♡ ˙˚

“I am here,” you murmur softly, the words now as natural as breathing. You have spoken them so often that sometimes you think he must hear them even in sleep.

His eyes open slowly, heavy with effort, and unfocused at first. You wait without moving, giving him time, and after several quiet moments his gaze steadies and finds you. Relief rises instinctively, yet it never lasts as long as you wish it would.

He looks at you, but not as he once did.

There had always been warmth in his eyes before recognition even fully formed, a gentle certainty that needed no thought. Often a faint humor would follow, the beginning of some kind remark he had already decided to offer. You never had to speak first; he always knew you.

Now he studies you carefully, his attention lingering with quiet concentration, as though he is assembling a memory piece by piece and fears losing it if he blinks. You give him a small smile despite the tightening in your throat.

“You slept peacefully,” you tell him.

He does not answer at once, and you do not press him. Words come slowly now and leave him tired when they finally arrive.

“…morning?” he asks at last, his voice barely more than breath.

“Yes,” you whisper gently. “Dawn has passed. You have rested.”

He considers this for longer than the thought should require. A faint crease appears between his brows, not from pain but effort, and your fingers close a little more firmly around his hand before you notice yourself doing so.

“How long?” he manages.

“Several days,” you reply carefully. “You were gravely hurt.”

His gaze drifts from you to the walls of the chamber, lingering as though he expects recognition to come from them instead. When his eyes return, they settle on you once more, searching with patient uncertainty.

“We are in Ashford,” you explain softly. “After the trial.”

His fingers shift faintly within your grasp. “The… trial…”

You watch the effort behind his eyes and feel your breath catch when he whispers, “Duncan.”

Relief washes through you, warm and almost painful. “Yes, Ser Duncan lives.”

He closes his eyes briefly, and this time the movement carries understanding rather than simple exhaustion. After a moment he asks: “Did we win?”

“You saved his life,” you answer.

You wait for the familiar modest dismissal he once would have given, the quiet humor, the gentle deflection of praise. But instead, he remains still, absorbing the words as though they describe a man he has heard of rather than one he remembers being.

When his eyes open again, they return to you.

“You stayed,” he says slowly.

“Of course,” you whisper.

He watches you in silence, and although there is kindness in his expression, the certainty that once lived within does not follow it. His gaze is careful and courteous; the look he would give someone he wishes to reassure but does not truly know.

“You are very kind,” he murmurs. “My lady.”

The words wound you more deeply than you expect. Your smile remains, though it takes effort now, and you lean closer, tightening your hold around his hand with fragile care.

“It is I,” you say quietly. “Your wife.”

He studies you again with visible concentration, frustration touching his brow as though the answer stands before him but remains out of reach. There is no rejection in him, only distance, and that distance frightens you more than his stillness ever did.

You smooth his hair gently where the bandages allow, letting your fingers linger.

“You used to know me at once,” you whisper. “You never needed to think.”

His fingers move weakly against your palm, an uncertain response, and he keeps looking at you even without understanding. Gradually you begin to realize that he has not forgotten you out of indifference, but because he cannot yet find himself.

Lowering your forehead carefully to his hand, you close your eyes. His gaze lingers on you with a quiet attention that does not fade as quickly as his strength does.

In the hours that follow he sleeps longer than he‘s awake, and each time his eyes open they seek the same point in the room before settling upon you. You begin to notice it slowly, almost against your will: he does not yet know your name, yet he rests more easily when you speak, and the tightness that sometimes shadows his brow eases when your hand remains in his.

Once, when a maester approaches too quickly to adjust the bandages, his breath quickens and his hand moves restlessly across the coverlet until it finds yours, closing around it with surprising insistence. Only then does he find calmness again. He never remarks upon it, and perhaps he is not even aware he does it, yet after that you no longer question why you remain so near.

The fear does not leave you, but it changes. You begin to understand that memory is not the only path by which he might return to you, and though he cannot yet name you, a part of him already knows where to look when he wakes.

Days pass more gently after that. His strength improves by small degrees, enough that you dare, at times, to loosen your constant watch, trusting that he will not vanish the moment your eyes leave him.

For the first time in days you allow yourself to move a few steps away from the bedside, albeit no farther than the small table near the hearth where the maesters have left their jars and folded cloths. The fire has burned low and you mean only to warm the water before he wakes again, thinking he still sleeps in the gentle, shallow way he has for most of the morning.

You keep speaking softly as you work, more from habit than reason, telling him small things that require no answer — that the light is mild today, that the castle yard has grown noisy again, that the worst of the fever seems to have passed. You have noticed that silence frightens you more than any sound.

Then suddenly, you hear the mattress behind you shift softly.

It is a small sound, but you know it at once.

You turn only halfway at first, expecting no more than restlessness, and for a brief moment your mind refuses to understand what you are seeing.

Baelor is pushing himself upright.

He moves slowly, with painstaking care, bracing one hand against the bedding as though the weight of his own body has become unfamiliar to him. The effort shows in the tension of his shoulders and the tight line of his mouth. He has not noticed you yet.

“Baelor—”

The name leaves you before you can stop it.

He pauses, breathing unevenly, and turns his head slightly toward your voice. “I did not wish to disturb you,” he murmurs faintly, as though he has committed some small discourtesy.

“You must not rise,” you say at once, already crossing the room.

“I am well enough,” he answers quietly, though the words come slowly. “I cannot lie abed forever.”

For a heartbeat you almost believe him. He is sitting now, though unsteadily, his feet just touching the floor, and some instinctive part of you longs to see strength in him again.

Then the color drains from his face.

