.”

“He seems to linger close lately,” she said, shifting to make space for him to join her.

Without hesitation, he spread his sable cloak and drew her into his lap. His arms wrapped around her, enveloping her in the comforting shelter of his body and cloak.

“Greystorm senses the pup within you,” he said softly. “He knows he has to watch over you when I cannot.”

A smile sprawled across her lips when she felt her husband’s breath tickling her neck. “He is a good boy.”

Eren’s nose traced the delicate curve of her shoulder, his touch tender. “He is,” he said in a low whisper. “But it’s not just Greystorm who must guard you. You must care for yourself, for both our sakes.”

She sighed, her head resting against his chest. “I know. But the weirwood…”

“You find solace beneath the weirwood’s branches, I understand. Yet, my sweet wife, do not jeopardise your well-being. The burdens you already bear are weighty enough. Remember to be kind to yourself.”

“It’s not as heavy as the weight our child already carries,” she couldn’t help but say.

Eren sighed heavily. “I know, and about that… I know your strength; you’ve made it clear to me, and I recognise it. But when the time comes to make choices, let me aid you in that, alright? I don’t want this burden to rest solely on you. At the very least, let me be there to hold you.”

“What do you mean? Of course, I want to share this burden with you. Every bit of it,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “Oh, Eren? Have I given you cause once more to walk away?”

“No, never. You’ve given me no reason to keep my distance. I worry only because I love you, because I wish to shield you and protect you.”

“I’m sorry. For the doubts, for the challenges…”

He gently placed a finger on her lips, quieting her words. “There’s no need for apologies. We will face this together, Mikasa. Whatever trials come our way; we face them together. And we endure them; we share them. Together, until the end of our days and beyond. Until we turn stardust and meet once more in some distant world.”

She nodded, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She continued to nod as she drew nearer to him, seeking his hands with her own, placing them gently upon her belly.

“Indeed, we shall meet in other places,” she murmured after a moment, sniffling softly. “This will sound stupid,” she began, “but when I was a little girl, I felt as though I dreamed of someone like you.”

“Me?” Eren asked, puzzled.

“Perhaps you will doubt it, Eren,” she began, her words unsteady. “But I’ve poured over my book countless times, its contents etched in my memory. It speaks of magical blood, and…” Her voice trailed off briefly. “It says that the Ackermans and their dreams are special. They can see things.”

Eren blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. “Things?”

“I can’t quite grasp what those things are, but I sense I’ve seen you before,” Mikasa mused, her voice heavy with a sigh. “And at times, I feel as though I’ve been here already, though only in dreams. That’s why I’ve always had this sense that I know you from somewhere. Those dreams…” Her words hung in the air. “I know they may sound fanciful, and I’ve never been certain if what I saw was real. Yet I hold onto the belief that somehow, they are true.” They must be.

Her husband’s silence met her words, and for a moment, Mikasa hesitated, unsure whether to delve deeper. It felt too fanciful, too reminiscent of childhood tales—soon, she would be a mother, and such notions seemed out of place.

Yet, after a brief pause, Eren’s hoarse voice broke the silence. “Dreams, you said?” he asked in a hushed tone. “Like wolf dreams?”

Mikasa frowned. “Wolf dreams?”

“It’s how I call my dreams because I often wander them on four legs, and sometimes I swear I’ve seen you there too,” he murmured.

She pulled back slightly, searching his face with wide eyes. “You saw me?” Her voice trembled. “Where did you see me? Tell me, my lord.”

A burst of laughter echoed through the Godswood—his laughter, though lacking in mirth, tinged with nervousness. “It’s hard to explain,” he began, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, princess. It’s—”

“Please don’t jest,” she persisted gently, though careful not to sound intrusive. She sensed his uncertainty, watching as he grappled with the weight of his revelation. “I shared the truth of my dreams with you; it’s only fair you do the same. Didn’t we promise to be honest with each other?”

After a derisive snort and a roll of his eyes, casting aside his earlier foolishness, Eren spoke with solemnity, as though emerging from a haunting dream. “I’m not sure how to describe it to you, but I saw you, Mikasa, in the deepest of my wolf dreams. I saw you. It makes me think that perhaps… Perhaps we were always meant to be together.”

His words hung in the air, mingling with the whispers of the weirwood leaves. Mikasa searched his face, seeing the truth and vulnerability laid bare in his expression. At that moment, amidst the ancient magic of the Godswood, a new understanding dawned—an unspoken bond that transcended the ordinary, woven from dreams and destiny.

Wolf dreams, she repeated in her mind, trying to grasp the significance of his words. “I’ve dreamed of running with wolves for as long as I can remember,” she said then, her words measured and deliberate.

He crouched down, drawing nearer to her. “Were you running towards me?” he inquired cautiously.

“No.” She shook her head softly. “I was running beside you.”

And so, the godswood vanished in the middle of their dreams, finding themselves standing in their chamber as though a mysterious power had called them. How had they reached this place? They could not definitively say. Did they wander, their fascination drawn by mystical energies around them? Certainly, though they couldn’t be entirely sure.

The one thing Mikasa knew was that she needed her husband as much as she did days ago, but not as much as she would in the upcoming days. Each passing minute stoked the embers of her yearning, a flame kindled by the twin furies of waiting and anticipation. She yearned for the press of his lips against her skin, the grip of his hands around her bare waist, and the intimate, primal connection that only he could fulfil, reaching depths within her that no one could touch.

Yet…

Yet…

Mikasa’s heart, her sweet, tender heart, thundered in her chest, each beat of a song of desire that coursed through her veins. She needed him; she needed him to give her everything. Yet equally, she yearned to offer him her all. She wished to show him the depths of her devotion and bind them together in a union of absolute, unconditional love.

So, in the dim light of the chamber, she stepped closer to her husband, her breath mingling with his, and the air between them thickened with unspoken promises. She surrendered to his touch, allowing him to unlace her garments with the deftness of one who had mastered this art long ago. It would be as unjust to deny him this as it would be to hinder a river from flowing freely, each action part of the natural order, inevitable and unrestrained.

She let him undress her, stripping away the layers until she stood naked, her changing body exposed to the chill caress of the freezing air. But as he moved to lay her down, she halted him, drawing a puzzled glance from his eyes.

“I wish to undress you,” she murmured, her voice a tender whisper, imbued with a shy insistence.

“Why?” In the chamber’s golden light, he suddenly became a broken creature, stripped of its familiar routine. “What do you want to do?”

“You’ve always been the one to lead and touch me,” she uttered. “May I be the one to do so now, my lord?”

He swallowed deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat. “Whatever you desire,” he answered, yielding to her request.

A surge of both nervousness and empowerment cursed through her. Her hands trembled slightly as she traced the contours of his body, following the lines she knew so well. She began with the fastenings of his upper clothing, fingers working with a deliberate slowness. Each button undone revealed a glimpse of his chest, a smooth expanse of skin bathed in the chamber’s warm glow, the hair upon it growing slowly, casting gentle shadows.

Her fingertips traced his ribcage, dancing lightly over the rise and fall of his breath. Each sensation was a language of intimacy that surpassed mere words. She felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her touch, a rhythm that echoed through her palms. All of it served as reassurance that he remained by her side, a tangible presence in this world, sharing the same breath she took.

“Our wedding anniversary approaches,” she murmured, meeting his gaze. Though the timing seemed less than ideal, their intimacy had transcended the need for perfect moments. “Isn’t it wonderful, Eren?”

His gaze met hers, and he nodded slightly, a tender smile curving his lips. “Yes, my love.” His voice was a whisper against the quiet of their space. “Do you want something special for that day?”

“I just want you,” she said, shaking her head softly. “All for me, even if it’s somewhat selfish.”

He chuckled softly. “You will always have me,” he said, and then he guided her fingers with his own, tracing the path of black hair that began at his navel and disappeared into the folds of his trousers. “Finish what you started,” he whispered huskily.

Mikasa’s breath caught in her throat, yet she did not contest his desire.

If she had ever entertained thoughts of surrendering herself to the devotion of the gods, this man before her—this perfect being who filled her with eternal love every minute of her existence—would be her chosen deity. He was the embodiment of her faith, the focal point of her reverence. She would worship him with every fibre of her being, offering her heart and soul at the altar of his love.

And she would do so now; she was willing to demonstrate this. Mikasa yearned to express the depth of her adoration, her love for him. But in the same way as he always did with her.

She had always been a curious soul, eager to explore new subjects, and now, in the realm of adoration for a man, she felt uncertain. Mikasa was nothing if not resourceful, though, adept at finding her way through uncharted territories. With a touch of imagination and a surge of determination, she pulled down his pants, exposing him completely. Then she pushed him slowly against the bed, taking control, asserting her desire, capturing his attention.

Her movements were slow, wilful, her fingertips grazing the contours of his thighs. She barely met his gaze as she attempted to touch his length. It was endearing how she remained bashful despite being completely full of him—full of the child he put inside her.

“You always make me feel good with your mouth,” she murmured tentatively. “Can I…?”

“My dear wife shouldn’t be engaging in such acts in her delicate condition,” he replied, breathless. “But…” His words faded, as if he knew he couldn’t resist her. Never. He lay there, vulnerable, and willing, surrendering to her every movement and waiting for her next command.

She tempted him with tender affection, her warm fingers curling around his shaft. He lowered onto his elbows in an attempt to catch her moves, yet a breathy sigh escaped as her touch ventured deeper.

“Even here, you’re so beautiful, Eren.” Her thumb teased the tip of his co*ck, already moist with need. “How can someone be this beautiful?”

Eren moaned, the sound coming deep from the back of his throat. “Your touch is so gentle,” was all he could say, throwing his head back. “Sometimes, I’m afraid to touch you because you’re made of dreams, and you might vanish with the morning light.”

“I’m your dream come true; I’ll never fade away,” she said, bending over to take him in the warmth of her mouth.

He let out a fervent word in the air as her breath and tongue gently enveloped his length. She couldn’t discern the exact word he said. A plea, a curse, a prayer—the possibilities with her husband were always vast. All she knew was that it had a sense of urgency, a hunger for more.

His hands, strong and calloused from years of battle, found their way to her, pulling her closer to his core. The warmth of his touch seeped through her scalp, igniting a fire within her that had been smouldering, waiting for this moment.

She savoured him with an urgency matching his own, though perhaps with a touch more sugariness. Her tongue darted out to taste, kiss, and suck him fervently. With little licks and hums, her mouth traced the contours of his co*ck, memorising every line, every vein, as if to etch its shape into her soul.

She had never imagined herself engaged in such acts; she never thought a lady should tend to a man in this manner. Such things were deemed suitable only for women of lower stations. Ladies like her should only lay on the bed and expect their husbands to take all of them.

Yet, as she tasted the essence of her husband upon her tongue, tasting the saltiness of his seed coming in tiny, shy threads, she realised with certainty that this, with him, was right. To partake of him so intimately, to take him in ways deemed forbidden, even to struggle against the urge to recoil—it was an expression of love. Perhaps not something pristine in its purity, but a manifestation of love, nonetheless.

“You look so beautiful doing this,” he murmured huskily. “You look so f*cking perfect.”

His words, laden with struggle, became the very fuel driving her forward as she explored the newfound power of her breath’s warmth. Soon, she slid her mouth along the length, growing more confident in her ability to eat him. She released a soft moan with his co*ck inside, her saliva moistening it as she enveloped him, moving with a gentle heat up and down. Her hands massaged his balls, a tender touch as she used it as foundation to take more and more.

And soon, when she found her rhythm, he said, “Stop, Mikasa.” His tone was not one of displeasure; in fact, it was more of a beastly grunt.

Mikasa hesitated, stepping back as though she had been caught during a grievous transgression—which, in truth, she had been doing. “Have I done something wrong?” she inquired softly, her mouth glistening with a blend of saliva and his pre-cum.

He chuckled lightly. “No, you’re doing wonderfully,” he replied, a hint of pride colouring his tone, indifferent to any judgement. “But I prefer not to come into your mouth.”

“You always drink from me when I do it,” she chided with a pout.

“But not now, alright? Perhaps later.” He settled back onto his elbows before leaning in to kiss her, tasting his salty essence on her lips. “I know you want to be atop me,” he whispered. “You want to take my co*ck from above.”

Indeed, she wanted to. While she believed she didn’t need to be on top of him to worship him, she wanted to be on top and see what his expressions were like when she rode him—after all, long ago, he had taught her how to ride, hadn’t he? This should not be difficult.

So, moving slowly and mindful of her own belly, she parted her legs, making room for him in the middle. Eren helped her, one hand gently guiding her waist and the other steadying his length so she could position herself comfortably. Mikasa let out a sigh as she felt the tip. If it had not been for the burning need between her thighs, she would have teased him for a little longer, but she drew away. She straddled him slowly, feeling the tip of his co*ck against her inner thigh.

She grasped it softly, guiding him to her slit. Eren gasped as his co*ck was inside her.

“Mmm, that’s it,” she moaned softly as their hips met. “It has to be slow, the babe—”

“Take it slowly,” he interjected, breathless. His hands tenderly rested on her swollen belly, caressing the place where their child slumbered. “Take it really slowly.”

She felt a trace of saliva gathering at the corner of her mouth as she nodded. Then, she cautiously rolled her hips, watching how his eyes widened in response. That was it—the rhythm that was uniquely hers.

She soon settled into a steady rhythm, ensuring to rock her hips forward with each motion. Her view was obscured, her belly now grown and limiting her sight of their union as before. Yet the firm grip of Eren’s hands on her waist, the widening of his eyes, and the furrow of his brow assured her that she was performing admirably.

“My goddess,” he moaned as her pace became slightly erratic. “Look at you. You’re perfect.”

