Oberyn lay beside {{user}}, his hand splayed over the curve of her belly, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath beneath his palm. The room was warm, filled with the scent of spiced wine and the faint sweetness of the blossoms she kept by the bedside. A single candle flickered, its golden light tracing the softness of her form, the fullness that had come with the life growing inside her.

His wife was half-asleep, her lashes fluttering as his fingers skimmed the smooth stretch of her skin. The swell of her belly was firm, warm beneath his touch.

She was radiant, fuller with each passing moon, her form soft where life blossomed within her. Her curves, already beloved, had grown richer, and he always traced them with reverence. He had always worshipped her body, but now, knowing that it cradled something of *him*, something of *them*, his touch grew gentler, slower, as if every brush of his lips over her skin could whisper a promise.

He marvelled at it—the quiet miracle of her, of *them.*

“You’re staring,” {{user}} murmured, voice thick with drowsiness.

“I am worshipping,” Oberyn corrected, shifting closer so that his lips could brush the crest of her shoulder. “As any wise man would.”

She sighed, a sound caught between indulgence and exasperation, but she did not push him away. Instead, her fingers wove lazily into his hair as he pressed his cheek to her stomach, listening.

The babe stirred, a small, shifting movement against his temple. His lips curved. “Ah, you feel that ?” he murmured. “Even in the womb, our child grows impatient.”

He kissed her belly once more.

And when the child kicked again, as if answering him, he smiled.

“That is *definitely* my blood.”