It happens gradually. His posture falters first, the steadiness leaving his shoulders as his hand tightens against the mattress. His eyes lose focus, not closing but unfixed, and you see confusion replace determination before he understands what is happening.

The room has begun to move for him.

You reach him just as his balance fails. His weight tilts forward and you catch him awkwardly, one arm around his shoulders as he sways against you. He makes no cry, only a sharp intake of breath, and his hand grips your sleeve with sudden, desperate force.

“I have you,” you whisper quickly, supporting him as carefully as you can. “Do not fight it. Lean on me.”

His body trembles, not with weakness alone but with effort, as though remaining upright requires all the strength he possesses. You feel how little steadiness there is beneath your hands, how uncertain his weight has become.

The motion has cost him dearly. His breathing has turned shallow and uneven, and after a moment he presses his forehead weakly against your shoulder, eyes shut against the dizziness he cannot master.

“I am… sorry,” he whispers, almost sobs.

The words undo you far more than the collapse.

You steady him, easing him back toward the bed with slow care, guiding him down until he lies again against the pillows. Only once he is settled do you release him, though your hands remain hovering as if he might fall even now.

“You need not apologize,” you tell him softly, though your throat tightens around the words.

“I wished only…” He pauses, gathering breath. “I wished to spare you worry.”

Your hand trembles where it rests against the coverlet. “You could never be a burden to me.”

His eyes open, heavy with exhaustion, and he studies your face with quiet regret. “You have done more than you should be asked to do.”

For a moment you cannot answer. You smooth the blankets instead, adjusting them though they need no adjusting, because it gives your hands purpose.

“I would do it again,” you whisper.

He watches you as if trying to understand something beyond the words, but strength fails him before thought can. His eyes close once more, not into peaceful sleep but into sheer exhaustion, his breathing gradually easing as the dizziness passes.

You remain beside him, one hand still resting lightly over his, and only then do you understand fully how fragile he has become.

The man who once rode into danger without hesitation cannot yet cross a room.

And though he lives, you feel fear settle deeper in your chest than it ever did while he lay unconscious, because now you have seen the truth with open eyes — not the memory of the prince you knew, but the wounded man he is, and how easily he might have been taken from you altogether.

You do not move your hand from his again.

In the days that follow the chamber is still your whole world. Morning and evening bells lose their meaning, marked only by the arrival of maesters, the changing of linens, and the careful measuring of his strength. You learn the small signs of his endurance — the steadiness of his breathing, the way his brow tightens when pain begins to return, the fatigue that overtakes him after even the smallest exertion — and you begin to measure time not in hours but in how long he can remain awake beside you.

Sleep comes to you only in fragments, and in the quiet moments your thoughts refuse you rest. Again and again your mind returns to the trial, not as it was told afterward but as you remember it: the dust of the yard, the weight of unease you could not name, the moment he prepared to ride. You had spoken then, though softly, because you would not shame him before others, and you had told yourself it was enough.

Now you are no longer certain.

You wonder whether you might have said more, whether you should have held him longer, whether one word spoken differently might have reached him past honor and duty. You know the answer a wife is meant to accept — that a prince of his house could not refuse such a challenge, that the realm watched and expectation bound him more tightly than any plea of yours ever could — yet the knowledge does not quiet the thought that returns each night as you sit beside him: that he rode because he believed he must, and you let him go because you believed the same.

Sometimes you watch him sleep and try to picture the moment again, searching for a place where you might have stood before him, taken his hand, and asked him to choose you instead of honor, and each time you find yourself uncertain whether he would have listened, or whether you would have truly wished him to.

A feeling of helplessness lingers, quieter, deeper — not that you might lose him, but that you came closer than you ever understood while you still had the chance to stop it.

And so, you remain, speaking gently when he wakes, guiding him through small efforts, and waiting for some sign that the man you knew is not lost behind the wound that keeps him from you. When his thoughts grow clearer you begin, cautiously, to reach toward memory, not because you wish to test him, but because you need to know whether what you nearly lost can still return.

And tonight, he seems stronger, not with the easy strength he once carried without thought, but with a steadiness that had been absent for days, as though the haze behind his eyes has thinned enough for the world to settle back into its proper shape. Propped against the pillows he holds himself with less visible effort, and his breathing runs even and untroubled, while his gaze, when it comes to rest upon you, lingers with a clarity you have scarcely dared hope for

You lie beside him, still careful despite the maesters now allowing him a little movement, never forgetting how fragile his recovery feels to you, how easily it might yet slip away. The fire has burned low, its embers dim beneath a cradle of ash, and the chamber rests in the quiet particular to late evening, when the castle beyond the walls has softened into distant murmurs and there is nothing left but the faint sound of soft talking.

“You remember Duncan,” you say gently, your fingers resting over his hand, light enough that he could withdraw if he wished. “You remember the trial.”

He gives a faint nod, slow but certain. “Yes.”

Encouraged, though your heart has begun to beat more quickly, you continue, watching him with careful attention, afraid to miss even the smallest change in his expression. “And Summerhall. The southern fields. Your brothers.”

There is a pause long enough that you almost regret the question, yet he nods again, quieter but unmistakable.

Relief comes first, warm and immediate, and for a moment you almost allow yourself hope.

You swallow, and before you can stop yourself the question that has lived within your chest since the maesters first spoke their cautions finally finds voice.

“And our son?” you ask softly.

He grows still.

Not with recognition, but with uncertainty so visible that you feel it before he even speaks. His eyes do not move toward the room, nor toward you, but inward, searching with an effort you can almost see, as though he turns through memories that refuse to open where he needs them to. His brow tightens and he looks at you with a gravity that makes your breath falter.

“Our… son,” he repeats carefully.