His hand rose to cup her breast, kneading it with intensity before delicately pinching her nipple between his fingers. Mikasa gasped. The heightened sensitivity of her nipples and breasts lately was a lot of late, due to the pregnancy, indeed; yet pain melded with delight, and she relished in it. She couldn’t resist placing her hand over Eren's, encouraging him to continue caressing and playing with her breasts.

“It feels good,” she said, “it feels so good. Don’t stop.”

Before she could sink back down, his hands seized her hips with a fervent grip, and he thrust upwards, his impatience breaking through. The slow and steady pace she had set was no longer sufficient for him, and in truth, it no longer satisfied her either. The hunger between them was too fierce, the need too great. She relished his raw desire, surrendering to his urgency as he took control, driving his co*ck into her tight c*nt with debauchery thrusts.

Her fingers, now desperate for contact, snaked around to rest on his chest. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, each scratch a mark of her own passion and submission. It was an act of both pleasure and possession, a silent declaration of her own desire and satisfaction. She felt herself losing control, her body trembling with the force of their union.

“Eren, ah, I’m about to… ah, come,” she gasped between her moans.

“Me too,” he groaned, “come with me.”

Their movements became a symphony of raw, primal need. The room echoed with their mingled breaths, her soft moans, and his guttural growls. She rode the wave of their intensity, her body responding to his every move. His hands guided her hips with possessive strength, pulling her down to meet his powerful thrusts, driving deeper with each motion. As their pace quickened, her senses heightened, every touch and sensation magnified.

She could feel the tension building within her, a coil ready to snap. His hands on her hips tightened, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding. And then, with a final thrust, they reached their peak together. The world seemed to shatter around them, leaving only the echoes of their climax.

How beautiful it was to be exhausted and fulfilled by such a gentle, loving soul.

She felt herself about to collapse, but he was quicker, easing her onto her side, protecting her from falling flat. “I love you,” Mikasa mumbled sleepily.

Eren’s body moulded to hers, his arms wrapping around her in a protective embrace. “I love you more,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

And with those words, Mikasa drifted into a peaceful sleep; she and her babe, both safe in the arms of the man who loved them the most.

Year 856

The South, The Royal Keep.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that, when an Ackerman heir ascended, his mother would ascend alongside him. With the fiercest mother behind him, he could secure his place as heir, and with the mightiest Queen Mother beside him, he could secure the throne without challenge.

History’s whispers were loud enough. Even the scant records of the Ackermans bore testament. The timing of the princes’ births was of no consequence, nor was their order of birth. It was the strongest who seized the throne, particularly if he had a formidable mother to back him.

In the Small Council room, as they awaited the crown prince’s presence, Kuchel remembered this truth. It had been seared into her heart from the moment her fate was sealed to the harem. A child of hers was power; a child of hers was survival. And so, like the relentless turning of a wheel, the survival of this crowned son depended on her to ascend as king.

The world shall witness it: the Second Prince Levi accepting the king’s crown, she thought, drawing a breath into her lungs. Nothing and no one shall sway us from our path. Levi will sit on Helo’s throne.

When the heavy doors swung open, Levi strode in clad in black—a shade that seemed eternal in his wardrobe. The simple crown atop his head and the gold trim on his clothing served to slightly offset the darkness of his attire.

“The Phoenix Prince!” announced the fourth prince, Furlan, making his entrance behind his brother and Lord Erwin Smith.

Since the coronation and the relinquishment of the princes’ claims to the throne, Furlan had kneeled before the king in the Sept, shortly before the coronation ended. “I wish to serve my brother,” he had proclaimed. “I wish to honour the knightly vows I took at seventeen and serve the crown.”

Thus, King Gilbert granted him the honour of being his brother’s sworn shield, with the hope that he would join the king’s guard when the time was right. That latter meant that upon the king’s death and the transfer of the crown, the new king could arm or disarm the guard at his discretion.

“Dear lords and beloved mother,” Levi greeted. “It is a privilege to convene with all of you in these early days of the year.”

“The year starts with an ominous shadow of winter approaching,” said Lord Dot Pixies, commander of the city watch. “Yet comforting it is to know that the crown shall rest upon a steadfast head as frosty days draw near.”

“Days that have not yet dawned upon us, dear sir,” Levi pointed out. “As long as King Gilbert draws breath, summer’s warmth still persists.”

His words met with murmured concurrence from those gathered, heads bobbing in acknowledgment.

“Now,” continued the Phoenix Prince, “this does not absolve us from preparing for the chill of winter. I am open to hearing any counsel you may offer, for the betterment of our people.”

A lively discourse unfolded in the chamber, deliberating on strategies to confront the impending cold. Seated around the gleaming oak table, council members fervently debated the fate of their vassals and peasants. As tradition dictated, during the changing of seasons, the council assembled to deliberate upon matters of infrastructure, public health, and economic stability. Conversations centred around the imperative need to adapt tax policies to meet shifting societal needs, ensuring comprehensive support for the populace. Equally, paramount was the reinforcement of social welfare programs, aimed at bolstering community resilience and safeguarding the vulnerable.

As the lords conversed, Kuchel observed them all closely, mindful of her somewhat peripheral standing in these rarefied circles she seldom frequented. Yet soon, she would cease to be a mere observer. She scrutinised the faces of the counsellors, each bearing wisdom, yet beneath their masks, she sensed an air of concealed motives. With Levi’s inevitable ascension to the throne, she contemplated the sweeping reforms needed within the council, especially since Theo Magath had pledged allegiance to the queen. The departure of Willy Tybur had been its own solution, yet the loyalty of Kenny Ackerman, the current hand of the king, remained a lingering concern.

Seated at the far end of the room, she couldn’t resist turning her gaze until it settled upon the hand in his rightful place—the chair to the right of the king’s empty seat. Kenny remained a mystery, his hands folded before him, apparently engrossed in listening, or at least feigning it. Not a word escaped his lips, nor did he make any gestures. Only a fleeting grimace crossed his face when Lord Smith mentioned the danger that southern wolves would pose during the harshest days when they ventured outside the woods in search of food.

“And on the matter of wolves,” Lord Darius Zackly, the war commander, interjected, “have we received any updates from the north?”

For the first time since the meeting commenced, all eyes turned towards the sole woman in the chamber.

“If you inquire about the birth, my lord, it is still premature,” Kuchel replied evenly. “The princess has yet to deliver, and it is foreseen not to occur until the fourth month of the year. As for her well-being, she remains in robust health.”

She spoke assuredly of the first point, having received updates from Hizuru’s skilled healers through their pulse readings. The latter statement, though, was speculative. Mikasa had not responded to her missives of late, causing Kuchel to fret over the extended silence. Nonetheless, if any alarming events had transpired in the north, they would surely have been informed already, or that’s what the consort sought to believe. It was undeniable that a palpable silence had settled over communications from the north recently. Yet, Kuchel made a deliberate choice not to raise this matter in the small council.

The gods and the vile alike know that Levi’s coronation as Phoenix Prince is not the victory we envisioned, the Consort pondered. None of this will be settled until he ascends the throne and Mikasa bears a prince to be the next heir.

“I mean, my lady,” Darius Zackly spoke again, “do we have any word from the Maester of Shiganshina that might assure us, or even hint, that the wolf the princess carries has a co*ck?”

Kuchel sighed heavily, yet Erwin Smith interjected before she could utter a word.

“I must remind you, Lord Zackly,” the blond said, “that you are not only speaking with the Consort of the Seven Kingdoms but also with the Lady Mother of the heir and future Queen Mother. I implore you, mind your choice of words.”

The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sensing the tension in the air. “I beg your pardon, Lord Smith, Lady Kuchel. But you know the matter of the heir remains somewhat thorny and—”

“I fear you’ve been absent from current events, Lord Zackly,” Kuchel interjected, her eyebrow arched pointedly. “As far as I’m aware, the matter of the heir is settled. Do you not see my son here, dressed in the mantle of the Phoenix Prince?” A hush settled over the chamber. “He dons the crown of the heir, bears the phoenix-emblazoned pendants, and wields both Firesoul and Sunfire. Must we provide further proclamations to affirm his rightful claim to the throne?”

She was keenly aware that the war commander’s concern did not lie with Gilbert’s heir, but with Levi’s. Yet Kuchel deftly diverted the conversation away from that sensitive topic. She couldn’t risk exposing the fact that consensus had yet to be reached with Mikasa. Nor could she reveal their doubts about whether her daughter would give birth to a boy.

“N-no, my lady, what I mean is...”

“What he means, Consort,” Kenny Ackerman finally interjected, his husky tone laced with malice. “It’s simply that the succession remains uncertain regardless.”

“Regardless?” Kuchel asked, maintaining her composed demeanour.

The king’s hand nodded solemnly. “Indeed. As you have heard. Gilbert has secured an heir, whereas Levi has not. This leaves us at an impasse.” He cast a glance toward his nephew. “Have you considered the possibility of naming your brothers as heirs? Perhaps it would be wise to appoint them as such instead of naming them as your personal guards. Unless you’re doing it to prevent any challenge to the throne when the time comes.”

Furlan shifted uncomfortably beside Levi, though Levi himself remained unruffled. It was a lesson he had learned well from Kuchel.

Vile, she seethed inwardly, her fists clenching. I see through you, Kenny Ackerman. You’re a malevolent spider, feigning affection for your brother while secretly awaiting his downfall—all because they chose him over you to wear the crown.

Kuchel harboured a longstanding distaste for Kenny, aware of his reciprocal sentiments. From the outset, Kenny Ackerman perceived her as a threat, particularly when the king’s favour for her became evident. His apprehension proved justified when Gilbert often favoured Kuchel’s counsel over that of his Hand. But such things were merely the surface, as there loomed a disquieting air around Kenny Ackerman regarding the queen. It was an unsettling sensation that eluded Kuchel’s ability to articulate. It rested on intuition alone, devoid of tangible proof, yet sufficient to sow seeds of caution and mistrust against him.

She prepared to retort, but Levi spoke first. “Fortunately for you and everyone else, dear uncle, I intend to honour the decisions and laws set forth in the Great Council,” he declared. “My heir will be the firstborn son of my sister—a child who will carry the blood of the phoenix in his veins.”

“A son of wolves,” Kenny said, fixing Levi with a steely gaze—it was as if he was trying to break havoc on Kuchel by not looking at her. “Not to disparage, but a child of your sister will bear the blood of royalty as a wolf, not a phoenix. You risk diluting our proud lineage.”

“In the same vein that I possess half Hizurian lineage myself,” Levi asserted with careful measure. “Or akin to my father, my brothers, or any of the princes and kings who have trod upon these lands. We are all amalgams of heritage, not an inbreeding of phoenixes.” He rested his hands firmly on the table, his posture erect. “I think that a touch of wolf’s blood shall only fortify our lineage, not tarnish it, as you suggest.”

“There has never been an heir or a king from the female line,” Kenny pointed out with a straight face. “It’s not the wise choice you perceive it to be.”

Levi suppressed a smirk. “King Helos himself pondered this quandary in the absence of male heirs; Cirilla was selected to carry forward the nascent lineage.”

“But she did not, nephew, she did not. Cirilla succumbed to lust before marriage and bore a bastard. What did Helos do then? He established the harem, and the monarchy has endured for eight centuries. Eight centuries with no restraints.”

“Can you recount all that has transpired in those eight centuries since the harem’s inception and the birth of countless princes at the same time?” Levi inquired. “I can provide a list, beginning with fratricide, uncle. But that is merely the surface, for I could also speak about the purported suicides, hmm? Does the name Lunisol strike a chord with you?”

The Hand of the king shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His gaze momentarily flickered, betraying wariness. “I know the name well, Levi,” he rasped, his voice strained. “You may know her as the woman who raised your father, but I remember her as my mother, my birth mother. I am her blood!”

For a fleeting second, Kenny Ackerman lost his composure, his typically stoic demeanour faltering as emotions threatened to breach the carefully maintained facade. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, and a fleeting shadow crossed his eyes, betraying a vulnerability seldom seen by others. Kuchel saw it all.

“You speak of our customs as if they were worthless, but you know that’s not true,” the hand said, a hint of defiance in his voice. “Our customs, flawed as they may be, hold the fabric of our kingdom together. They are the threads that bind us to our history, our heritage. They carry the weight of our ancestors’ sacrifices and the wisdom gleaned from centuries of trials and triumphs. To dismiss them as worthless is to disregard the very foundation upon which our society stands.”

“Yet, dear uncle, many of them have birthed a legacy of bloodshed and treachery,” Levi countered, his voice measured and resolute.

The chamber fell silent, Levi’s words casting a weighty pall over the assembly. Kuchel observed Kenny closely, knowing that beneath his composed facade, the spider's web of schemes was already spinning anew.

“Your judgement could well herald the decline of our house, Levi,” he said, his voice ghostly.

“Prince Levi to you, Lord Hand,” Kuchel said at last, her hand coming to rest upon the council table. “Are you questioning the decisions of the Phoenix Prince? Perhaps you have forgotten that in the king’s absence, your fealty lies with him before this council. Such insolence borders on the highest treason.”

“You may consider whatever you wish, Kuchel.” Her name slipped from the man’s lips with a studied indifference. “But the only concern of mine is the future of our blood. As long as Gilbert breathes, I will continue to heed his counsel and no one else’s.”

Prince Kenny, once the First Prince under King Bertram II’s reign, rose from his seat, taking his sphere from the plate before him. Then he departed, leaving the meeting without further ado.

It was a matter of seconds for Levi to sense the weight of unresolved tension, so he decided to conclude the meeting for all present. “This council is adjourned,” he declared, his gaze sweeping across the assembled nobles. “Let us reconvene on the morrow to further deliberate on the matters at hand.”

