“Remember, Su,” Ed says, the morning of her hastily-arranged wedding, grasping her hands in his, “you don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to - I’ll help you get away, and damn the Dragon Queen and all of Westeros, if need be.”

Looking over her brother’s shoulder to the rumpled linen of her bed, pristine in the morning light, giving no evidence of the joining it had borne witness to the night before (the way Jon’s hands had moved over her body, worshipping every inch; the way all of him fit so perfectly into all of her, from his face between her thighs to his hands on her breasts, to the hard length of him inside her; the way he had swallowed her gasps and moans and cries, keeping their secrets with his mouth), Susan flushes, rose pink riding high in her cheeks, near to matching the Targaryen red of her gown.

“You’re the best brother I could ask for,” she says, squeezing his hands and kissing his cheek, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat of her face against his, “but I don’t mind a bit, truly - the Queen’s nephew is lovely, once you get to know him,” and all Narnia will love him as I do, soon enough, she vows.