Arthur sat alone in his quarters, the dim candlelight flickering against the wooden walls.
The sea was quiet tonight.
Unnaturally so.
His fingers trembled as he opened the first letter.
It was written in his father's sharp, precise handwriting. The words were firm, methodical—but beneath them, Arthur could feel it.
The hesitation.
The weight of words never sent.
"Arthur," it began, "I trust the seas have been kind to you. Your mother worries. Your sisters, too. I tell them it is futile—there is nothing the world could throw at you that you cannot handle."
Arthur exhaled, shaking his head with a small, bitter laugh.
"However, I find myself wondering if I should have stopped you."
He kept reading.
"You've always been your mother's son, Full of life. But sometimes you're reckless. Wild, even. It's the part of you that reminds me most of myself, but I also know this: You are not me. You are better. Kinder. And you deserve to see the world, free of my shadow."
Arthur swallowed hard.
He immediately opened the next letter.
Then the next.
Then the next.
Each one was different. Some were short and to the point. Others had entire paragraphs where Gil had written, scratched out, rewritten— as if struggling to say what he truly felt.
Not a single one had been sent.
By the time Arthur reached the last letter, his vision was blurry.
His father had wanted him to come home.
But he never forced him.
Because he loved him that much.
Arthur pressed his forehead to his hands. And for the first time in years, he cried.
A knock on the door startled him.
He wiped his eyes quickly, pulling himself together.
"Arthur?"
Cesealia.
And—a smaller knock.
"Daddy?"
Lizzie.
Arthur exhaled, his chest tightening with something warm and heavy.
Cesealia sat on the edge of the bed, Arthur beside her, the unsent letters spread out between them like scattered memories.
She traced her fingers over the ink, over the words of a father to his son that had never been read.
Arthur had already gone through them all.
She saw the remnants of his tears in the crinkled edges of the parchment.
Now, it was her turn.
She picked up another letter, hesitating before reading.
"Arthur," it began, "I find myself looking for you in the castle. I remind myself that you are not lost—you have simply chosen a path of your own. And for that, I should be proud. But it does not make the silence any easier to bear."
She reached for another.
"Your nephew, Calisto, has begun to teleport in and out of rooms. I would be impressed if it were not so insufferable. I trust you will be a better father than I was at handling such behavior."
Another.
"I do not know when you will return. If you will return. I have no right to ask you to. But should you ever wonder if you are still welcome—know that the answer has always been yes."
Cesealia covered her mouth.
This was love.
This was family.
And Arthur had given it all up for her.
Had followed her into the unknown. Had chosen her when he had a home—a real home, one that wanted him back.
And she had been selfish.
She had told herself she was doing him a favor, letting him be free.
But the truth was—
She had been causing him the most pain.
Afraid of becoming a Pendragon. Afraid of belonging to something bigger than herself.
Arthur never forced her. Not once.
He never made her take his name.
Never made her marry him.
But he had waited.
Had given her three years to realize that she had never been alone.
That she had always been a part of his family.
That they had been waiting for her, just as much as they had been waiting for him.
She felt a hand on hers.
Arthur.
His fingers curled over hers, warm, steady.
The weight of his father's words pressed down on him like an anchor.
Love is not words. Love is protection. Love is stability. Love is home.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before making his way over.
"Hey, Flower," he said softly, dropping to a crouch beside them.
Elizabeth, barely awake, yawned and rubbed her eyes.
"Daddy…" she murmured sleepily, reaching for him.
He smiled and scooped her up, holding her close. She nestled against his chest with a contented sigh.
Cesealia watched them for a moment before speaking.
"How are you?" she asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He exhaled. And nodded, "I've been thinking."
"That's dangerous," she teased.
He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.
But then—he hesitated.
Because how did he say this without making it sound like an ultimatum? How did he tell her she had to do this when he wanted it to be her choice?
When it wasn't much of a choice at all?
He looked down at his daughter, asleep in his arms, before meeting Cesealia's gaze.
"I want to build something for us," he said carefully. "For Lizzie. A home—not just a ship to sail, not just a place to stay when we dock. A real home. One where she can grow up knowing she's safe, where she doesn't have to keep moving, where she has family always around her."
Cesealia's expression shifted.
It wasn't resistance, not yet. But wariness.
"I know U don't want to live at court," he said softly."And you won't," he assured her. "Not in the way you think."
Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Arthur adjusted Elizabeth slightly before continuing.
"My mother had a cottage," he said. "Before she became Queen, it was hers—away from the politics, away from the expectations so she could have the space she needed."
He paused, then said gently,
"I want to do the same for you."
Cesealia's lips parted slightly, surprise flickering in her expression.
Arthur pushed forward before she could argue.