The lords and ladies rose, bowing or nodding to the Phoenix Prince, before filing out, their whispers fading into the corridors.

As the last of the courtiers departed, only Consort Kuchel and Lord Erwin remained. Levi motioned to the king’s guard standing at the entrance. “Wait outside,” he commanded, and they, loyal and unquestioning, complied without hesitation.

Kuchel waited until the last echo of footsteps faded. “News, Lord Smith?”

“It is with profound displeasure that I must tell you, my lady, that I have no tidings from the North,” Erwin Smith replied, shaking his head in regret. “You shall see—”

“At least my letters—has Mikasa replied to them?” Kuchel interrupted, unease threading through her voice as she clasped her hand upon the table, seeking some anchor.

“An apology for monopolising her pregnancy and wielding it in our quest for the throne?” Levi’s voice was a blend of disbelief and frustration. “You overestimate my sister, Mother. You know she harbours her share of pride; she will not deign to answer us.”

Kuchel’s lips pressed into a thin line, her brows knitting together in a frown. There was an unmistakable slight tremor betraying her wounded pride. “I do not overestimate her, Levi. I merely hope that the bonds of blood we share might prevail.”

Levi gave a mirthless chuckle, his face once more set in steely determination. “It seems those ties will remain elusive. There has been nothing but silence from the North since their departure.”

Kuchel sighed wearily, her eyes rolling slightly. “This child…”

“Let her find comfort in her pregnancy,” her son interjected firmly. “Let her build her nest, seek solace, and be spared from further burdens. Peace is her due, and it falls upon us to ensure it. Other matters can wait until she is well enough.”

Erwin nodded in accord. “If you permit, my lady,” he began with deference. “This silence is temporary. The princess has been reared according to the family’s principles, but her current condition is fragile, as you know. A period of calm will serve her best. Let us respect her needs and grant her the space she requires. I am certain that, in time, both the princess and her lord husband will come to understand that these actions are for the greater good. Trust me, my lady, her allegiance remains steadfast with us.”

And what of her love? Kuchel yearned to inquire. What of her love? Am I still a mother to her, or will she resent me forever? Oh, my sweet girl, my dear girl. She should have remained with me through the summers, through the springs. Oh, my Mikasa.

“Very well,” Kuchel acknowledged, nodding, and struggling to hold back tears. She forbade herself from weeping in public; this would not be her first such moment. “But we all recognise that a consensus must eventually be reached, do we not? If we proclaim Mikasa’s eldest son as the Prince of the Ashes, then at least we can claim to have stabilised what we aim to dismantle.” Her grey gaze settled on Levi—not with reproach or anger, but with understanding.

“Yes, Mother,” he responded. “But for that, the child must be a son; otherwise…” He sighed heavily, briefly closing his eyes. “I do not know how I will persuade her or her husband to consider another child.”

“It shall be a son,” Kuchel affirmed. “Have you not seen how splendidly she was here in Mitras? Little babe boys are not unkind, Levi; they delight in adorning their mothers with beauty.”

“I cannot recall such a tale, for I remember my wife being equally lovely when Isabel arrived,” remarked the prince with a fleeting smile. “Yet I pray the Mother Above heeds your words.”

Kuchel nodded quietly. It was indeed true that the daughters in their family had a way of bringing beauty to their mothers as well. She herself had felt a profound sense of beauty during Mikasa’s pregnancy, lamenting that Gilbert had been absent due to the war. Yet she could not dismiss the possibility that it was because Mikasa carried spring within her.

“I dislike Darius Zackly and Kenny Ackerman’s words,” Kuchel said, her gaze fixed upon Lord Smith. “Their rhetoric displeases me greatly, as much as their demeanour. Keep a vigilant watch over those two, especially the Lord Hand.”

“Your wishes shall be carried out, my Consort.” The Maester of laws gave a nod. “And regarding the small vial you provided for analysis, I regret to inform you, my lady, that I must deliver further troubling news. My maesters have examined it extensively but cannot determine its refined origin. It could be anything. If you wish, I can bring it back here for our most experienced maester, Maester Uri, to review.”

“You’re mistaken, Lord Smith,” Consort Kuchel interjected firmly. “If that vial and potion indeed hail from Victoria, as we suspect, bringing it to the keep only arms her with the means to dispose of them and eliminate any accusations against her.” She shook her head resolutely. “No. It must not return here. Send it to Hizuru and let the healers attend to it. While the Citadel boasts skilled maesters, the art of herbalism belongs uniquely to Hizuru.”

With that, the meeting concluded.

Returning to her chambers, Kuchel discovered everything in meticulous order, just as it should be. Each item occupied its precise place, gleaming with cleanliness that brought her immense relief. Neatness was her sanctuary; she could scarcely abide even the slightest disarray or dirt, save for her desk—the one place she forbade anyone to disturb.

Seating herself at the ornate desk, Kuchel languidly set about organizing her papers with deliberate care. Ink bottles and an ornate inkwell were meticulously rearranged alongside stacks of documents—documents that pertained to the harem's affairs. It was customary for the king’s mother to oversee the harem treasury, and with the absence of a queen mother, this responsibility had fallen to the queen consort, Victoria. Yet, Victoria had often neglected these duties, dismissing finance as tedious and leaving the meticulous oversight to Kuchel, who was often denied access to her household account statements.

Now, with Kuchel poised to ascend to the role of queen mother, she could no longer be denied access to any document, including Victoria’s financial records. Determined and resolute, Kuchel set her sights on uncovering the truth behind Victoria’s lavish expenditures. This was because she had heard stories of the queen squandering gold, for what matter? No one knew.

She frowned, putting together a million possibilities in her head, until her fingers brushed against a small chest, guarded with suspicion. This discreet repository had secrets known only to her. With careful hands, she unlocked it, the faint echo of metal breaking the room’s stillness.

Inside, there were love letters bearing the king’s signature—notes exchanged during their brief courtship and others penned over the years. Each letter bore witness to the affection and passion they had shared, the ink still carrying the faint fragrance of days past. She unfolded a yellowed letter, feeling the old paper beneath her fingertips and with the light of the sun gleaming on the ink, she read:

Throne of my realm, my treasure, my guiding light,

My dearest companion, my confidant, my heart’s delight.

Fairest of the fairest, a vision in grace,

My springtime, my joy, the sun upon my face.

You are my garden, my sweet, my cherished rose,

In your presence, my troubles find repose.

Your hair’s beauty, your brow’s gentle curve,

Eyes that speak of a love so pure.

Forever, I shall sing of your grace and your charm,

My heart is forever yours, safe from all harm.

In days gone by, the king had penned plenty of those missives exclusively for her. When did that cease? Kuchel could not recall the exact moment; it had been many moons since the last, perhaps years. Yet, the flame of affection had not waned; it lingered still, though difficult to articulate.

With a sigh heavy with weariness, she laid the letters aside and reached for a small handkerchief. Within its folds were the umbilical cords of Levi and Mikasa. Delicate and tender, these remnants symbolised the profound bond she had once shared with her children, a reminder of their connection to her even as they now walked their own paths. Clutching the handkerchief to her heart, as if to shield it with her soul, her lips quivered as memories flooded her mind—memories of Levi’s birth in Winter and Mikasa’s in spring. Soon, her thoughts consumed her, dwelling solely on her daughter—her only, sweet, precious daughter.

My dear Mikasa, my sweet, pretty Mikasa. Oh, my precious girl. I never sought to betray you; I only wished for you and your brother to live.

“I’m sorry, Mikasa,” she murmured softly. “I’m truly, deeply sorry, my sweet Mikasa.”

A powerful yearning overtook her: to stand by Mikasa’s side during this crucial time. She wished to be the pillar of support through her daughter’s pregnancy, to guide her into motherhood, and to gently hold her hand on the day of childbirth. Driven not by politics but by an innate maternal instinct, she longed to be there, offering solace and fortitude in those tender and private moments.

Yet, daunting challenges loomed large. The physical distance between them, the passage of time, and the decisions of their past formed formidable barriers. Despite her heart’s impassioned plea to be present for Mikasa, she sadly realised that these harsh realities rendered it impossible. Kuchel understood, with a pang of regret, that the barriers—ones she herself had contributed to—could not be overcome.

Alone in her chamber, secluded from all but her own thoughts, the Consort sought solace in a hidden nook within her wardrobe. There, concealed amidst silken folds and treasured mementos, rested a modest shrine adorned with effigies of the Shinto gods—deities to whom she had devoutly prayed during her forgotten youth.

With trembling hands, she kindled twin sticks of incense, their fragrant tendrils weaving through the air as she closed her eyes in contemplation. In a hushed murmur, she intoned ancient invocations, offering her hopes and supplications to Kishimojin, the goddess of children.

“Watch over Mikasa, dear goddess,” she beseeched, “shield her and her progeny in this pregnancy. Boy or girl, whatever it is;shield them both.”

Shiganshina, The Wolf Tower.

With the advent of the new year and the encroaching darkness of polar nights, the time for family arrived. Unlike the previous year, the longest nights rose with the harvest already secured and no setbacks marrying the season. It was all thanks to the diligence of the lord’s firstborn son, who had ensured the work was done at the proper time.

There seemed to be no plans for the hunt this year, as the Citadel had forewarned that autumn was nearing its end. For the North, such a thing meant that each lord would remain within his castle, vigilant, ensuring that resources did not run scarce. So, with not hunting looming on the horizon—which left her feeling somewhat melancholy—Mikasa did not engage in the preparations she desired, instead dedicating herself to what all the northerners did during the dark nights: resting. This became even more essential as her pregnancy progressed beyond a mere swelling. Her belly was now round and active, with some tender movements from time to time.

“Wait,” she halted her husband as they approached the threshold of the wolf tower’s hall.

That morrow, Lady Carla had extended an invitation to her, promising to unveil the children’s treasures she kept for the princess to behold. Mikasa eagerly anticipated this gathering, for, with care and patience, she was preparing the things for her forthcoming little wolf.

“What is it?” Eren inquired, grasping her arm.

She placed her hand on her belly and sighed, hoping to feel movement. “I thought I felt something, like a kick, but perhaps it’s just wishful thinking.”

Eren chuckled softly. “You’re fixated on feeling the pup move, Mikasa,” he teased gently. “It will happen in time. You should enjoy this moment while it’s peaceful.”

While it’s peaceful, she mused, smiling. She had already been cautioned about the restless nature of Yeager children in the womb, akin to wolves prowling under the cover of night.

“I want you to feel it,” she insisted. “It’s there, but what I feel is more like bubbles. I want a solid movement so you can feel it too. Don’t you want that?”

He bent down, leaning in to plant a kiss upon her cheek. “Truly, there is nothing else I desire, but let us not hasten too swiftly, hmm? That child will surely keep you awake once it begins to stir, leading to a contest over who disturbs your rest more.”

A playful pout graced her lips. “You claim not to hasten, yet it is you who stride ahead,” she teased. “Or shall I believe you have not instructed all to keep watch as I descend the stairs?”

“It is dark. You may stumble in the shadows. If I am not by your side, it shall be a guard, Septa Nanaba, or even Floch—anyone, but do not walk these stairs alone.” He made a pause, as if pondering. “We have lots of stairs now that I think about it. Well, none of them.”

“You exaggerate,” she retorted, unable to suppress the thought that her husband was being overly dramatic. “I don’t require all of Shiganshina to watch my steps down a flight of stairs. I can still see my feet!”

“I care not,” he remarked with a grin, then proceeded to step into the chamber, bringing the discussion to an end.

Within, the scent of breakfast had dissipated, and Mikasa furrowed, shielding her nose with a hand. Recently, the aroma of bacon did not sit well with her. Fortunately, the servants were already clearing the table, and the Dowager Lady of Shiganshina was airing the room.

“Oh, Mikasa, you are radiant!” the lady exclaimed upon spotting them. “That gown suits you marvellously.”

Mikasa chuckled softly. She wore a splendid dress, indeed—a rich crimson tunic with subtle, darker red embroidery. Her typically flowing hair was elegantly gathered in a net made of garnets, one of her many wedding gifts. “You outshine me, my lady.”

Lady Carla smiled warmly. “Come, I have arranged the armchair for you with the softest cushions. You need to sit.”

“There’s no need—”

“Nonsense,” Carla Yeager interjected with a grin. Mikasa came to a realisation—in the remaining months of her pregnancy, Eren would not be the sole one prone to exaggeration.

I must not forget that I dwell in a den of wolves, she mused, striving to stifle her laughter.

Once she was seated, a maid arrived, bearing the young wolves. It was already clear that one would belong to her child, though which one remained uncertain. Both the grey and the white clung to her as if she were their true mother. Likely, it was the scent of the babe within her that drew them.

“When the child is born, we shall place the two wolves in the crib, as the Yeager’s traditions dictate,” Lady Carla explained, her hands resting calmly in her lap. “There you will see which one is chosen. It is quite simple, truly. There is little ceremony to it. They shall sleep together, eat together, and grow together. That is the privilege that legitimate children have.”

Mikasa recalled hearing somewhere in Shiganshina that the bastard Yeagers, the few that had existed and whose names were lost in time, had never had direwolves. They bore the blood of the wolf, yes, but they had never been graced with a pup, such a prerogative was only for a true-born child.

“And how am I supposed to know which one of them is?” she asked, cradling the pups close against her belly. “Both seem quite spirited of late.” As if in response, the pups stirred eagerly, their restless energy palpable against her.

“The one who bonds with the child will attune to its emotions,” Eren replied. “You will see it in time. It is a matter of empathy and indifference.”

“It shall be just one or the two?”