You hold his gaze, willing him toward it, as though the strength of your hope alone might guide him there.

“The day he was born,” you whisper, unable now to stop yourself, the memory rising too vividly to contain. “You held him before I did. You told me he had my eyes.”

His breathing shifts, not with understanding but with strain, and his fingers tighten slightly around yours in a gesture that feels less like recognition than apology.

“I—” He falters, and you see the moment the effort fails him. “I do not see it.”

The words are gentle, spoken with care, yet they strike with a weight you had not truly prepared yourself to bear.

You had told yourself you were ready. You had believed it.

Still, something within you recoils.

“You were afraid,” you continue quietly, because stopping now would make the silence unbearable. “You pretended otherwise, but your hands were shaking. You would not admit it.”

He closes his eyes briefly, and for a heartbeat you think the memory may yet surface if he reaches only a little further, but when his gaze returns to you there is no recognition within it, only a quiet, aching sorrow.

“I am sorry,” he says, and there is more pain in his voice than in any wound he suffered in the lists. “I do not remember him in my arms.”

The chamber seems to contract around you. You keep your smile, because you cannot allow him to see the full depth of your hurt, yet your chest tightens as though something fragile inside it has been drawn too taut. You turn your face slightly, not to hide from him but to gather a single steady breath before your composure fails you entirely.

“You sang to him,” you whisper after a moment, your voice thinner now despite your efforts. “You claimed you could not carry a tune, yet you sang anyway.”

He watches you with an attentiveness that almost wounds more deeply than the forgetting itself.

“I would have,” he says softly.

“Yes,” you answer, and your voice trembles despite you. “You would have.”

Silence settles between you then, not distant and not cold, only unbearably heavy, because what stands between you is not absence of love but absence of memory, and no tenderness can bridge it.

“It was years ago,” you say at last, gently. “You need not force it.”

Your gaze drifts toward the faint glow of the embers, and as you watch them dim the old fear returns, slow and certain: that the man beside you remembers the realm, his brothers… yet not the small, private world the two of you once shared.

But after a while you try again.

The question has lingered within you for hours before you dare give it voice. You can see how tired he is in the heaviness of his eyelids and in the faint tension that gathers behind his eyes, yet his thoughts are clearer tonight than they have been, and some fragile part of you still believes that if you reach for the right memory, the right moment, something of what was lost might yet return to him.

You smooth the blanket near his shoulder, more to steady yourself than to comfort him, letting your hand rest there as you gather the courage you have nearly abandoned twice already.

“Do you remember our wedding?” you ask at last, keeping your voice gentle, almost light, as though the question carries no weight at all.

His gaze shifts to you immediately.

There is no avoidance in it, no sign that he would turn away from what you ask, only a quiet searching as he studies your face and turns inward at the same time.

“Our wedding,” he repeats softly.

You nod, unable to look away from him. “The sept at Summerhall. The roses my sister insisted upon. You said there were too many.”

A faint crease forms between his brows as he reaches for something you can almost see just beyond his grasp. You hold your breath without intending to, afraid even the smallest movement might break whatever fragile thread he is following.

“The roses,” he murmurs slowly. “I… remember roses.”

Hope rises too quickly, bright enough to hurt.

“Yes,” you whisper, leaning closer before you realize you have done so. “White and pale gold.”

He closes his eyes, not with recognition but with effort, and when they open again you feel the hope in your chest begin to loosen its hold.

“I remember a sept,” he says carefully. “I remember standing before a Septon.”

Your fingers tighten unconsciously against the blanket.

“And me?” you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them.

He grows very still.

You see the moment he understands what you are truly asking, and the expression that touches his face is not confusion but sorrow.

“I do not see your face there,” he says quietly.

He speaks gently, with such regret that you almost forgive the words at once, yet they settle inside you with a weight that steals your breath.

“You wore blue,” you tell him, though your voice has grown thin despite your efforts. “Not black or burgundy... because you said you shouldn't wear such dark colours on such a glorious day.”

He studies you with a concentration that feels almost like an effort to will the image into existence.

“I wish I could remember it,” he whispers.

The ache that rises in your chest is sudden and sharp, and you turn slightly under the pretense of adjusting the candle on the nightstand because you cannot let him see how deeply the loss wounds you.

“It is only a memory,” you say softly. “Rest now. You are tired.”

“I am failing you,” he murmurs instead.

You shake your head at once, though the motion is small. “No. You are healing.”

You remain beside him in the dim light, watching the outline of the man who once stood before a sept and chose you without hesitation, and the thought comes unbidden that perhaps you must now be chosen again by a heart that no longer remembers why it once turned toward yours.

But he stirs before you can gather yourself, shifting with care as he gathers what strength he has, and his hand lifts slowly toward your face. The movement is unsteady yet deliberate, and his fingers brush your cheek where tears have escaped despite your restraint.

“I am sorry,” he says, and the regret in his voice is unmistakable. “I do not remember these things.”

The steadiness you have held fractures.

“I know,” you whisper, softer now. “I know you do not.”

He studies your face, and you realize too late that he sees more than you intended him to see. The fear you have tried so carefully to conceal rests plainly in your eyes.

“You fear I will not remember you,” he says quietly.

You draw a sharp breath, startled by the clarity of it, and cannot bring yourself to deny him.

“I fear,” you admit, your voice barely steady, “that I will become only a duty to you. That you will look at me and see kindness… but not love.”

The confession leaves you more exposed than tears ever could.

For a moment he says nothing. His gaze remains upon you, thoughtful rather than distant, and you sense something shifting behind his eyes — not memory, but recognition of another kind.

“I do not remember the moment,” he says quietly, “but I know I loved you then.”

