A Life in Westeros
Chapter 12 - Part 1
The birthing room in the new tower at Greywater View was thick with the smell of peat smoke from the brazier, the metallic tang of hot iron tools, sharp sweat, and the unmistakable coppery bite of blood. No septa stood in the corner muttering prayers to the Mother. No one had lit sweet herbs or sung any hymns. This was a Frey birth—practical, ugly, and efficient. Just the maester with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows and his steady, blood-streaked hands, three crannogmen midwives who between them had dragged dozens of babies out of bog women, and Adian Frey leaning against the far stone wall with his arms crossed, watching every single thing that happened.
Barbrey had been at it since before dawn. She sat on the low birthing stool, legs spread wide, feet planted flat on the rushes. Sweat poured down her neck and between her heavy tits, soaking the thin shift that clung to her skin. Her belly was massive now, skin stretched so tight it looked shiny in the firelight, the dark line running straight down the middle like a seam ready to split. Every few minutes another contraction rolled through her and she gripped the stool's wooden handles until her knuckles went bone-white.
"Fuck," she grunted through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut. "This one's worse than the last. Feels like he's trying to kick his way out."
The oldest midwife, Nella, a small, wiry woman with mud-streaked braids and hands like old leather, wiped Barbrey's flushed face with a cool, damp rag. "Head's right there, my lady. You're doing it right. Don't fight it. Breathe through the top of it, then push when it peaks."
Barbrey didn't breathe pretty. She sucked in a harsh breath, then bore down hard with a low, guttural animal sound that tore out of her throat. Her whole body tensed, thighs trembling, belly tightening like a drum.
The maester crouched between her spread legs, two fingers carefully checking. "Crowning," he said, calm as if he were reading a routine ledger entry. "I can see the head. Dark hair. One more good push, my lady."
Barbrey pushed. Her face went deep red, veins standing out thick on her neck and forehead. A raw, wet, fleshy sound filled the room as the baby's head stretched her open. She let out a string of curses under her breath—"Seven fucking hells… come on, you little shit…"
"Good," the maester said. "Shoulders now. Push again when you feel it."
Another contraction slammed into her. Barbrey growled and pushed harder, teeth bared, sweat flying off her brow. The baby slid free all at once into Nella's waiting hands with a wet, slippery rush. He squalled immediately—loud, furious, lungs working like a blacksmith's bellows as he announced his arrival to the whole tower.
The midwives moved fast and without fuss. Nella clamped and cut the cord clean with a hot knife. Another woman wiped the slick, bloody newborn down with clean linen while the third checked Barbrey quickly for tearing. They wrapped the boy in soft, warm linen and laid him straight onto Barbrey's chest.
She looked down at him, still breathing hard, chest heaving. One hand came up automatically to cup the back of his tiny head, holding him close against her sweat-damp skin. The baby rooted instinctively, small mouth already searching.
"Walder," she said, voice raw and rough but completely sure. "His name is Walder Frey."
Adian pushed off the wall and stepped closer. He rested a broad hand on Barbrey's shoulder, thumb brushing slowly over the damp, overheated skin there. He didn't speak. He just looked down at the newborn—his son—then at Barbrey's exhausted but steady face.
The maester and midwives finished their work without ceremony. They cleaned her up efficiently, checked the afterbirth, and stitched where it needed stitching. No one suggested Adian should leave the room. They all knew the man who owned this tower, these lands, and this woman didn't take orders in his own hall.
When the last of them finally filed out and the heavy door clicked shut behind them, the room went quieter. Only the low crackle of the hearth and the wet, rhythmic sucking sounds of Walder nursing remained. Barbrey leaned back against the piled furs with a long, tired exhale. She was exhausted, body aching, but there was a solid, grounded strength in her posture.
Milk was already leaking freely from both of Barbrey's tits. Thin white trails ran down the heavy, swollen curves and soaked into the linen beneath her. Walder had latched onto the right one and was suckling greedily, making small, wet, rhythmic noises that filled the quiet room. The left breast continued to drip steadily on its own, warm drops rolling down the underside, over her ribs, and onto the furs.
Adian sat on the edge of the wide bed, eyes locked straight on her chest. They were bigger than before the birth, fuller, the pale skin stretched tight and faintly veined under the surface. He reached out without asking, cupped the free breast in his broad hand, and squeezed.
Barbrey hissed sharply, half pain, half relief. A thick spurt of warm milk shot across his palm and splattered onto her belly.
"Still so fucking full," Adian said, voice low and rough. He kneaded the soft, heavy flesh, fingers sinking deep into it, watching the way it bulged and rippled between his grip. More milk leaked steadily, dripping over his knuckles and running down her side in shiny streaks.
"Gods, they ache," Barbrey muttered, breath already catching. She shifted her hips on the furs, wincing a little from the fresh stitches but spreading her thighs wider anyway. "Don't be gentle with them tonight. Squeeze harder. They need it."
Adian didn't hesitate. He rolled her nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugging it firmly, then squeezed the whole tit again with real pressure. Milk jetted out in stronger streams, soaking his hand and splashing across her stomach. He switched to the other breast, lifting its heavy weight, mauling it roughly while Walder kept nursing noisily on the first. The small wet sucking sounds from the baby mixed with the slick, rhythmic noises of Adian's hand working the second tit.