Her husband pondered for a moment before speaking. “I dare say, only one. Never has a Yeager been bonded with two wolves. It is already queer that two pups have arrived in our household; they always come one by one. They are restless, but they do not tend to be loud.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mikasa couldn’t help but smile, feeling their little noses brushing the fabric of her dress.

“He means that it is most unlikely that twins will come,” Carla said with a laugh. “There have never been twins in our lineage, so it is improbable. Unless Eren, in his restlessness, decides to seek another child as soon as you birth this one, which would be poor manners indeed. You must wait at least a month after the childbirth, my son.”

“Seven Hells don’t speak like that,” he complained, his cheeks flushing with colour.

“I have your wife before me, growing strong with your child, and still, you get shy. Amusing.” Lady Carla laughed, her mirth ringing through the room. Eren could do nothing but snort. Mikasa, however, stood there, her mind straining to recall if any twins dwelt within her extended family’s tree, yet no such memory surfaced at that moment.

Moments later, the door swung open, admitting Gabi and Ares. Each bore a massive wooden chest, clearly a laborious task to haul up the stairs. With earnest effort, they placed them in the centre of the room with a resounding thud.

“These are all the treasures?” Mikasa asked, astonished.

“No, those as well,” Gabi replied, gesturing with her index finger. Sure enough, more guards clad in red cloaks followed, each bearing another chest, making three more in total.

“Good,” said Lady Carla, rubbing her hands with a spark of anticipation. “Let us venture forth and select a few garments and items. What do you say, Mikasa?”

With her eyes gleaming with excitement, Mikasa nodded eagerly. Yet Eren did not tarry with them. He claimed duties awaited him: the account books needed his scrutiny, as well as taking inventory of Shiganshina’s resources in the warehouses. None raised an eyebrow at his departure; winter preparations continued relentlessly, even under the long shadows of the polar night, albeit with less fervour.

Eren bid Mikasa farewell with a kiss, promising to inspect her chosen items once all was prepared. Ares was intended to accompany him, yet the Winterlord insisted that he remain, deeming him deserving of respite after toiling diligently during the midnight sun.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” Ares offered as they began to unearth the contents of the chests. “If it pleases you.”

“Indeed, Ares!” Mikasa replied warmly, her smile brightening. “You must be familiar with some of these treasures, surely?”

The boy shrugged nonchalantly. “I recall the books, for I didn’t read them until I could. But the garments are somewhat unfamiliar to me. Perhaps because I wore some of them a long time ago?”

“Gods, it’s true!” Mikasa exclaimed with delight. “It fills me with joy to think that your sibling will wear your clothes as well. Yet, I am even more thrilled that you will be such a kind elder brother.”

A shy smile graced his lips. “I am truly excited about it too, Mikasa,” he admitted, carefully placing a couple of books beside her from the chests. “You know, I’m not sure how much difference I can make, but I promise earnestly to be a good brother. Nothing would bring me greater happiness than having a little brother or sister.” He made a deliberate pause, as if thinking of something. “I always wished for one, but... well, you understand, my father—”

“I understand perfectly,” she interjected softly. “And I am so glad to see you happy, Ares. Believe me when I say you will be a fine brother. You will make a difference with your little sibling, trust me.”

Ares nodded, a gleam of joy in his eyes. He lifted another chest lid, revealing more treasures of the past, and a sudden gasp filled the room.

“I remember those books,” Gabi yelled, running to sit near the expecting mother and her pups. “They are children’s tales!”

The princess delicately picked up the book, running her fingers over its worn spine as she brushed off the dust. The cover, faded yet evocative, depicted a captivating scene of wolves in swift motion across a blanket of pristine snow. With a soft intake of breath, she read the title in her mind: ‘The Winter of The Wolves: Book Six.’ She was marvelled at the enduring elegance of the aged ink.

“Indeed, they are,” Lady Carla said, kneeling alongside Ares. “Yeager’s ancestors wrote these stories to pass down from one generation to the next.”

Gabi’s eyes sparkled with recognition. “The tales of bravery and wisdom, of ancient heroes and their noble quests.”

“By your ancestors?” Mikasa asked, still looking at the tomes.

“A great-great-great grandmother began the tradition of reading these stories to children and gifting them as their first readings,” Ares shared, seated on the floor.

“Lady Marisa Yeager, Wardeness of the North in the sixth century,” Carla added. “She saw that children were captivated with tales of southern kings and their phoenixes, so she wished to ensure they remembered their northern roots. She painstakingly compiled a complete collection of six books, gathering every northern story she could find—from the longest to the shortest tales.”

Mikasa opened her mouth, deeply impressed.

“These are the very books I mentioned reading as a child,” Ares continued. “Some stories I know by heart, especially the one about the wolf brothers.”

“I like the tale of the ice dragon,” Gabi chimed in. “What was its name again?”

“Yuri and the Ice Dragon,” Ares replied with a chuckle. “It’s not quite as elaborate a title as you imagined.”

Gabi retorted by thrusting out her tongue at him in jest.

“You’re not planning to have me read through six books to unearth those tales, are you?” Mikasa ventured. “I crave to hear them now!”

And thus, Ares became the first to recount the tale of Nikita and Vasily, the wolf brothers.

“Nikita, the elder and brawnier of the two, had the skill of a Maester hunter. His keen eyes could spot the faintest trail, and his hands were steady as the mountains,” he said. “Vasily, the younger and more thoughtful one, had wisdom beyond his years. He communed with the natural world, speaking its language as fluently as any man.”

After clearing his throat, he continued with the tale. “One winter, when the frost lay heavy upon the land and the wolves howled mournfully in the night, darkness descended upon their village, and a ravenous wolf threatened to unleash its fury upon the people. But Nikita and Vasily, undaunted by the challenge, set out into the heart of the forest—they couldn’t let their people die. Amidst the ancient pines and the frozen streams, they encountered a she-wolf, her fur as white as the snow and her eyes filled with sorrow. Vasily approached the creature, offering her a piece of meat that Nikita had haunted. He told her that he and his brother needed her help. So the she-wolf, moved by their kindness, aided them, and together the wolf brothers and the she-wolf vanquished the approaching wolf.”

“Such a beautiful tale,” Mikasa remarked when Ares finished. “And beautiful names, I must add.” Her thoughts were already unconsciously drifting towards choosing a name for her pup.

Moments later, Gabi was the next to follow, sharing her cherished tale of Yuri and the Fire Dragon.

“I don’t remember it very well,” Gabi said, “but I remember that there was a prince named Yuri. His kingdom was nestled among icy peaks and frost-covered forests. The people there were hardy and resilient. Yet, one day, an ice dragon haunted the land, freezing the earth with its breath. So, Prince Yuri knew he must face this creature and free his people from its icy tyranny.”

The girl played with the grey pup’s belly as she continued her storytelling. “Clad in fur and armed with a bow, he journeyed through snowstorms and across frozen rivers until he reached the lair of the ice dragon, hidden deep within a cavern of ice. As the battle raged on, Prince Yuri saw a glimmer of something unexpected in the dragon’s frigid eyes—a spark of longing and loneliness. He realised that the creature was not truly evil but trapped by its own icy curse. So, with a heart full of compassion, Prince Yuri lowered his bow and approached the ice dragon, offering friendship instead of battle. To his surprise, the dragon ceased its attacks and regarded him with curiosity.”

“And did he manage to ride it?” Mikasa inquired, intrigued. “If I ever encountered a dragon, I would certainly attempt to ride it.”

In her most fanciful daydreams, Mikasa had mused that being a dragon rider might be easier than riding a conventional horse. However, of late, the heat of pregnancy had compelled her to ride her husband every night, and now she genuinely believed that riding a wolf, in the way she did, was better. Yet she should not be entertaining such thoughts there, not when the children were looking at her!

She cleared her throat to dispel such thoughts from her mind and asked, “How does it end?”

“Oh, I don’t quite recall,” Gabi pointed out. “Prince Yuri’s friendship, I believe, broke the curse, transforming the dragon back into a girl of his same age who had been cursed. I can’t quite recall if they wed or if she became his advisor. It’s a rather lovely tale; you should read it.”

“I will, truly,” Mikasa affirmed, embracing the book she held close. “They are such beautiful stories, I dare say. The tales I grew up with…”

From Cirilla and Lucerys, the ill-fated siblings, to Avaline, the last phoenix owner, the narratives the Ackermans passed down to their children were not ones of hope. They were tragic stories of children who found fleeting moments of happiness and died before their time. Though Mikasa honoured her heritage, the romantic and luminous side of hers did not want to share those tales with her child. She desired nothing more than happiness for her little one, though she understood all too well that it wasn’t always within reach.

“I believe I can begin with these tales and later delve into my family’s stories,” she reflected a moment later. “It seems more fitting.”

They continued their meticulous exploration of the chests that safeguarded the cherished belongings of the Yeager children. Lady Carla carefully unearthed some garments, each one carrying memories of those who had worn them before. As she handed a few to Mikasa to mend and prepare for the babe, she also uncovered Eren’s clothes. The sight of his tiny clothes brought comforting warmth to Mikasa’s heart.

In that tender moment, her thoughts wandered for the first time to the looks of their unborn child. She wondered about the features the babe might inherit—would their little one bear her Hizurian features or perhaps display southern characteristics? Or would the child take after her beloved husband?

The prospect of a child with eyes reminiscent of spring buds had long held a special place in her heart, stirring a gentle flutter of anticipation within her. Not just any shade of green, of course, but the exact hues that Eren had. She would consider herself fortunate to have a miniature likeness of her husband—a child like him that everyone could glance at and instantly recognize who the father was.

Near what felt like midday, another visitor arrived in the hall of the Wolf Tower. It was none other than Aunt Faye.

“It seems I wasn’t deemed worthy of an invitation to this gathering,” remarked Faye, settling into a chair beside a casem*nt. “Are you all enjoying yourselves?”

“I had thought this might not be to your liking,” Lady Carla replied, examining intricately carved wooden playthings—small wolves fashioned in wood. “Hence, I deemed it best to grant you reprieve.”

“Yet, my interest in our familial customs runs deep,” countered the woman, her tone edged with exasperation. “And it seems you are meddling with matters concerning my family. You ought to have sent word to me.”

Aunt Faye’s arrival did nothing to lighten spirits, a palpable unease pervading the air. What vexed her so much remained a mystery, shrouded in uncertainty. Yet Sasha’s tale, of Faye’s pursuit of placement in the harem only to be rebuffed, echoed persistently in Mikasa’s thoughts. Perhaps Aunt Faye just harboured a discontented spirit, for she had yearned to join the harem, yet it had never garnered thoughtful consideration.

She ought to count herself fortunate to have avoided such an establishment, Mikasa pondered, absently caressing her belly. “We’re selecting garments for my babe, Aunt Faye,” she offered kindly afterward, striving to maintain civility with the woman. “Would you care to join us?”

“I would prefer not to,” the woman declined, prompting Mikasa to suppress an urge to roll her eyes. It seemed Aunt Faye had stirred unnecessary trouble once again. “But if my counsel holds any weight, girl, your concern should lie more in rest than in attire,” the woman remarked pointedly.

“Why?” Mikasa asked cautiously, pausing her task.

“My dear, you are quite slight for a woman in your condition,” she said.

Mikasa took a breath, steeling herself against Aunt Faye’s typically unsolicited counsel. “And why should my size concern you?” she asked, her voice edged with restraint.

Aunt Faye glanced at her belly with a critical eye. “A woman in your condition ought to be stouter, child.” Her remark came out bluntly, her tone carrying a hint of disapproval. “It’s not healthy to be so frail during pregnancy.”

“Under the care of Maester Marcos, my septa, and a midwife, I assure you. I am in good health,” Mikasa responded firmly.

“It just troubles me greatly that it took you so long to conceive, and now you appear so thin. And your waist... It’s so small. With such tiny hips, it seems that labour will be so hard for you!”

Fury swelled within her—an unsettling sensation. She yearned to retort sharply to the woman’s remarks, yet Lady Carla intervened before she could utter a word. “The Princess will embrace motherhood at twenty, as I did. It’s a splendid and fitting age,” she asserted confidently. “I speak from experience, Faye. Sometimes, experience grants deeper wisdom than just tales heard in the corridors.”

Her words made the woman grimace; her disapproval was evident. Faye glanced briefly at Mikasa, her gaze once again lingering on her belly with scepticism.

“It is not just about age, Carla,” Aunt Faye replied, her voice measured but firm. “Health and strength are crucial during pregnancy. Mikasa’s condition—”

“Is carefully monitored,” Ares interjected suddenly, his tone not so kind as he stood beside Mikasa. “Rest assured, aunt, my father ensures she receives the finest care possible.” Rising from his seat, Ares extended a hand to her. “And, speaking of my father, he said that Mikasa should not skip her afternoon rests—it could prove detrimental to both her and my little sibling. So, allow me to accompany you to your chambers, Mikasa?”

Silently accepting his hand, she rose from her seat, gathering her pups before leaving the room with Ares.

“My father will hear of this,” he declared quietly as they ascended the stairs towards the main keep. “Such words should not pass her lips.”

“Don’t take any blame on my account,” she urged him softly. “I’ve grown accustomed to Aunt Faye’s words, but...”

“It’s unjust regardless. We are kin; there should be no place for such words among us.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t regard me as family because of my southern origins,” Mikasa mused. “And that’s understandable; we are often biassed against outsiders there. You witnessed it first hand during your visit. Perhaps I’m paying for the sins of those I grew up with.”

“But not you, Mikasa. I recall how intrigued you were when our party arrived, especially when you and my father became betrothed,” Ares remarked, opening the door to the lord’s chamber, and ushering her inside. “For that, and much more, no one should judge you. And truth be told, sometimes you were born to be a northerner.”