Your breath falters. “How can you know?”

“Because I love you now,” he answers, and though his voice is fragile, the certainty within it does not waver. “And it does not feel new.”

The words do not restore the lost images. They do not return the sight of his hands holding your child for the first time.

Yet they anchor something else.

You lean into his touch despite the ache that remains, resting your forehead lightly against his palm.

“I wanted you to remember,” you confess softly. “I wanted it to still belong to us.”

“It does,” he says, and sorrow lingers beneath the gentleness of his voice. “Even if I must learn it from you.”

The pain does not vanish, yet it changes, becoming something quieter and more bearable, because the man beside you is wounded, and though memory fails him, he does not turn away — he is still reaching for you.

For a long time afterward neither of you speaks. The chamber has fallen into deep night, the fire reduced to a low red glow, and the quiet no longer presses upon you as it once did. You remain close beside him.

At some point exhaustion overtakes you despite your efforts, and you drift into a shallow rest with your hand still resting in his.

You wake before dawn, not to sound but to warmth.

For a moment you do not understand what has roused you, until you realize his fingers are loosely curled around yours, not by accident but in sleep, his grip faint yet unmistakably deliberate. He does not wake when you shift, nor when you carefully adjust the blankets, yet his hand follows the movement as though unwilling to lose its hold.

You lie still after that and watch the faint light gather along the shutters through the cloth that still hangs there, while his breathing remains slow and steady beside you.

When the morning bells sound you do not dread them as you have on other days… you allow yourself, cautiously, to believe that healing may not come all at once, but that it is coming.

The maesters arrive shortly after the morning bells, their chains glinting faintly in the pale light that filters through the shutters. They speak in low, careful voices, praising the steadiness of his thoughts while warning against impatience, repeating that recovery must come slowly if it is to last at all. You remain beside the bed despite their polite suggestions that you should rest, and though you nod at their counsel you make no move toward the door.

You do not leave.

Baelor listens with quiet attentiveness, answering when spoken to and offering neither complaint nor protest, yet you can see the effort beneath his composure in the faint tension at the corner of his mouth. When they propose he attempt standing again, something like pride stirs in his expression, subtle but unmistakable, as though the notion of remaining confined to the bed wounds him more deeply than the injury itself.

The maesters guide him carefully, lifting him in stages so his body may adjust, one supporting his shoulders while another steadies his back. You stand close to him, but leave him and the maesters space, and try to give reassurance without making him feel watched, even though your attention never strays from him for a moment.

When at last his feet reach the floor he draws a slow breath, his focus fixed not upon dignity but upon balance. You see the tremor that runs through him, subtle yet undeniable, as his weight settles uncertainly and he tests the strength of his own body as though the ground itself might betray him.

He takes a step.

It is small and cautious, yet deliberate. For a moment he manages well enough, his gaze lowered in concentration, but the effort quickly begins to show in the tightening of his grip upon the maesters and in the faint shadow of dizziness that crosses his face.

“That is enough,” you murmur softly, more plea than instruction.

He does not argue. Instead he allows them to steady him as they guide him back toward the bed. The distance is no more than a few paces, yet your heart beats as though you have crossed a battlefield together, and only when he is seated again do you realize how tightly you had been holding your breath.

The maesters offer gentle praise for the effort and, satisfied for the day, withdraw at last, their footsteps fading down the corridor until the chamber returns to stillness.

As evening settles and the light fades to the soft glow of embers, you lie beside him without speaking of weddings or memories that might wound you both. You do not ask questions, and you do not fill the quiet with stories; you simply stay, offering your presence without expectation, allowing him rest without the burden of remembering.

In the darkness he turns slightly toward you, his breathing slow and even, and the warmth of him against your side feels steadier than it has in many days.

His breathing has settled into a slow, even rhythm, yet you know now the difference between sleep and wakefulness in him, and this is not sleep. There is a quiet awareness in the way he lies beside you, as though his thoughts are moving somewhere beyond the dim chamber.

After some time he shifts, carefully and with deliberation, as if he considers the movement before allowing his body to follow. He turns onto his side to face you fully now, his eyes open in the low firelight. There is no strain in his expression tonight, only a stillness touched with thought.

You meet his gaze but say nothing.

He watches you for a long while, not searching as he once did in confusion, but studying you with a steadier attention, as though something has caught at the edge of his mind and he is reluctant to disturb it by speaking too soon.

“It was raining,” he says at last.

The words are so unexpected that for a moment you wonder whether you have misunderstood him, yet you do not interrupt. You have learned how fragile these moments are, how easily eagerness can scatter them before they take shape.

“The ground was soft,” he continues slowly, his voice quiet, almost distant. “The path near the orchard had turned to mud.”

Your breath stills.

He is no longer quite looking at you but beyond you, into something only he can see, his attention held by a memory still forming.

“You should not have walked so far,” he murmurs, softer now. “Your shoes were ruined.”

Confusion comes first — orchard, mud, ruined shoes — and you search your own recollections carefully, afraid to seize upon the wrong memory and break whatever fragile thread he follows. You remain silent, hardly daring to breathe.

“It was late in the afternoon,” he says, with growing certainty. “The storm came sooner than we expected… I had watched the clouds and thought we still had time.”

And as he speaks you are no longer wholly in the chamber.

Your heart begins to pound.

You remember.

You see the path again, the orchard stretching behind you, the air heavy and warm before the rain, the wind stirring the leaves in warning neither of you took seriously. You remember the way the first drops fell — large and sudden — darkening the dust at your feet before either of you understood how swiftly the sky would open.

Yet you do not speak. You let him find the path himself.

