Thrice
By Myriddin
Three times Shireen Baratheon was held by men who loved her.
He stepped quietly, dimly aware of the late hour presented in the silence and darkness enveloping the castle. He glanced at the window belonging to the nursery, beams of moonlight spilling in through the glass. In the pallid glow, he could make out the tiny silhouette resting in the nearby cradle. With the utmost care he had ever given anything in his life, The Lord of Dragonstone lifted his newborn daughter into his arms.
She was soft, warm and delicate in a way only babes could be, smaller than Stannis remembered Renly being. He held her gently as he was capable, mindful of a lingering fear of crushing the little body. His habitual frown softened as he peered down at the child in his arms, studying the prominent ears, the wisps of coal-black hair, the pronounced jawline likely to square as she matured. Something in his chest tightened, a lump rising in his throat, as he took in the bits and pieces of himself and Selyse melded together into this tiny, fragile bundle.
His mouth twitched.
He knew not how long he stood there, but his head shot up as the door suddenly opened and the wet-nurse stepped into the room. She stopped suddenly in her tracks when she caught sight of him, staring at him with wide, goggling eyes. He was quick to frown and bite out a reprimand (quietly, of course, so not to wake the child), but before his expression changed, the servant had seen the impossible.
Stannis Baratheon had been smiling.
xx
Davos Seaworth was not a particularly large or strong man, but he was capable enough that carrying his tiny slip of a princess to bed was nary a burden. Instead, he considered it a privilege.
The Princess had begun nodding off at another of their reading lessons, taking place later than usual as his duties had dragged on to late evening. They had been going over an account of the Dance of Dragons period when the girl had begun visibly tiring, mouth stretching into long, seeking yawns she tried to cover up to no avail. As Davos struggled for the sixth or seventh time to properly pronounce Rhaenyra, she was no longer able to keep her eyes open, and Davos hadn't hesitated to scoop her up.
Her head lolled trustingly to his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against his roughspun shirt. Despite their better fortune, Marya still preferred to make his shirts, and Davos wore them dutifully. The Princess didn't seem to mind the coarse material, continuing to mumble sleepily as they made their way down the corridors.
"I think we should just skip ahead to- yawn- the parts about Prince Daemon. I think you'll like him better."
"Do you now?"
"Hmm-mm. They called him the Rogue Prince. You used to be a smuggler. Devan said, that you said, a smuggler's best friends are scoundrels and rogues."
Davos was speechless for a long moment, uncertain whether it was more prudent to watch what he said within his sons' hearing, or have a talk with Devan about what he repeated in the Princess' presence. He settled for soft laughter instead, a rich chuckle that rumbled through the chest Shireen was resting against, creating a deep tickle against her ear. Her nose twitched in protest and Davos stifled another chortle.
"Clever girl," he whispered fondly, as she snuggled closer and relaxed into sleep with a contented sigh.
If he and Marya had ever been blessed with a daughter, he had a feeling she would have been a lot like this one.
xx
She was mortified she hadn't been paying closer attention to her surroundings, that she didn't notice the sharp corner she caught her foot upon. She stumbled, sent hurtling forward toward a set of stone stairs. She squeezed her eyes shut, surrendering herself to the inevitable.
Strong male arms closed around her, her body colliding with his hard enough to send her savior staggering backward, but he dug in his heels, holding her close and safe as he caught and reestablished his balance.
Dazed from the close call, she leaned her head against his chest, feeling his warmth and his heartbeat, pounding as hard as her own. He stirred above her and she felt, rather than saw, him dip his head toward her, his breath brushing against her cheek as he whispered in her ear. "Are you alright, my lady?"
Shireen shivered and flushed, nervous butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Too flustered to verbally respond but unwilling to pull away, she nodded against his chest. He placed a reassuring hand against the small of her back and the tension seeped away, though the butterflies remained.
"Devan." Not Ser or Captain, titles he had earned in his months away, just a breathless utterance of his given name, one that earned her a quiet, "Shireen," as wind-chapped lips pressed to her forehead, "I'm here, Shireen."
Smiling shyly, she cuddled closer, breathing in the smell of salt and rain. "Welcome home, Devan."