Mikasa chuckled softly in response.

Alone in the room, she took the little wolves into a prepared basket for them. Seating herself beside them, she contemplated the white-furred one first, then turned her attention to the grey one. Both were yawning, announcing that they needed some sleep.

Even though months had passed since they came into her care, the little pups showed scant signs of growth—they remained small and toothless. She had queried her husband about this, only to discover that direwolves did not mature as swiftly as one might assume. In fact, they took years to fully develop, especially those raised alongside humans. It was as though they were waiting to form a deep bond with someone.

“I wonder which of you it will be?” she murmured softly to herself, pondering the connection between the direwolf and her unborn child. Yet her mind returned to the fact that they remained nameless. She deliberated for some time before finally deciding to assign them temporary names.

Gabi mentioned that they can always be renamed if the children don’t fancy the names I chose.

“You shall be Snowball,” she said with a smile, gently touching the white direwolf’s snout, eliciting a small yawn from the creature.

His name had come easily, as Mikasa had kept it in her mind for some time. A small ball that could easily be mistaken for a clump of snow—there was no more fitting name for him.

The grey wolf, however, proved a bit more challenging to name. She cradled him in both hands, scrutinising it closely, but no name came to mind. That was until she recalled a dream where a little boy called his wolf from afar.

“Archer,” she said with a smile. She brought the wolf up to her face, rubbing her nose against the pup’s cold one. “I feel like this might be your name, indeed,” she told him gently.

The pup responded with a soft whine of contentment, and at that moment, clearly, she felt her child kick for the first time.

Shiganshina, The Blue Tower.

“Your wife is with child, and you’ve got us working. During the polar night, no less!” Jean groaned. “Are you dragging us all into this because you’re having trouble in bed? Upset that you can’t f*ck your woman in her sacred condition?”

“For the love of the gods, Jean, spare us,” Armin interjected in Eren’s stead. “You know, I didn’t miss your loudmouth antics in Mitras.”

Jean grinned in response. “I believe you did, actually.”

At that, Armin offered no retort, simply turning his face away to conceal his reaction. However, Eren was convinced he had glimpsed a faint flush colouring the blond’s cheeks.

“We need to complete the inventory and update the accounting books,” Eren stated firmly, clearing his throat and disregarding Jean’s earlier remarks. “As you’re well aware—”

“Winter is coming,” Jean interjected, arms crossed over his chest. “You never get tired of saying that.”

“Winter is nearly upon us,” Eren retorted. “All that remains is the announcement from the Citadel.” An announcement that Eren anticipated would come around midyear. “The harvest is ripe, for which I must thank you, Jean, for overseeing Ares,” he acknowledged with a nod, earning a pleased smile from Jean. “However, there are still essential structural renovations to be undertaken here, particularly in the glass gardens. We will require them urgently when the heavier snows arrive, as fragile vegetables cannot be cultivated in the fields. And of course, the inventory of our provisions.”

Jean’s expression tightened slightly. “I suppose we can’t delay those renovations any longer,” he conceded reluctantly, his earlier scepticism giving way to practicality. “We’ll need to coordinate closely with the builders and the steward to expedite the renovations. The glass gardens shall be reinforced before the first frost.”

“We should also consider stockpiling more firewood and provisions,” Eren pointed out. “With the long nights ahead, it would be wise to ensure we have ample supplies.”

“You may task Ares with overseeing the provisioning efforts,” Armin said. “He is growing up strong; he might be capable of doing so.”

Eren considered his faithful adviser’s proposal, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Indeed, Ares had shown promise in managing responsibilities. If the harvest was not a concern at that moment, it was due to him, who had managed everything meticulously. In the barns were oats, wheat, barley, and barrels brimming with coarse flour, all meticulously stored.

“I’ll make sure to give him this task,” the Lord declared proudly, acknowledging his son’s contribution. “Now, what about the provisions?”

Armin then provided a thorough account of the provisions stored in the dimly lit basem*nts of Shiganshina. He described strings of onions and garlic hanging from the ceilings, sacks brimming with carrots, parsnips, and radishes, and shelves laden with white and yellow turnips. In one warehouse, immense cheeses required the strength of two men to move. In the next, barrels of beef, bacon, lamb, and salted cod were stacked fifteen hands high. Under the smoke house rafters hung three hundred hams and three thousand blood sausages.

The spice cabinet held peppercorns, cloves, cinnamon, mustard, coriander seeds, sage, amaro, parsley, and large blocks of salt. Pears, apples, peas, dried figs, walnuts, chestnuts, and almonds were stored alongside plates of smoked salmon and wax-sealed porcelain jars filled with olives in brine. Another warehouse contained pots of hare and venison shoulder preserved in honey, as well as cabbages, beets, onions, eggs, and pickled herring.

“As for the meat,” the blond continued, “we have so far skinned deer and elk, ox ribs, pigs, headless sheep, and goats, and even horses and bears. They must be kept constantly chilled to prevent spoilage.”

“That’s another task I must schedule.” Eren sighed. For some, winter meant rest, but in truth, it entailed much labour.

“Indeed,” Armin said. “We have amassed a considerable stock, Eren. Your wife’s dowry allowed us to procure ample food. It’s enough provision for about five or six years of winter, perhaps more if our men venture out to hunt when the snow is light.” The blonde placed his hands on the table. “We shall survive.”

“We shall survive!” Jean voiced with a lively tone.

Eren nodded, absorbing the tally Armin had presented. The abundance of provisions offered reassurance, yet nothing in the harsh season was to be taken for granted. “It heartens me to see our readiness,” he remarked. “Yet we must stay watchful. Winter is fickle, and we dare not lapse into complacency.”

Armin nodded in agreement. “We will continue to monitor our stores and ration wisely. Our survival depends on our prudence and foresight.”

After concluding the entries in Shiganshina’s account books, Eren was eager to adjourn the meeting and return to his wife. However, there remained one final matter he needed to address.

“Have we received any word from Redwood Hall?” Eren inquired. His last knowledge of the region was that the breached wall was nearly restored—an assurance that provided him some relief. Yet he knew this endeavour added to their accumulated tasks, potentially delaying winter preparations for that outpost. As warden of the north and protector of Redwood Hall, it was his duty to safeguard the place—it belonged to the Yeagers, after all.

“A raven arrived from Tomas Wagner while you were away in Mitras, reassuring us that supplies were accumulating satisfactorily in Redwood Hall,” Jean reported. “I believe they’ve managed to procure provisions from Port Paradis and have them transported through the mountain of Ragako routes they know.”

“Yes, that seems plausible,” Eren acknowledged, though still sceptical. “In any case, send a raven in return and instruct Tomas that if it’s feasible, he should journey to Shiganshina once the polar night wanes, accompanied by a few guards. We will purchase supplies from Trost and send them with him to Redwood Hall. They had faced enough challenges already.”

“So it shall be,” Jean affirmed.

“Also, instruct them that if they have uncovered any clues regarding the cause of the gate’s destruction, they are to bring it here,” Armin added and then turned to the Lord. “I assure you, Eren, those gates did not burn—it was an explosion.”

Eren hummed slowly, endeavouring not to dwell on that fateful day. It stirred memories of what he had witnessed—his brother’s direwolf still thriving.

Striker…

“Did you notice any unusual sightings while we were away?” he inquired suddenly, his thoughts shifting to the present.

“Something like what?” The man of Trost asked, but a glance at the Lord made him ponder with certainty. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Jean replied. “Just hermits already seeking shelter as the cold becomes more relentless.”

“Hermits?” Eren queried.

“Yes, haven’t you seen them? Those elderly folks who descend from the mountains in search of a place to settle. I don’t know why they do it; they always seem to meet some unfortunate end. They can’t endure it.”

Her frowned, concerned by Jean’s observation. “We should keep an eye on them,” he mused aloud. “Their presence might signal something more troubling in the mountains.”

Armin nodded in agreement. “I’ll have scouts keep watch for any unusual activity.”

There was a moment of silence as they wrapped up their tasks, signalling the end of the meeting.

“Hey Jean,” Eren addressed him before they departed. “I’ll need roses,” he stated abruptly.

“Roses?” The man echoed, taken aback.

“Yes, for the crystal gardens. Please procure them for me.” Eren offered no further explanation.

Stepping outside into the cool embrace of the night, he felt a serene chill wash over him. Above, a vast canvas of sky stretched out, adorned with twinkling stars. They shimmered like scattered diamonds, casting their gentle light down upon the world. A soft, ethereal green halo graced the horizon in the very place where the heavens met the earth, casting a mystical glow over the landscape.

There will be northern lights today, he mused quietly to himself—a rare sight indeed.

His thoughts immediately turned to Mikasa. He knew she appreciated moments of natural wonder as much as he did, and he couldn’t quite recall if she had ever seen the Northern Lights before. The answer, most likely, was no. Mikasa had not glimpsed the northern lights since her first polar night in Shiganshina had been anything but pleasant, marred by a misunderstanding. So, with a resolute determination, he set out to find her, traversing the quiet corridors and ascending the winding staircases of the Great Keep.

After what felt like an eternity, he found her nestled in their bed. She wrapped in their furs, a gentle smile adorning her lips in the serenity of sleep. He hesitated briefly, reluctant to disturb her peaceful repose, yet the desire to see her eyes light up with wonder compelled him. With a calm inappropriate to a warrior, he approached her sleeping form, the soft rustle of his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the chamber. Languidly, he brushed a strand of hair from her face, marvelling at the heartsease that graced her features in slumber.

“My love,” he whispered softly, leaning closer. “Wake up.”

Mikasa stirred awake, her eyes fluttering open like the first delicate petals of a winter rose unfurling to greet the morning sun. “You’re back at last,” she said, greeting him with a sleepy voice. “You missed the kick.”

“The kick?”

“The baby finally kicked, Eren.” She chuckled. “It wasn’t my imagination this time.”

Eren couldn’t help but laugh as he tenderly ran his fingers through his wife’s black hair.

Suddenly, he found himself imagining a baby with her features—skin kissed by winter, eyes as grey as tempered steel, and hair as dark as the starless nights. The south could prattle endlessly about its narrow beauty ideals, but to Eren, Mikasa embodied the epitome of beauty—a woman whose grace and allure transcended superficial standards. In his eyes, she was not just the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, but a paragon of elegance and strength.

He believed that any children they bore would inherit not only Mikasa’s striking beauty but also her intelligence and resilience. In his heart, he knew that their offspring would be blessed with a rare combination of physical charm and sharp wit, attributes bestowed by her, only her. And he felt so grateful for that, so, so grateful.

“Perhaps you could encourage my child to kick again for me once I’ve shown you something, could you?” He offered, lost in her.

“What do you want to show me, my Lord?”

His response was a mere smile.

After ensuring Mikasa was warmly dressed and properly covered, Eren took his wife by the hand and led her across the roofed bridges of Shiganshina. They traversed from the main tower to the window tower, where through small windows they glimpsed the flickering glow of the bonfire in the courtyard below. As the cold persisted and deepened, these bonfires had grown more permanent, their warmth a crucial defence against the encroaching chill.

Finally, they ascended to the bell tower—the highest point in Shiganshina, just above the walls. Climbing the stairs to the summit, Eren briefly regretted the decision—too many steps for a pregnant woman. Nonetheless, he gently guided Mikasa up the winding stairs. The night air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of stone and old wood. Despite a moment of hesitation at the height, they reached the top safely, stepping out onto the open platform where the expanse of Shiganshina lay spread out below like a miniature world.

Exiting onto the platform, Eren placed a gentle hand over Mikasa’s eyes, his touch reassuring against her skin. “Trust me,” he murmured, his voice a soft whisper in the quiet of the night. With careful steps, he led her across the stone floor, navigating around the bell and towards a specific vantage point where he knew the view would be perfect.

As they reached the spot, Eren gently released Mikasa’s hand, stepping back to unveil the unfolding spectacle above. The Northern Lights had begun their ethereal dance across the sky, ribbons of green and violet swirling and intertwining amidst the canvas of stars. Each wave and swirl seemed to paint a story of magic, weaving patterns that captivated the eye and stirred the soul. The display cast a surreal glow over Shiganshina, transforming the quiet city of stones into a realm of otherworldly beauty. The shimmering lights cascaded like veils of luminescent silk, draping the landscape in hues that appeared borrowed from dreams—soft greens that shimmered like emeralds, gentle violets that whispered of secrets hidden in the night.

“Do you like them?” He asked softly, anticipation cursing through him.

She did not reply right away. She stood beside him; her breath caught in the wonder of the spectacle unfolding above them.

“It’s...” Her voice faltered, lost in the grandeur of the moment. “It’s beyond words, Eren,” she finally whispered. Her hand reached out instinctively, finding his, and they intertwined their fingers, drawing comfort from the warmth and solidity of their touch.

“I know that the maesters in the south have a name for this,” he began. He was aware that they called them aurora borealis in the south, accompanied by some scientific explanations. Or something like that, he remembered what his old maester had taught him during his education. “But here, there’s another explanation that is, well... a bit more superstitious.”

She regarded him with her sparkling steel-grey eyes, harbouring the perpetual curiosity of youth. “Tell me,” she urged.

Upon hearing this, Eren smiled; he couldn’t help but still be marvelled at her curiosity.

“All here is tied to the old gods, and this, my dear wife, is no exception,” he began. “It is said that what you behold there is the dust of every northern soul that ever was, lifted by the gods after their demise to adorn the heavens. They shine in the darkest of nights, comforting the living with their radiance.”

“Do you believe all your ancestors reside there, Eren?” She nibbled her lip, her gaze fixed upwards.