“You were angry with me,” he adds, and the faintest warmth touches his tone, almost wonderingly. “You said I had promised the sky would hold.”

You remember it clearly… the irritation you tried to hold onto, your skirts gathered uselessly in your hands as the ground softened beneath your steps, the absurdity of trying to hurry in silk while he attempted, with earnest futility, to apologize and not to laugh at once.

“I thought you would not forgive me,” he says, almost thoughtfully.

You had not meant to forgive him. You had meant to remain offended all the way back to the castle, yet the rain came harder, sudden and drenching, and the both of you had broken into helpless laughter as dignity abandoned you entirely.

He frowns slightly, not in confusion but concentration, his hand shifting faintly against the blanket as though he can still feel the rain striking there.

“Your dress,” he murmurs. “Blue silk. It was never meant for weather.”

The world narrows around you. You scarcely trust yourself to move.

“You laughed,” he says, and his voice softens further. “Not because you were pleased… because you knew I would not know what to do.”

Your throat tightens painfully as the memory unfolds completely in your mind: the broad old oak at the edge of the field, the sudden downpour that drenched you both before shelter could be reached, the sound of rain against leaves overhead.

“You stood beneath the tree,” he continues, his gaze dark in the firelight. “You came closer because you were cold… and because you knew I would not step away.”

He blinks slowly, and when his gaze settles upon yours again it is no longer distant or unfocused, no longer searching for meaning he cannot reach, but steady and present in a way that startles you more than any confusion ever has.

“I had not meant to kiss you,” he says quietly, his voice low and certain in the dimness. “I told myself I would not.”

Your heart falters at the words, because they do not sound like guessing or reconstruction but memory.

And you remember the moment of hesitation, the way he looked at you as though weighing something far greater than propriety, and how your heart had begun to race before you even knew why.

“Yet you did not move,” you murmur faintly.

“No,” he says, his voice softer still. “Nor did you.”

And you feel again the rain against your skin, the damp silk clinging, the closeness beneath the tree where neither of you could pretend not to understand.

“I remember thinking,” he says, “that if I stepped back I would regret it for the rest of my life.”

Your eyes close as the moment returns in full — his hand uncertain at your arm, the breath you both held, and then the kiss itself, gentle at first and almost questioning.

“That was before the betrothal,” you whisper, scarcely daring to shape the thought aloud.

He draws a slow breath, and recognition reaches him fully, not pieced together by reason nor offered by your prompting, but known with the simple certainty of something once lived.

“Yes,” he says softly, and the steadiness in his voice leaves no doubt. “You tasted of rain.”

Tears rise so suddenly that you cannot contain them. He watches you closely, and you see awareness deepen in his expression, not only of the moment he recalls but of what it means to you to hear it spoken.

“That was the first time,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice trembling openly now. “It was.”

He shifts nearer without thinking, the movement careful because of his injuries yet no longer hesitant, and his hand finds yours with a familiarity that feels effortless, as though some part of him has always known its place.

“I remember how you looked at me after,” he says softly. “As though you feared I would regret it.”

Relief aches through your chest so sharply it almost hurts.

“You did not,” you whisper.

“No,” he answers, and a faint echo of his old smile touches his lips, fragile but real. “I decided then I would marry you.”

The words undo you completely, and a small, unsteady laugh escapes you through tears as you lean forward, your forehead resting gently against his.

“You did marry me,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, and there is no uncertainty in him now.

His hand rises to your cheek, his touch steadier than it has been in days, and he studies your face as though committing it to memory in a way deeper than recollection. For a moment he hesitates, not from doubt but from caution, aware of his own weakness, and then he shifts closer still, slowly lifting his arm around you. The movement costs him effort you can feel in the tension of his breath, yet he does not stop until he has drawn you carefully against him.

The embrace is gentle and imperfect, his strength not yet fully returned, but it is deliberate, and the warmth of him surrounding you carries a reassurance no words could give.

“It was raining when I chose you,” he says quietly near your hair. “I would choose you again.”

Your chest feels too full for breath as you lean into him, careful of his bandages yet unwilling to pull away. For the first time since the trial you no longer feel you must teach him who you are.

He has not remembered the ceremony, nor the roses, nor the vows spoken before witnesses, but something older and far more yours — the moment before duty and titles, when affection first overcame restraint.

And that, somehow, belongs to you more deeply than the wedding ever did.

You would give anything for him to move, for those dark eyes to open and find yours again. A sob escapes before you can stop it, and your fingers tremble faintly against his cheek.

“You fool…” you whisper. “I told you not to ride in this trial.”

He does not stir.

Your thoughts draw you back despite yourself to the moment they carried him inside. Knights bore his weight between them, armor clinking softly, while maesters hurried after with boxes of instruments and cloth already stained dark. You remember speaking his name — and then saying it again when he gave no answer. They tried to lead you away, gently but firmly, yet you would not go, not when you saw the bent ruin of his helm and the blood matted thick in his hair. The sound that left you then still echoes in your memory.

You remained, and you have not left him since.

At last you set the cloth aside. When you stand, stiffness protests through your limbs, and you move carefully, as though even the air might disturb his rest. You lie beside him and curl against his side, resting your head near his shoulder, mindful of every bandage and every shallow breath.

It feels wrong.

He does not draw you into his arms, does not murmur some quiet reassurance half-laced with humor. The familiar warmth is absent, and the emptiness beside you hurts more sharply than any wound.

He is here, and yet he is not.

You tell yourself you will remain awake, that you must, and you mean it with all the stubborn resolve you can muster, because the thought of him waking alone frightens you more than the long night ahead.

