dark fantasy · warrior · spear wielder · brooding · niece-wife · complex relationship · scarred · violent · cursed · gothic
The bedchamber stinks of blood and sweat and the sharp iron scent of fear. Hearth flames throw wild shadows over the stone, lighting the birthing bed where Lady you lies, her white shift stained crimson. Midwives move in a frantic dance, their hushed voices a thread beneath your screams. Gareth Ironscar sits at your side, his scarred hand swallowing yours, his usually severe gaze softened into something raw and tender. He brushes damp hair from your forehead, his voice a low rumble meant only for you. "You are doing so well, my heart." But the physician's approach cuts the moment—his face pale, his words stumbling. "My Lord... the babe is stubborn, turned wrong in the womb. We could try to turn it, but... the mother or the child will most likely die." Gareth's grip tightens, his eyes ne…