“Surely they are, and so are their direwolves,”

“The direwolves?”

“Yes, the direwolves. They, too, are said to roam alongside our ancestors in the afterlife, their spirits forever intertwined with ours,” he replied. “Each of them, Maesters and direwolves, shined in their own way, and now they continue to do so, in one form or another. It matters little how brightly or faintly; their light still endures.”

“It’s so enchanting,” she whispered. “In a way, it feels so profound.” Mikasa looked at him, her eyes reflecting the flickering lights above. “Do you think they watch over us?” she asked softly, her tone tinged with a blend of wonder and scepticism.

Eren smiled gently, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “I like to believe they do,” he replied, his voice carrying a quiet certainty. “And I believe that they will look for our child.”

Mikasa looked at him, her expression searching. “Do you think so?” she pressed; her voice tinged with hope. “Even if it will carry my phoenix blood?”

“Yes, I think so. Even if our child carries a touch of your mighty phoenix blood.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, contemplating his words. “Even so?”

“Even so,” he repeated, his tone unwavering. “Our ancestors and the old gods, they see beyond bloodlines and traditions. They see the essence of who we are, and they will embrace our child as one of their own.”

Mikasa nodded slowly, a sense of peace settling over her features as she embraced him, her belly gently meeting his. “I truly hope so, my love,” she murmured, letting him envelop her in his warmth as they remained together.

Eren felt a solemn urge to kneel, and so he did. With a heart full of reverence, he lowered himself to the ground, facing his wife’s swollen belly. The ethereal glow of the Northern Lights bathed them in a soft, otherworldly light, casting their shadows long against the stone floor.

He placed his hands gently on Mikasa’s side, feeling the warmth and subtle movements of life growing within—a life crafted from a grain of his and so much more of her. His touch was tender, his fingers tracing the gentle curve of her belly as if to communicate his love and anticipation to the child within.

Closing his eyes, he spoke softly, as if addressing the soul that nestled within. “Little one,” he murmured softly, his words carried on the gentle night breeze. “Know that you are loved. Your mother and I are here, eagerly awaiting your arrival into this world. We will cherish you, my little wolf, endlessly.”

Under the northern lights of the polar night, he felt truly and infinitely happy.

Shiganshina, The Main Tower.

Time passed swiftly, much like a swiftly flowing river. Moments morphed into days, days into weeks, and with scarcely a blink, the new year had ushered in three months. Mikasa marked the passing weeks, each slipping away like sand through an hourglass. Now, in the third month of the year—Eren’s month, as she fondly recalled—four weeks had faded into memory.

Eight months pregnant, such was her state, confirmed by the midwife who had journeyed to Shiganshina to oversee her pregnancy. The dates aligned closely with those given to her in Trost, a distant memory now vividly recalled amidst the preparations for the child’s imminent arrival. What had begun as a mere seed within her womb, had now blossomed into the unmistakable form of a tiny human being. By this juncture, she carried within her a small babe complete with limbs, a brain, and a beating heart—a fully formed body in miniature.

It had not only been eight months of constant change for her babe, though. It had also been eight months of experiencing pains she had never known before—some persistent, others temporary. Like the backaches that seemed to settle in her lower spine and never ease, no matter how she shifted or rested. Or the sharp, stabbing pains that often shot through her abdomen unexpectedly, making everyday movements a challenge. And then there were the nights of restless discomfort, where finding a comfortable position was a futile endeavour, leaving her fatigued and yearning for relief that seemed just out of reach. All of it because her belly, once shy and coy, was full and swollen like ripe peaches in spring, no longer letting her see her own feet—that had also swelled considerably of late, truth be told.

Yet, amidst the throes of physical discomfort, Mikasa found solace in one thought. Despite these trials, they all faded into insignificance as she realised how soon she would hold her child in her arms. One more month, and it was anticipated the birth of their little one—a new wolf welcomed into the world.

“May I assist you, my lady?” offered the midwife who had practically become her shadow. Rico was her name, and she was from a nearby village, handsomely compensated by the Lord to execute her duties flawlessly.

“Yes, please,” Mikasa replied, attempting to rise from the bed on her own—a futile effort, as she could no longer manage it alone. “My lord Husband?”

“He rises early, my dear,” the septa remarked, as she laid out the princess’s attire. “You know better than I that he has been occupied of late.”

“My Lord husband always finds himself engrossed,” Mikasa replied, suppressing a laugh. “Not even in my current condition have I convinced him to linger in bed a bit longer.”

“And it’s for the best that he does not stay in bed. It’s not good for you to be unsettled any more, Mikasa,” the septa added with a knowing glance.

Mikasa understood the implication well enough and chose to snort lightly, a feeble attempt to mask her blushing cheeks.

As for their lovemaking, they had not ceased. If anything, Mikasa felt herself more inclined to such dalliances now. She found herself increasingly eager and receptive lately, always anticipating the moments when they retired to bed, always taking the lead. She needed only a few simple kisses amidst giggles and his gentle hands tracing her body to end up riding him, for it was the position that felt most natural and comforting to her.

Yet, it wasn’t always the most advantageous position for him to take care of her with his tongue. No.

Like any expectant mother, her breasts had swelled. Tender and heavy, each one had filled with the promise of nourishing milk for her baby. And this, like many facets of her impending motherhood, had regrettably been accompanied by pain—a pain that Eren found a way to soothe.

On days when her breasts felt as hard as stone, so much so that she longed to tear off her garments, he would gently lay her naked upon the bed. Placing pillows beneath her lower back, he would cover her with soft linens, carefully exposing the epicentre of her distress. With his mouth warm and moist, he would bestow upon her breasts a shower of kisses, each touch suffused with the utmost gentleness. Starting from the peak and tracing a path down to the base, his lips would suck her, imparting comfort, and relief. His tongue, a skilled ally, would move in precise circles around her nipples, its tender caresses soothing the itch and ache that tormented her.

“Do you wish for me to continue, my love?” he would inquire amid it, his voice thick and hoarse with the fervour of his labour, a clear sign of his pleasure. “Shall I suck your breasts until the pain is gone, my love?”

At first, Mikasa had hesitated, deeming it somewhat improper. Yet, having shared far more unseemly moments with him, she soon started to surrender to his requests. Each time Eren inquired if she desired more, her response would be clasping his head and drawing him closer to her breasts, gently stroking his hair as he drank deeply from her. A similar gesture she had made when he used to feast upon her c*nt in days gone by.

It was more than a mere act of physical relief; it was a ritual of love. It was a moment as intimate as when they joined their flesh in the dance of their bodies. Yet now, they were acutely aware that Mikasa’s breasts were not just a mere sensitive part in their carnal acts, but the very source from which their child would nourish—since she had chosen to breastfeed rather than let her milk dry off.

However, of late, the latter had become their sole intimate indulgence, as Septa Nanaba had remarked that Mikasa should no longer be unsettled. The midwife Rico had cautioned weeks ago that the Lord and Lady ought to abstain, fearing that so much love making might precipitate premature childbirth. And it was one of the reasons why Mikasa suspected that Eren had been rising early and leaving the bed, as he had a habit of beginning their mornings with playful affection. He simply couldn’t contain himself, and her even less so, yet they both had to muster the effort.

“Which gown would you like for today, Princess?” inquired her septa, rousing her from reveries of her lord husband.

“Any crimson attire you fancy, Septa,” she answered. “And fetch a hairnet if you please. My hair has been a vexation of late.”

“I’ve heard that new mothers in Hizuru trim their locks upon the birth of their firstborn,” the midwife remarked. “Will you follow this tradition, Princess?”

It was true, Mikasa had heard about it. It was one of the many tales her mother had spun about the traditions in the distant land of Hizuru all those years past.

Oh, Mother, brother…

It had been some time since Mikasa had thought of her mother and Levi, and the memory struck her like a blow to the gut, churning her insides. Did she hate them? No. Such a word was too strong, too terrifying to wield against her own blood—for they were her family against all odds, against all treacheries. The feelings were inexplicable, though, a certain animosity lingering in the shadows between them. But she would not dwell on it now; she would push it aside for as long as she could. Not because she was infatuated, but because she felt a pressing need to think with a cold mind, and her pregnancy had allowed no room for such clarity.

She knew, deep within, that once she held the child in her arms and set aside this monumental physical effort, she would be able to think with perfect clarity. Moreover, her vision would sharpen if she knew whether she had birthed a son or a daughter.

“If I cut my hair, it would bring tears to my husband’s eyes,” she said, her voice devoid of emotions. “Eren loves my hair. I wouldn’t do this to him.”

Then she cast the images of her mother and brother out of her mind, feeling the pang in her gut grow ever more intense. The only uncertainty was whether the pain she was beginning to feel was of the fleeting kind or the sort that endured for a while…

Once prepared, she descended the winding stairs, supported firmly by her septa and Rico on each side. Eren had proven foresighted in matters concerning stairway safety. Just the month before, on her twentieth nameday, Mikasa had a minor mishap, stumbling and nearly losing her balance on two steps. Though the incident caused only a momentary fright, her distress led her to seek solace from Maester Marcos, seeking reassurance through tears. Ultimately, she had only bruised one ankle, a minor injury and nothing else. Yet, it served as a crucial lesson, dissuading her from attempting the descent of those treacherous stairs for the remainder of her pregnancy.

In the main tower, the customary clamour of Shiganshina in motion filled the air. Never had Mikasa witnessed the stone city so alive, all because, as she had grown weary of hearing, winter was approaching. Yet, it was no longer a mere impending threat; the cold now felt like a palpable presence in the surroundings.

“I think my child will be a winter child,” she mused absent-mindedly, gently caressing her belly. Suddenly, a twinge in her lower back caught her attention, unsettling her. She chose not to voice her discomfort. “I don’t believe it will arrive in the fall.”

“Oh, do you think so?” inquired the midwife, her voice gentle and reassuring. “Winter births are often seen as auspicious. Winter children have a quiet strength, akin to the promise of new beginnings amidst the cold. And for a Yeager, being born in winter is more than just auspicious, don’t you think? It’s their natural season. Your child, my princess, will be destined for wonderful things.”

Does being destined for wonderful things involve wearing a crown? Mikasa pondered idly. Oh, she shouldn’t have thought about that. However, now she was beginning to feel it in her body. Perhaps I should write them a letter, she pondered suddenly, her gaze drifting to the frost-etched windowpane, where delicate snowflakes danced in the wintry breeze. Perhaps, I ought to speak to them before the chaos…

“Princess?” Rico asked, breaking through her reveries. “Are you alright? You’re making a face. If you feel some pain—”

“I wish for breakfast,” she interjected softly, not voicing her concerns.

As she requested, breakfast was laid out in the grand hall. The table boasted a spread of freshly baked breads, still warm and inviting; a hearty porridge infused with honey and nuts; plates of sausage and cheese; and an array of fruits and preserves. Much to her relief, there was no coffee in sight—seemingly, they had taken pity on her, opting instead for serving black tea.

Joining her were Carla, Gabi, and Ares. The latter two, particularly Ares, had spent ample time with her of late, engrossed in reading and discussing the winter tales for children. They busied themselves with preparations for the baby, too. For instance, Gabi had assisted her in embroidering a splendid red blanket adorned with golden thread, while Ares had revealed an unexpected talent for carving toys shaped like wolves and phoenixes.

“I’m not quite sure where I picked it up,” the boy had admitted. “I read about it in a book and decided to try my hand at it. This is the result.” At that moment, Mikasa realised that her stepson’s curiosity mirrored her own passion for learning.

And why were they so close of late? Lady Carla had offered only one explanation—Mikasa now possessed the essence of a mother in a pack, and mothers naturally attracted their pups.

“I overheard the women in the kitchen speak the other day of Mikasa’s condition,” Gabi said during the morning meal, her words muffled by a mouthful of bread. It was an unseemly sight for a young lady of her station. “She claims we must watch the midwife closely, lest she takes the afterbirth for some dark sorcery.”

“What!?” Mikasa exclaimed, her face a mask of shock.

“I know not; that’s what they said,” Gabi continued, her tone nonchalant. “And that we should hang charms in Mikasa’s chamber to keep the demons at bay during her time of childbirth; they say these demons are fond of stealing babes.”

As Gabi prattled on, Mikasa felt the blood drain from her face.

“The common folk are steeped in superstition, Mikasa. Fear not, there are no such things as black magic or demons,” Lady Carla said in a soothing tone. “And you, Gabi, those are not fit words to speak aloud, especially not in the presence of a pregnant lady. Do you wish to hasten her labour with fright?”

“Of course not! That would be dreadful! And doubly so, for Mikasa has yet to choose names! Yet, worry not; I have some names. If it’s a boy, his name has to be Gabriel, and if it’s a girl, then Gabi!” declared the brown-haired girl, toying with her food. The issue of naming the child had become a lively debate among them, though a friendly one.

“You’re not seriously suggesting my sibling be named after you or your male counterpart, are you?” Ares interjected.

“Well, then, what names do you propose?”

“Hmm... names from the books, perhaps? Nikita, Vasily, Yuri. Or for a girl, Vasilya, Irina, or Maria?”

Gabi wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Maria? What kind of name is that? The boyish names are gorgeous, but try harder with the female ones.”

“None of us know if it will be a boy or a girl,” Lady Carla asserted, quieting the discussion. “And none of you will have any say in naming a child that none of you are carrying.”

Both Ares and Gabi protested loudly.

“Oh! The cooks are wagering that Mikasa carries a girl,” Gabi said after a moment, her excitement palpable. “They say her belly is too round for a boy, and she’s been craving that peculiar starchy sweet lately, the one with roses that the septa taught them to make.” Gabi referred to lokum, a delicacy that had so captivated Mikasa that she once wept for it.