One hand curled lightly against his sleeve, afraid to grip him too tightly, afraid to let go. The fire has burned low. The chamber is colder now. Every small sound feels enormous — the shifting of embers, the wind against the shutters, the slow rasp of his breathing.

You find yourself counting his breathing without meaning to, following each rise of his chest as though the fragile rhythm alone keeps him bound to you. You promise yourself you will not sleep — you cannot risk it, not when he might wake and find no one beside him — yet exhaustion weighs too heavily on your body.

Your eyes close only for a moment.

You do not remember surrendering to it. It is no true sleep, only a shallow drifting, your hand still resting against his sleeve, your thoughts never fully leaving him.

Something shifts beneath your fingers.

At first you think it is imagination, the cruel trick your mind has played on you a dozen times already, and you keep your eyes closed, afraid that opening them will break the fragile hope forming in your chest.

Then his breathing changes.

It falters unevenly, catching in a way that is wrong — not deeper, not restful, but strained — and your eyes open at once.

For a heartbeat nothing seems different. The chamber remains dim, the blankets unmoving, his body still.

Then his fingers twitch.

You draw in a sharp breath and lean over him as his brow tightens beneath the bandages. A faint sound escapes him, not a groan, only a rough exhale dragged painfully from his chest, and you push yourself upright too quickly, steadying yourself on the mattress when the room sways.

“Baelor?” you whisper, scarcely more than a breath.

His face turns slightly toward your voice, slow and unsteady, as though even that small motion costs him dearly. His eyelids flutter but do not yet open, and his hand shifts weakly across the coverlet, searching without aim until you take it at once in both of yours.

His fingers feel cold and heavy, and though they do not grip you, they move faintly against your palm, wandering as if he is trying to remember the shape and purpose of touch.

“I’m here,” you murmur, leaning closer, afraid even your voice might harm him. “You are safe. Do you hear me? I am here.”

For several long moments nothing changes, and fear slowly tightens in your chest.

At last his eyes open, though only slightly at first. They do not focus; his gaze drifts past you, unfixed and confused, following something you cannot see. A weak frown pulls at his brow and a thin sound of pain escapes him when he shifts his head the smallest fraction, his breath catching sharply.

The light pains him.

You raise your hand at once to shade his eyes and bend nearer so he does not need to search for your voice. “No, do not move,” you whisper gently. “Please… do not try.”

His lips part, but sound refuses him at first. The effort trembles visibly through his jaw before a hoarse whisper finally forms.

“…where…”

The word fades into breath.

Relief strikes so suddenly it hurts. He is thinking. He is reaching for the world again.

“You were hurt,” you tell him softly, willing calm into your voice. “You are abed. You are with me.”

His eyes wander again before settling at last upon your face. There is no true recognition yet, only attention, and he studies you with a puzzled intensity, as though he senses he should know you but cannot yet grasp how.

Your heart stumbles painfully. The maesters had warned you in careful, measured tones. A blow such as his did not only wound flesh and bone; sometimes it troubled the mind as well. A man might wake and speak strangely, forget days or years, even those dearest to him. They could not say if it would happen, nor how long such confusion might linger — only that the prince might return to you slowly, and not all at once.

You have not stopped fearing those words since.

“Baelor,” you whisper, careful and gentle. “Look at me. It is me.”

He blinks with slow effort, his gaze slipping away and returning as frustration and pain crease his brow. For a terrible moment you fear he does not know you at all.

His fingers move faintly within your grasp.

You tighten your hold around his hand, softer now, almost pleading. “You are safe. I am here. I have not left you.”

As he listens, his breathing steadies slightly. The confusion in his eyes remains, but it softens, and he keeps looking at you — not with understanding yet, but with the fragile focus of someone guided more by your voice than by memory, as though its familiarity alone keeps him from drifting away again.

His lips move again, forming a shape without sound. It is not a word. Not truly. But it is meant for you. And that is enough to make your vision blur with tears you no longer try to hide. You do not even attempt sleep after that.

Instead you remain beside him, watching as though your gaze alone can hold him in this world. You follow every rise and fall of his chest, still counting without meaning to, your fingers wrapped around his hand as if warmth and memory might pass between you through touch alone. His skin is warmer now, no longer carrying that dreadful stillness that haunted the long hours before, and you cling to that small mercy.

Time loses all order. The fire sinks low, embers pulsing faintly in the hearth, and the chamber grows quiet enough that each uneven breath he takes seems louder than any noise in the castle.

At last his fingers stir again beneath yours.

You lean forward immediately, afraid even to shift the mattress. A faint tension gathers between his brows and his breathing falters, shallow at first and then deeper, as though he must struggle to remember how. A low, pained murmur escapes him and tightens your chest.

“I am here,” you whisper again, instinctively closer now, your voice gentle and steady despite the trembling in your hands.

He moves beneath the blankets in a weak, restless motion. The smallest turn of his head draws a strained gasp from him and his hand tightens around yours, not with strength but with a desperate reflex that makes your throat ache.

“Do not try to move,” you murmur softly, placing your free hand lightly against his shoulder to still him. “Please, Baelor… you are hurt.”

His eyes open once more, wider than before though still unfocused, and fear touches them before awareness does. His gaze lingers on your face, searching with slow and painful effort, as though he senses familiarity without understanding it. You feel your breath falter while you wait for recognition that does not immediately come.

“It is me,” you say gently, leaning closer so he does not have to seek your voice. “You are safe. You are with me.”

His lips part again, the effort visible in the tremor of his jaw. A faint sound escapes him, rough and barely formed.

“…hurt…”

“Yes,” you answer, relief mingling with the ache in your chest. “You were struck. You must lie still.”