Barbrey's breathing grew faster, chest rising and falling. "You're not waiting even a day, are you?"
"No," Adian answered simply. He lowered his head and took the leaking nipple into his mouth, sucking deep and steady. The milk was thin, sweet, and warm on his tongue. He groaned against her soft skin and sucked harder, pulling long, rhythmic draws while his hand kept mauling the other tit. Milk ran down his chin and dripped onto her chest in warm little splats.
Barbrey groaned low in her throat, her free hand sliding into his hair and gripping tight. "Fuck… that feels good. Suck them dry. They've been so heavy all day, aching like this. Keep going."
Adian kept at it, switching from one nipple to the other, drinking from her while his hand never stopped squeezing and tugging. Milk leaked constantly now, running in shiny trails down the curves of her tits, over her belly, and soaking into the furs. The smell of it—warm, slightly sweet—mixed with the lingering copper of blood and her own musk in the air. His other hand slid lower, careful around the fresh stitches but not gentle anywhere else. He cupped the soft, still-swollen flesh of her ass, fingers digging into the fuller curve there, kneading it possessively and pulling her hips toward him.
Barbrey's cunt was already wet again, slick and ready. She rocked slowly against his thigh, careful but needy. "Get inside me. I want to feel that thick cock while I'm still leaking like this for you."
{R-18 Scene Adian x Barbrey aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
They stayed locked together like that for a long time—his cock still hard and buried deep inside her, her milk still running down his chin in warm streams, Walder sleeping peacefully between them on the furs. The room was quiet except for the low crackle of the hearth and their slowing breaths. Adian kept one hand on her heavy tit, gently kneading it now and then, drawing out a few more lazy drops of milk that he licked up without hurry. Barbrey's fingers stayed tangled in his hair, not pulling him away. Every so often she let out a soft, tired sound when he shifted inside her or squeezed a little too firmly.
"Still leaking everywhere," she murmured after a while, voice husky and amused. "You're going to make me soak the whole bed before the week's out."
Adian lifted his head, lips shiny with her milk. "Good. Means you're doing what you're supposed to." He gave her tit one last firm squeeze, watching the milk bead at the nipple, then leaned down and sucked it clean again. Barbrey sighed, relaxing back into the furs as Walder made a small contented noise in his sleep.
They didn't move for nearly an hour. Adian stayed inside her, soft now but still thick, enjoying the warmth while she recovered. When he finally pulled out, a slow trickle of his cum mixed with her wetness leaked onto the linen. He cleaned her carefully with a damp cloth, then helped her settle more comfortably with Walder tucked against her side.
Two weeks after Walder's birth, the lords and captains rode into Greywater View under a grey, spitting sky.
The journey through the Neck had been miserable for most of them—narrow causeways, sucking mud that tried to swallow horses whole, and the constant feeling of being watched by unseen eyes in the reeds. But as they approached the tower, the changes hit them one after another.
Harwood Dustin rode at the front beside Roger Ryswell, both men quiet as they took it in. What had once been little more than a squat, half-ruined watchtower surrounded by bog and mist was now something else entirely. New dark granite walls rose two full stories higher than before, fresh mortar still pale between the blocks. Scaffolding still clung to one side where masons were working. Thick golden thatch capped the roofs, sealed with bog-moss and tar. New wooden docks jutted out into the sluggish channel—sturdy, iron-banded, with three flat-bottomed barges already tied up and being loaded. Crates of salted pike, barrels of peat, bundles of cured pelts. Smaller black skiffs bobbed low in the reeds, almost invisible unless you knew where to look.
"Seven hells," Roger Ryswell muttered, reining in his horse. "Last time I was here this place looked ready to sink into the mud. Now it's… growing."
One of the Ryswell captains behind him grunted. "Smells like coin. And trouble."
Lord Wyman Manderly's massive litter—carried by four sturdy mules—creaked to a halt. The big man leaned out, small eyes scanning the new sawmills, the peat ricks, the busy stevedores shouting in the accents of the Neck and the Twins. Crannogmen watched from hidden platforms in the reeds, bows half-drawn out of habit before lowering them at the sight of the banners.
"They've been busy," Wyman rumbled. "Very busy."
They dismounted in the yard. Stableboys took their horses while workers hauled crates nearby. The air smelled of wet earth, fresh-cut timber, smoke, tar, and the faint metallic ring of a forge. Greywater View no longer felt like a forgotten Frey outpost. It felt like the beginning of something.
Inside the great hall, the long oak table had been laid out properly. Platters of smoked eel glistened beside thick slices of black bread, wheels of sharp cheese, and several pitchers of strong ale. A big fire roared in the hearth, driving back the damp chill that always clung to the stone. Banners of grey towers circled by reeds hung proudly beside the older Dustin and Ryswell standards—a clear statement.
Barbrey sat at Adian's right hand, posture straight despite the lingering soreness from the birth. Walder was cradled against her chest, the front of her grey wool gown unlaced just enough for easy access. The baby nursed openly while everyone settled in, loud wet sucking noises cutting clearly through the low murmur of conversation about tolls and river traffic. Milk occasionally beaded at the corner of his mouth and dripped onto the linen covering her lap.
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