“Nonsense!” Ares interjected, his voice firm. “It must be a boy. Why else has my father been hunting so much pheasant and quail for her food, huh? A boy would only desire manly fare, so I stake my bet on a son.”

Thus, Ares and Gabi fell into a heated debate over the child’s gender, their voices rising with each passing moment. Lady Carla, ever the peacemaker, stepped in to restore order to the chaotic scene. In truth, they bore little resemblance to aunt and nephew, especially not at that moment.

Mikasa chuckled at the scene unfolding, but a grimace marred her face. Why did her back and lower belly ache so much?

“Are you alright, Mikasa?” Ares inquired, attentively.

“Just some soreness I’ve had since last night,” she replied, turning in her chair. “I think I slept poorly.”

“Be careful, Mikasa, be careful now,” cautioned Lady Carla. “You must take care of any kind of pain. May I call the midwife?”

Mikasa shook her head, brushing off the concerns. It’s nothing, she said to herself, trying to quell the ache. Merely cramps, like those I endured when my red flower first bloomed. If I have survived those, I can survive this. It was merely one of those pains she considered temporary, nothing more than a consequence of a restless night’s sleep.

“I wish to take a stroll,” she declared moments later, gently setting aside the embroidered linen napkin on the table.

“Walking?” Lady Carla asked, her brow furrowed.

“Yes, walking,” Mikasa said, and she rose gracefully, adjusting her thick woollen cloak against the morning chill to depart the bustling great hall.

Step by step, she crossed into the tranquil courtyards, where the dawn’s quietude wrapped around her like a comforting shroud. Amidst ancient stones and the gentle snowfall, she found solace for her wandering thoughts. While she yearned for the companionship of her ladies-in-waiting, she also craved a moment of solitude to reflect in peace. Thus, she politely requested that her septa and midwife maintain a respectful distance.

Eren’s nameday was near, three days, and he would be another year older than her. This prompted Mikasa to contemplate the most suitable gift, but she didn’t quite like any of her ideas. She had considered garments, armaments, and even a feast, yet none seemed fitting. Eren seldom took pleasure in dressing up. Mikasa lacked knowledge of weaponry, and consulting Jean or Armin risked spoiling the surprise or yielding no useful insight. As for a feast, it was swiftly dismissed—Eren had a distinct aversion to such gatherings.

Turning to Historia for advice, whose replies often carried a hint of humour, she was gifted a fine nightgown made from the ethereal fabric of The Lakes, along with a playful note that read: “His favourite—wear it well, dear mommy!” While the gesture was lighthearted and amusing, Mikasa aimed to present something deeper—a gift that would reflect the profound bond they shared.

Ultimately, she pondered the notion of presenting him with the letters she had penned for him since their first encounter. In these sincere missives, she had delicately chronicled the evolution of her admiration and affection, capturing the flourishing of her love and feelings over time. Yet she questioned whether mere words could authentically convey the profoundness of her emotions. She was no wordsmith, nor did she fancy herself skilled in poetry. Would her writings be enough to express the depth of her love? Could he discern her sentiments and the extent of her devotion through her words, or would they fail to fully convey her heart?

As she walked, Mikasa found herself at the rear of Shiganshina, where the crystal gardens lay. There, a group of workers gathered, unloading pots from a cart—not just any plants, but roses.

“Since when do we have roses in Shiganshina?” she pondered aloud, curiosity piqued. Hastening her pace, Mikasa made her way towards the gardens, drawn by the unusual activity and the unexpected sight of roses.

Entering through the glass door that led into the garden, Mikasa stepped into a different realm. The air inside carried the warm fragrance of blooming flowers, and the temperature felt noticeably milder, as the glass enclosure shielded it from the cold outside.

The crystal gardens flourished abundantly, vibrant with life. Mikasa paused, taking in the splendour of the flowers and lush greenery that thrived in every corner. She couldn’t recall ever seeing this place so vibrant and colourful before.

“Oh, no,” a voice intoned from behind, shattering the moment. “You’re spoiling the surprise, princess.”

Mikasa turned swiftly, her gaze falling upon Jean, who stood holding a potted flower. “What is happening here?”

Jean glanced away momentarily before muttering aloud, “Armin, this was not part of the plan.”

Following Jean’s line of sight, Mikasa saw Armin approaching through the crystal gardens, his countenance a blend of astonishment and caution as he drew nearer. “What happens here?” Armin queried, casting a perplexed glance between Mikasa and Jean, then fixing his eyes on Mikasa. “Oh, princess, shouldn’t you be elsewhere?”

“Why?” Mikasa retorted, her arms crossing protectively over her belly.

“Because... um…” Armin faltered momentarily, then blurted out, his voice rising, “Eren, it’s your wife!”

“My wife?” Mikasa heard the urgency in her husband’s voice as he emerged from the blooms, his expression fraught with concern. “What’s amiss with my wife? The babe?” Upon spotting Mikasa, his countenance softened with relief. “Oh, no, my love. You should not be here.” His tone easing into tenderness.

“What is the matter unfolding here?” she inquired, her restlessness mounting with each fleeting moment. The agony that had plagued her since early morning was surging with heightened intensity—there was clearly something wrong, but she didn’t dare to say it.

“Oh, this, yes, indeed,” her husband murmured. “I had hoped to arrange something for you—”

“Something for me?”

“It’s an attempt at a rose garden,” he stammered, cheeks flushed. Mikasa was uncertain whether his reddish countenance was for the stifling heat of the greenhouse or the shame in his voice. “But it’s not yet complete, and it’s not turning out as splendidly as I had hoped... I hadn’t anticipated that some roses wouldn’t survive the journey from the cold. I’ve been rather foolish, my dear wife.”

She couldn’t help but laugh softly. Trying, she approached him, moving slowly and carefully under the weight of her belly. When she reached his side, she embraced him tenderly, his arms wrapping around her as best they could. “Thank you for the gesture,” she whispered. “Yet I must protest, husband. This is the second time you’ve done this.”

Eren scratched his head. “Done what?”

“Give me gifts on the eve of your nameday.”

He looked at her with bewilderment. “My nameday? It’s not that I have forgotten; I just wanted to do something special for you.”

“You always prioritise me, Eren, yet remember to accept care in return.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he replied with a smirk. “However, I shall refrain from saying it aloud from now on. Before long, you will be a mother yourself, and in that, your word will be the law.”

“Glad you’re aware of your role, dear husband.” Her laughter echoed, yet a fleeting grimace marred her expression.

“What’s troubling you?” Eren’s concern resonated in his voice. “Is something wrong with you? Come now, Mikasa; you have wandered too far. Let me take you to the tower.”

Mikasa nodded, accepting his aid without hesitation. As he guided her back, she rested her head on his shoulder, allowing her weariness to show.

Within the main tower, daylight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting the floor in a warm tapestry of comforting hues. Eren helped her to a chair by the fireplace, where the flames crackled with a welcoming warmth.

A grimace of pain crossed Mikasa’s face once more, and Eren’s frown deepened, his concern growing. “The pain again?”

She nodded, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. Suddenly, she felt as though her back might shatter. “It’s normal; it’s part of the process. I just need to rest.”

“I need to know how long you’ve been suffering these pains,” he said, kneeling beside her. “Last night I heard you whimper in your sleep, but I couldn’t wake you up. I know your nightmares and night terrors, and this was not one of them.”

Mikasa clasped Eren’s hand, her fingers entwining with his. “They’ve been more frequent these past few days,” she admitted softly, her eyes closing. “I tried not to worry, but last night it was more intense. I did not wish to alarm you, but it seems I cannot hide it any longer.”

He drew in a deep breath, as if swallowing the urge to reproach. “The midwife,” he said, releasing his breath slowly. “I need the midwife to come at once.”

“Do not be alarmed,” she replied, her voice steady despite her weariness. “There is nothing amiss. There is still a little time left. It will pass.”

Yet he did not heed her, for he arose to his feet and called loudly for his steward. “Summon the midwife, have her prepare the chamber for my wife, and fetch the septa as well,” he instructed urgently. “Tell them to get everything ready. The princess is unwell; Maester Marco has warned me repeatedly about the possibility of early childbirth. f*ck all, Floch, are you even listening to me?”

It was then that Mikasa noticed Floch’s inscrutable expression. “My lord,” he ventured cautiously, “two messengers have arrived, bearing the phoenix sigil.” Floch’s brown eyes locked onto hers before he swallowed hard and continued, “They await at the gates with some soldiers.”

“Ackerman soldiers,” Mikasa uttered, a chill coursing down her spine. “Gods, what do they—” She abruptly fell silent, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Her face twisted in pain, almost buckling as she struggled to stay upright. The intensity of the pain was overwhelming.

Eren hurried to Mikasa’s side, sinking to his knees with a slow, pained grace. His fingers trembled as he gently cradled her swollen belly, a desperate attempt to ease her discomfort and protect their unborn child.

Struggling for breath, she felt her heart pound in her ears, the rhythm echoing painfully in her chest. She met Eren’s gaze, her voice strained yet steady as she urged him, “Call Maester Marcos and... and everyone. I fear... I fear the babe is coming.”

Eren’s eyes bulged. “A-are you sure?” His voice stammered.

“Just go and fetch them, please... and just... just send the king’s soldier back home.”

“Floch, we cannot afford to send the soldiers back,” Floch asserted firmly. “It would be seen as a slight, an insult.”

“To the seven hells with the insult,” Eren interjected sharply. “Tell Ares to handle it. They must be mere messengers, like all the others who have come and gone. f*ck it!”

The next thing Mikasa knew, she found herself in her chambers, reclining on her bed. Her maids bustled around, stoking fires, and preparing supplies. Staring upwards at the ceiling above, she clutched her burgeoning belly, each wave of pain tightening her abdomen and forcing her to grit her teeth. She drew slow breaths, attempting to steady herself amidst the cacophony of voices that filled the air.

“It appears the princess is indeed in labour,” Maester Marcos declared after his examination. “We must maintain warmth in the room and ensure a steady supply of hot water. Please, Lady Carla, send for a maid to fetch my instruments.”

“But was it not due a month hence?” The matriarch’s voice sounded fraught with concern. “Is there no potion or tonic to prevent it?”

“I regret to say, it is not feasible,” the maester replied solemnly. “Upon examination, the babe is already positioned head down. It seems eager to make its entrance.”

“Gods be good, a restless child!” exclaimed Lady Carla, but soon her voice steadied. “So be it. Today it shall be then.” She clapped her hands. “Those remaining here must be of use. Eren, you are of no use; go away.”

“You are not asking me to leave my wife, are you?”

“Leave this to the ladies, Eren,” Carla Yeager commanded. “This is no place for you. Go to your chamber or the solarium, wherever you please. Patience is required; this will take time.”

“Maester Marcos is here, and he is no lady!” Eren protested. “Doesn’t that matter?”

Lady Carla opened her mouth to retort, but Mikasa’s voice cut through the tension. “Eren, come here.”

He hurried to her side, his expression a storm of worry and frustration. Kneeling by the bed, he took Mikasa’s hand in his. “You should go,” she said gently. “I am in capable hands. Do not fret.”

“But—”

“I’m strong.” She attempted a smile, though it came off somewhat sheepish. “I’m strong, and I can endure this. I’m not afraid.”

Eren squeezed her hand tighter, his eyes never leaving hers. “Of course you are not afraid,” he said, his eyes darting through her face. He sighed deeply; his brow furrowed with reluctance. Finally, he nodded, albeit with evident resignation. “I love you. I’ll be just outside. If you need anything, anything at all, call for me.”

“Eren,” she called as he began to rise. “Think of names, will you? I thought we had another month, but now you will have to decide for both of us.”

“It shall be the most beautiful name you can imagine,” he promised, a nervous chuckle escaping him.

Once her husband had departed, Mikasa drew a deep breath. The pain was still a distant thunder, but she knew that the storm would soon be upon her.

And so, the labour proceeded as expected, and Maester Marcos had not erred in his diagnosis. Hours passed, and the pain grew sharper, the intervals between each wave shortening. Maester Marcos and the midwife, Rico, urged her to walk the length of her chambers, hoping her waters would break soon. Sasha arrived late in the afternoon, fresh from a hunt, and lent her strength to Mikasa, whispering soothing words. The princess clung to her friend’s arm, fighting back tears as she wandered her chambers, trying to conceal her pain.

“I feel like with every minute that passes, I’m breaking apart, Sasha,” Mikasa said as the day’s light waned. “It’s going to be a long night, don’t you think?”

“I’ve no experience in this, Mikasa, but from what I’ve seen, I fear you might be right,” Sasha replied. “But you are doing everything right. Your reward will be seeing your babe sleeping amidst the gold your father sent as a gift.”

“Gifts?” Mikasa panted, trying to steady her breath. “What gifts?”

“Some Ackerman messengers arrived bearing gifts, they claimed. Gifts from the king to his moon and sun princess. Ares accepted them, and they have departed back to the South already. It must surely be gold for them to require soldiers to guard it,” the brown-haired girl explained. “I saw Aunt Faye poking through the packed presents; Eren told her not to touch anything.”

So that was it. They weren’t here for anything but gifts. Oh, father... “Aunt Faye?” Mikasa asked as she felt her eyes swell with tears. She strove to banish thoughts of her kin, but the vulnerable moment crept upon her unbidden. Suddenly, the yearning for their presence took hold. She wished for her brother, her sister-in-law, her father, and even her mother to be there, aiding her in this trial of birth. Yet, such a desire was beyond reach.

“She insists on meddling in affairs beyond her ken,” Sasha said. “But it would be better for her to be occupied outside than to be here, don’t you agree? You do not need her energy here.”