He swallows with effort and confusion clouds his eyes once more. When he manages another word it breaks apart before it is finished.

“…tourney…”

“Yes,” you tell him quietly. “After the trial. You rode, stubborn as ever.”

You watch him carefully, almost holding your own breath, waiting for something — a spark of memory, a sign that he knows you — and when his gaze returns to your face and stays there, uncertain but intent, hope rises painfully in your chest.

“I never left you,” you whisper, softer now. “I am still here.”

His fingers shift faintly within your grasp, tightening just enough to be certain. His lips move again, shaping something that nearly becomes your name before fading into breath, and tears spill freely down your cheeks.

“I am here,” you repeat, leaning close enough that your forehead nearly brushes his temple. “You need not search for me. I am here.”

Exhaustion overtakes him soon after, his eyes slipping closed while his hand remains curled weakly around yours, and though sleep claims him it is no longer the distant, unreachable stillness of before. You bow your head over his knuckles and keep speaking softly into the quiet room, not to wake him but to anchor him, hoping that if memory fails him, your voice will guide him back to you.

“Stay,” you breathe, barely a sound at all. “Just stay with me.”

And in that fragile nearness, fear slowly gives way to a trembling, careful hope.

Your moans echo through his study as he thrusts particularly deeply, punching the air from your lungs. You feel your walls flutter and a whimper follows. He growls, his hands slide up your thighs, digging into your flesh and leaving small crescent shaped marks, as firm as his grip on you. You take him deep, over and over again, and he moans with pleasure — taking him out, only to swallow him up and get his cock sucked right back in.

With every roll of your hips, you meet his thrusts and elicit broken sounds from him now — not a moan, it sounds more like a growl. Rough and unrestrained. His cock twitches violently inside you every time you roll your hips.

His hands tightens low at your back, grabbing you and suddenly you can’t move. A squeal escapes you as he holds you tight and just pounds into you.

His name leaves you, but whatever words were meant to follow vanish when he kisses you. You just cling to him for dear life.

It is not the gentle affection he offers in quiet corridors or behind watchful eyes. A battle for dominance breaks out — a battle you're happy to lose as your tongues dance wildly. His grip firms at your bottom, pulling you flush against him.

The ink bottles clink together due to the roughness of his violent thrusts, causing the desk to rattle. Somewhere behind you a book slips and falls shut with a dull sound. He does not seem to hear it.

For once, Baelor Targaryen is not thinking. He is fucking.

Your legs tremble uselessly around his waist, but your feet still dig into the flesh of his arse every time he's balls deep inside you.

Baelor growls, his hips won't stop, he only moves more violently to feel you fluttering around him. His thick cockhead kisses your cervix every time he slams into you — the slight sting it causes makes you whimper, but you want more.

"Look at you... taking every inch like the good wife you are," he growls in your ear and you moan. Your arms around his neck tighten, pulling him closer to you. Your fingers slide into his short dark hair and you grab hold of it. Your body trembles, your cunt so wet around his shaft that slick noises fill the room, along with the sound of skin slapping against skin. You feel the desk move beneath you with every powerful thrust.

"Baelor... Baelor... I... I am..." you begin, but it ends in a scream as he pounds deeper inside you. And that’s it. You feel that pressure in your lower abdomen and suddenly it snaps. Your walls clench hard around his length, milking him as you drench his cock with your wetness. You press your face into the crook of his neck to stifle your moans. Baelor groans as he feels your walls massage his already throbbing cock.

"Gods," he groans, following you right after. He spills his seed deep inside you, painting your walls white. Flooding you with his seed, so much that it leaks out around his base, even while he’s still pulsing inside you. His slow grinding movements push every drop of his seed deeper, ensuring it stays where it belongs.

“You should visit my study more often,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice still unsteady. The admission draws a quiet laugh from you.

For a moment he simply keeps his arms around you, reluctant to move, as though breaking the stillness might also break whatever fragile peace has settled over him. Your breath is warm at his throat, slower now but not yet calm while your walls still fluttering around him. He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before, with visible reluctance, letting you go. Slowly, he pulls his cock out of you, causing you to whimper softly as he grunts slightly at the sudden loss.

Baelor sits back down into his chair and leans back, exhaling deeply, one hand lingering at his temple as he tries to collect himself.

You watch him with an unabashed smile, bracing yourself on your hands as you catch your own breath. There is something endearingly human in the sight as he slowly tucks his cock back into his trousers —  the composed prince momentarily gone, replaced by a man flushed and disarmed. His dark beard… a few strands of silver catching the light, and for once he looks entirely unsure what to do next.

But you already have an idea.

Baelor remains where he is for a moment, elbows on his knees now, trying to gather something resembling composure. The chamber feels warmer than it has any right to, and somehow he likes that very much.

He hears soft footsteps across the rushes. When he looks up, you have already crossed the room, fingers trailing lightly along the edge of his writing table as though you are inspecting it for flaws. There is a certain brightness in your expression that immediately reignites his desires.

“My lady,” Baelor says gently, rising at once, “I believe we have tested impropriety sufficiently for one evening.” But a smile twitches at his lips.

You turn toward the window rather than him, pushing the shutters open just enough to let in the evening air. Moonlight slips into the room, catching the silver in your hair, and you glance back over your shoulder with unmistakable mischief.

“It is only air, husband,” you say lightly.

Baelor stops a few steps behind you. “It is a window,” he corrects, already lowering his voice despite the corridor beyond being empty. The dark growl in his voice makes your cunt clench around nothing.  “Windows imply visibility. Visibility invites witnesses.”

Your smile widens.

Before he can decide whether dignity requires retreat or intervention, you settle casually against the sill, entirely too at ease with a risk he can already feel unfolding.