"It won't be in the heart of the palace. It won't be surrounded by courtiers or nobles breathing down your neck. It will be our home. Close enough that Lizzie has everything she needs—family, education, stability—but far enough that you don't feel trapped."
Cesealia was silent for a long moment.
" You both deserve the very best, and I cannot call myself yours without first doing my best." Arthur's heart pounded.
Then—finally—she let out a slow breath, looking up at him with something unreadable in her eyes.
"You thought this through," she murmured.
He nodded."I had to."
She studied him, fingers tracing absent patterns in the grass beside her.
And then—
"Alright," she said softly.
He stilled.
He hadn't realized how much he had been bracing himself for a fight until now.
But she wasn't fighting. She was choosing—choosing him.
He knew He had made the right decision.
For her.
For Lizzie.
For all of them.
She met his gaze, and there was no anger there. No blame.
Only love.
And suddenly, she realized—
She wanted to go home.
She wanted to belong.
To him.
To all of them.
She laced her fingers with his, exhaled, and whispered
"Arthur… let's go home."
Dinner at the Pendragon Palace was always a lively affair—filled with laughter, debates, and the occasional dramatic outburst.
But tonight, it was quiet. Too quiet.
Gilgamesh sat at the head of the table, his goblet untouched.
His golden eyes flickered toward the door.
Again.
He told himself he wasn't waiting. That he wasn't expecting anything.
But he was.
The last dinner had ended in disaster.
Arthur had left with Cesealia and Elizabeth. And though Gil had given his son his blessing, a small part of him still wondered—
Had he come home at all? Had it all been a dream? Had Arthur simply vanished back into the sea?
Then— Soft footsteps.
A child's giggle. Then—boots.
Gil looked up. So did everyone else.
The large doors to the dining hall swung open as Elizabeth was the first one through. The little girl ran across the marble floor, her red curls bouncing wildly as she rushed forward—
Arthuria said, " Lizzie? Where is your Father?"
Then—
Arthur and Cesealia appeared in the doorway.
Arthur grinned, opening his arms dramatically.
"Sorry—am I in the right palace? I thought this was where my family was."
The room erupted.
Elaine nearly knocked over her chair, launching herself at Arthur.
She held onto him so tightly, her voice breaking as she whispered, "Don't go again. Please don't go again. I take it back, you're my favorite Brother."
Eugene smacked Elaine on the back so hard it echoed.
Artizea rushed to him next, punching his arm before pulling him into a hug.
Then—finally—Arthur turned to his father.
Gil was still standing at the head of the table. Still watching him.
Arthur didn't hesitate.
He walked forward, crossing the distance between them.
And then—he pulled his father into a hug. For once, Gil didn't push him away. He didn't scold him. Didn't sigh. Didn't groan. He simply embraced him.
Arthur buried his face into his father's shoulder.
His voice broke.
"I'm sorry, Dad."
Gil exhaled deeply. His voice was soft. "It's okay, son. I'm sorry too."
The silence between them was no longer heavy with unspoken words.
It was understanding.
It was forgiveness..
Arthuria, smiling softly, turned to the rest of the family.
"Let's give them some space." Then, to Lizzie and said, " How about those butterflies ?"
Elizabeth beamed and nodded with a smile.
When they turned to leave, Arthuria looked back at the father and son,
Gil looked up to meet her gaze. She gave him a small smile following a nod.
He smiled back.
Their son was home.
Son,
"You were supposed to be a girl. Your mother wasn't convinced. But I wasn't. The maesters were convinced, or maybe they didn't want to cross me. We were both right. But then you came into the world after your sister—red-faced, wailing, defying my expectations before you even took your first breath. The moment she held you, she smiled as if she had won a war. 'He's ours,' she said. 'Our Arthur.' "
"Before I even had a chance to process that my son had been born, your mother had already claimed you for her own."
"I remember when you took your first steps not by walking, but by running. Before you could speak in full sentences. And gods above, you were always loud. Laughing, yelling, filling the halls with your impossible energy. I once thought you would outgrow it. I now know better."
"Your mother said you would change the world one day. I said you would bring it to ruin first. I have never been more proud to be wrong."
"I also remember the first time you held a sword. You were barely five, too small to lift even the training blade, but you tried anyway. I thought you would give up after being bested by your sister. You never did. You never do."
"Do you remember when you scraped your knee, you knew your mother would scold you for being reckless. So you came to me instead, knowing my wrath was nothing compared to hers. You looked up, wide-eyed, waiting for me to be angry."
"I wasn't."
"I cleaned your wound. I told you scars were reminders of the battles we have fought. I told you, 'A Pendragon does not cry over a little blood.' And you nodded so seriously, like you had been given the secrets of the world."
"I don't know if I was a good father to you, Arthur. But I do know this—You have always been everything I could have hoped for. And you will always be my son."
"Please, come home."
Signed,
Dad