Mikasa gave a silent nod of agreement, but another wave of pain surged through her, forcing a moan from her lips. Sasha stepped closer, her presence a soothing balm. “Keep breathing; you’re doing an incredible job.”

Hours crept by, each one slower than the last, as night cast its dark mantle over the tower. Outside, the wind whispered through the stone walls, but within the chamber, the world shrank to the rhythm of Mikasa’s labour.

Her maids had been assisting her as well, constantly bringing water-soaked clothes to wipe away the sweat that poured from her brow—as well as the tears. Among them was Carla, whose maternal presence was a wellspring of comfort and security. Having endured this ordeal before, she knew precisely what to say to soothe.

“When you feel the urge to push, that is when you push. Not before. Only when the need grips you,” she had instructed at some indeterminate hour of the night. At what time had this been? Mikasa could not quite tell. It could have been during the hour of the owl or the hour of the wolf. The relentless tide of pain had long since robbed her of any sense of time.

She could no longer distinguish between night and day, each moment an indistinct blur of agony and determination. What had begun as a steady rhythm of contractions now blurred into an unending wave, crashing over her repeatedly. Voices around her rose and fell, offering comfort and guidance, but her world had narrowed to the struggle within her body.

That sentiment persisted until she noticed daylight filtering through the curtains, and true to Lady Carla’s counsel, she sensed the urge to push.

“Septa, please,” she soon pleaded between gasps, reaching out for her. Septa Nanaba had been the closest figure to a mother she had known, having watched over her from childhood. It was only fitting that she be the one to assist her at that pivotal moment.

“Here I am, sweet girl, here I am,” she told her when she reached her side. “Keep breathing, keep breathing.”

And when the midwife and Master Marco gave their approval and positioned her correctly, Septa Nanaba urged, “Now, princess, push.”

Shiganshina, The Lord’s Solar.

Not even the long night of the siege he had orchestrated at the tender age of fourteen had seemed as endless as this past night. Leading troops through that siege, his youthful determination had been a beacon amidst chaos. Now, confronted with the relentless hours of his wife’s labour, he felt utterly powerless.

Eren had pledged to shield her from every harm, yet childbirth was among those finite trials where his solace faltered. There was nothing he could do to ease her pain, and such a thing was wreaking havoc on him.

“It is the princess’s first child, Lord Eren,” Maester Marco had informed him, updating him on the progress. “It may take a day or perhaps two. Lady Carla mentioned your birth took nearly as long, so this shall not be swift.”

Truthfully, it did little to ease Eren’s burden. Yet, as his mother had advised, it was best to assist without intruding. Thus, from the onset of his wife’s labour, he had secluded himself in his solar, unable to be in the main chamber where he could hear her cries.

Greystorm kept him company, mirroring his unease with restless energy. The direwolf howled and clawed at the floor, the sharp sound of his nails echoing against the stone. His dark grey fur bristled, a clear display of his discomfort and concern. He glanced towards the door occasionally, his green eyes shining with anxiety, silently urging him to check on Mikasa. But, once again, Eren knew he was more helpful staying out of the way.

Even his palpable restlessness had affected his son, who also seemed unable to find peace. Sensing his father’s distress, Ares had checked on him several times throughout the night. He had come only to ask him if he needed wine, food, or even some coffee, oblivious to the notion that Eren only needed his wife. Finally, Ares eventually found refuge in the solar as well, where he finally succumbed to sleeping in a chair in a corner.

Exhausted and burdened with worry, the Lord had also drifted off at his desk, though he would recall that sleep as the worst he had ever experienced. His slumber was devoid of specific dreams, only the gnawing anxiety that plagued him. This anxiety dredged up old memories from the depths of his mind, conjuring images of times long past.

He recalled the first time he had endured this ordeal, when he had become the father of Ares at the tender age of eighteen. The night had been laden with a different kind of tension, no less fierce. Barely more than a boy, he had been thrust into the burdens of fatherhood. A decent man would care for the woman bearing his child, and he truly did—his concern for Orla ran deep, even when she refused his presence at her birthing bed.

Thus, he had waited in the corridors, Greystorm his only companion, pacing restlessly under the vigilant eyes of his mother—who also was not permitted to attend Orla during her labour.

When Ares finally entered the world, Eren had only seen him from a distance, a remote figure amidst the tumultuous birthing chamber. He stood as a spectator to Orla’s elation, witnessing her embrace their newborn son. The sight stirred within him a blend of sentiments—pride, relief, and a deep-seated sense of powerlessness. He yearned to be part of that moment, to cradle his firstborn son in his arms, yet his first kept him at bay, never allowing him to occupy the position that was meant for him.

Yet he harboured no doubts about the present; he knew well that Mikasa would allow him to cradle their child. She had affirmed it countless times, and that initial assurance sufficed, for he placed his trust in her words.

My sweet Mikasa, he mused in his sleep, and soon he opened his eyes, feeling as though a significant stretch of time had passed. And indeed, he woke up by the hour of the nightingale the following day, the sound of the door filtering into his ears.

“Any news?” he asked, startled enough to jump in his seat.

Both Armin and Jean glanced back at him, their eyebrows arched inquisitively.

“You look like hell,” Jean remarked bluntly, taking a seat. “Rough night?”

“Why are you here? I did not invite you,” Eren retorted, his sulkiness verging on petulance. His exhaustion and nerves had worn away his usual patience.

“We heard Mikasa’s cries from across the courtyard,” Armin said, his voice tinged with sympathy. “We understand it was a difficult night, but we wanted to offer our support nonetheless.” His gaze briefly shifted to Jean. “Though, tact isn’t always a strong suit for some people in this room.”

Jean snorted in response. “We also bring news from the outside world,” the man from Trost added. “It’s snowing heavily, Eren’s. So much so that icicles are forming on some shutters. Quite unusual for autumn.”

“Icicles?” Ares asked, awakening from his slumber. “How cold is it outside for icicles to form so quickly? I know the snow has not let up, but icicles already?”

“That’s exactly what I was explaining to Armin,” Jean remarked. “Oh, and by the way, it appears a raven has arrived at the maester’s aviary, but with Maester Marcos occupied—”

“I’ll go,” Ares interjected. “I’ll take care of it, father. Worry not.”

Eren offered Ares a grateful nod as he massaged his temples. He did not particularly desire company, yet he struggled with the tact to politely dismiss everyone either.

“May I ask what the Ackerman messengers wanted?” Armin inquired after a moment’s pause.

“They brought gifts and letters from the family for Mikasa,” Eren replied, feeling a dull ache in his head. “However, they also delivered a particularly important package with instructions to be opened only by the Princess Royal. Naturally, it will be after this is over and when she has recovered.”

There was no way Eren would allow Mikasa to endure any discomfort at this time.

“Do you have any idea what it could be?” Armin pressed.

Eren made a sound of disgust but ended up answering. “I suspect it has something to do with the Prince of Ashes matters.” They are really expecting for her to bore a boy, he thought. What will happen when Mikasa does not give birth to a boy?

“Eren, do you realise that the Ackerman emissaries have likely heard the commotion of the birth and will send a raven to Mitras as soon as possible, right?” Was Jean's only interjection.

Of course he did; it was just a matter of time.

Moments later, as Jean and Armin exchanged words on matters undisclosed, the entrance to the solar creaked open. Startled, Eren leaned back in his chair and beheld his younger sister strolling in with an air of nonchalance.

“Any news?” he asked, trying to conceal his anxiety.

“What news?” Gabi inquired, stifling a yawn. “Oh, about Mikasa’s?” Eren scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It wasn’t there if that’s what you’re curious about. I have not the faintest idea of what is going on there.”

“Then why are you here, Gabi? I did not invite you, either.”

“Oh, brother, set aside that petulance, you look quite foolish.” Gabi's words elicited a hearty laugh from Jean and a disapproving snort from Armin. “May I remain here, nonetheless? I’ve no desire to witness the birth. I just heard Mikasa’s scream, claiming she feels as though she is tearing in two, and that was sufficient to send me fleeing.”

“Gods be god! Blessed be the seven that I am a man!” Jean exclaimed, earning another scolding from Armin.

“As a girl, Jean, you would have been quite ugly,” Gabi pointed out as she strolled into the solar, disregarding Eren, who was visibly on the brink of losing his temper. The gods knew he longed to dismiss them all, yet he feared his words would only worsen the situation.

Ignoring the tense atmosphere, Gabi stumbled upon Mikasa’s lute in the yard and began to pluck at its strings. “I believe a song would lighten the mood,” she declared. “Any suggestions?”

“You’re going to get us all hanged by the lord of this house,” Armin warned.

Also ignoring the tension, Jean chimed in, “Oh, that prince’s song, what was its name again?”

Gabi let out a small squeal. “Ah, I know the one you mean, Mikasa loves it!” She plucked the strings once more and began to sing.

Oh, young boy, your courage was a thing to behold,

In the face of danger, you were always bold.

Eren sought solace in his hands, rubbing his closed eyes. When the door creaked open once more, he didn’t bother to glance around, but the silence that followed caught his attention. With a sigh, he lifted his gaze just as the cawing of a raven rebounded through the chamber.

Before him stood Ares, clutching a cage that confined not just any raven, but a white raven—its feathers as pure as the ceaseless snowfall outside. Such a creature could only hail from one place: the Citadel. And what grim tidings did the white raven bear?

“Winter is here,” Eren said, no longer a mere anticipation but a stark reality fulfilled.

His voice faltered, silenced by the weight of the moment. Yet amidst the hush, his mother’s lively tones slipped into the chamber. “Eren, hasten! Hasten!” She took him by the arm and soon led him out of his place. “The child is here,” she said, “your child is here!”

Eren’s heart quickened as he trailed after his mother, the urgency in her voice moving him forward, always forwards. Each stride carried him through a haze, as though he traversed a realm of reverie. The presence of the white raven haunted his thoughts, its unspoken warning echoing faintly in the recesses of his mind.

Yet...

As he entered his wife’s chamber, everything around him seemed to dim, the scent of life itself reaching his nose. Eren’s heart pounded in his chest as he approached. He heard the babe’s cry, telling the world that it had strong lungs.

“She wishes to see you,” his mother murmured.

Eren’s knees weakened, his legs quaked, and his voice trembled with emotion. Tears gathered in his eyes, on the brink of spilling over, as he grappled for words amidst the deluge of feeling. “Healthy?” he barely whispered.

“Kicking like a goat.” Carla urged him towards the childbirth bed. “Go,” she insisted.

As he neared, he saw Mikasa, her face radiant with a blend of weariness and unadulterated joy. Cradled in her arms was their newborn, a fragile marvel wrapped in a red mantle embroidered with threads of gold. Beside her, Septa Nanaba stood with hands reverently clasped, softly intoning a hymn to the Mother: Gentle Mother, hear our plea, guard this child with grace and care...

His wife looked up, her voice a mere breath. “Eren.”

He knelt beside the bed, his trembling hands reaching to touch their infant. The baby squirmed, tiny fists waving—a perfect, fragile testament to their love.

“It’s…” Mikasa began, her voice breathless and eyes red with tears. “It’s a boy, Eren.” She seemed to be on the verge of weeping.

Eren’s breath caught in his throat as he gazed at their son, his heart swelling with an overwhelming tide of emotion. The babe’s eyes fluttered open briefly, and he felt an indescribable bond form in that instant. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks, mingling with the tears in Mikasa’s eyes.

“A boy,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned in closer, his finger tenderly tracing the babe’s tiny hand. “Our son; born two days before my name day, hm?” He tried to smile, though the tears were stronger.

“A son,” Mikasa echoed. “You know what that means. Eren—”

“Shhhh,” he whispered, bringing his hand to her cheek. “Do not fret about anything else, my love. Not now. You have done well, so well.” He pressed a kiss to her sweat-drenched forehead. “My brave girl.”

Their son stirred in his mother’s arms, letting out a small, contented sigh. Eren marvelled at the tiny life they had created, the embodiment of their love and resilience. At that moment, the room held its breath, the world outside forgotten as they basked in the joy of their newfound family.

“You have to name him,” his wife said. “Have you thought of a name already?”

He hesitated, realising he had not truly considered it; amidst all the anticipation and worry, he had forgotten. Yet, there was a song for this little boy with the blood of wolves and phoenixes—this wolf of royal blood. Though tinged with sorrow, it was a song nonetheless, and Eren vowed that his son’s own song would be filled with nothing but joy.

She gently shifted, offering the baby to him. “Here,” she said, her eyes filled with trust and love. “Hold him.”

With trembling hands, he took their son, cradling him carefully. The babe’s warmth seeped into his skin, anchoring him to this moment. As he gazed down at the tiny face, a name formed in his mind, clear and unwavering.

“I have a name,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue like a promise. “Lucerys.”

“Lucerys?” Mikasa queried. By then, tears had escaped the corners of her eyes, cascading freely down her once-pristine face, now stained with red. “Like the song?” Mikasa’s lips formed a slight pout. “It’s a sad song, as you’ve said.”

“But my son’s song will be one of pure happiness.” His voice held a quiet certainty, and his gaze tender as he looked down at their boy. “I promise you, I—” Incapable of finding more words, he fell in silence. The child cradled in his arms had stirred a tumult of emotions within him, rendering him speechless.

Lucerys of House Yeager, Eren thought, kissing the babe’s forehead. Lucerys, a child born in the first day of winter. Oh, blessed child.

Thus, on the first day of winter, the beloved firstborn of the Princess Royal of the Seven Kingdoms and the Warden of the North greeted the world with his first cry. Lucerys was his name, and like any child born with the blood of wolves, he was free.

Prince Lucerys of House Yeager