“So you believe this is wise?” he asks, his voice low, almost too calm for the question.

You do not answer at once. He comes closer, step by step, and you feel your resolve falter long before he actually reaches you. Your thighs press together slightly, almost involuntarily... You manage a small nod, unable to look anywhere but at him.

"The heir to the throne, fucking his wife at the window?" he growls, and the vulgarity of his words only makes the throbbing between your thighs worse.

When he stands before you, he lifts your chin lightly with one finger, not enough to force, only enough that you cannot lower your gaze.

“Yes?” he asks again, softer now.

You start to rise, wanting to kiss him, but he gives the faintest shake of his head — a quiet refusal rather than a command.

“No,” he murmurs. “You wished to be bold a moment ago.”

His hands settle carefully at your waist, steady and certain. With unhurried patience he turns you toward the window, guiding rather than pushing.

You brace yourself against the windowsill as you feel him press up against you from behind. His hands are still on your hips, pulling your skirt up slightly. You can't help it, but a soft moan escapes you as you press yourself against him and feel his already hard arousal again, followed by an almost immediate growl from him as his fingers slide along the inside of your thighs.

This sign is understood immediately by him, without any need for further words, as soon as you press the soft curves of you bottom against his fingers. Your folds are explored by his fingers, who hesitate not. You moan — the sight in front of you is suddenly completely forgotten.

Baelor moves his fingers up and down, spreading your wetness and the remains of his seed along your folds. Your legs spread further as he teases your sensitive pearl, coaxing out even more of your sweet juice.

"Baelor," you whimper, and he just chuckles in your ear before nibbling lightly on your earlobe. The faint rasp of his beard against your neck sends a shiver down your spine, leaving a warmth low between your thighs that makes you long for the feeling of his beard there.

His fingers slide upwards until they tease your opening. Your walls literally suck him in as he slowly presses his fingers against your entrance, and the resulting squelching sound is obscene… so obscene… but you can't help but moan again.

His fingers slide deeper, slowly sliding in and out, while he teases, "Sssh, sweet wife… someone might hear you”. You whimper as his fingers move faster while his palm slaps against your folds.

You want to say something back, something cheeky. But every word feels like it's stuck in your throat as he adds another finger. The following stretch feels incredible, making you forget everything else. At this moment, nothing could surpass the feeling you are experiencing… except for the feeling you would get if his cock were deep inside you. Then, you sense movement behind you. Other movements, unrelated to his fingers deep inside you.

With his free hand, he pulls his trousers back down, almost with the same urgency as before when you sat down on his desk.

His cock is already semi erect again, but as soon as he slides the tip of his cock through your folds, that quickly changes. He pulls his fingers out, causing you to whimper in protest. Your wetness soaks his shaft as he slides it up and down, and he growls repeatedly. His hand grabs your hips, draws you back until your soft curves are pressed firmly against him, his already hard and throbbing cock slides once, twice between your cheecks, smearing precum before it nudges your entrance.

As he looks down and sees your folds spreading around his cockhead, he briefly holds his breath. Slowly, he pushes his hips forward, and you moan as he spreads you further, inch by inch. This pleasurable stretching that you can't get enough of.

Initially, he progresses at a leisurely pace, relishing the way your walls tighten around him before gradually easing back. Moans and growls are uttered by him — during your intimate moments, not much is said by him, but his grunts and growls are never ambiguous.

His fingers dig into your hips as he begins to thrust harder and faster, moving you with his hands. You cry out, not caring who might hear you. Baelor looks up, his labored breathing brushing your neck as his hand suddenly slides up and gently grips your throat. Your throat bobs against his palm and you gasp slightly, but you can't deny that your walls are now clenching even more tightly around his length.

He pants into your neck as he feeds you more and more, his body trembling with exertion. Each time his hips thrust forward, your cunt makes sticky sounds, and you can feel the drag of every vein against your inner walls. Your walls flutter as if you're trying to spit him out, but at the same time it pulls him deeper inside you. A slight cry follows as his hips thrust faster and his voice rumbles.

"You wanted to enjoy the view, didn't you? Well, how do you like it, my sweet wife?", he taunts breathlessly in your ear. Your hand reaches up and clings to his forearm — not because you want him to let go of your throat, but because you're seeking something to hold on to.

"Baelor," you whimper, unable to form coherent sentences as he thrusts deep inside you — your cunt pulses around him as you drip onto the hairy base of his cock. He utters a soft curse as your walls milk him, and he buries his face in your neck, his teeth sinking into the soft skin there — without breaking it, just to mark his wife — as he grinds deeply, circling his hips so that his balls grind against your clit as you press back against him.

You feel the pressure in your abdomen again — only more intense than before. You're close. So close. Your vision blurs at the edges, and each breath becomes shallow, as if his hand on your throat is controlling it. Slick gushes out with every pull back, coating his balls, dripping down your thighs in sticky rivulets. The squelching grows louder; your cunt begins to twitch as if it wants to suck him in for good.

Another growl sounds behind you as Baelor feels your walls begin to flutter uncontrollably. He doesn't let up, his hips thrusting forward and thrusting deeper into you as you desperately try to keep your balance. His free hand slides around your body to support you and tease your sensitive pearl with maddening circles while his cock punishes your walls.

You cry out again, the pressure becoming unbearable — until it becomes too much to bear and your head simply falls back against his shoulder. Your walls flutter and your juices soak his cock again as he growls into your neck.

But then the door to his study suddenly opens.

Before you can react, you hear your father's voice and a gasp escapes you, while you freeze. You glance over Baelor's shoulder and see your father standing there, your eyes wide in shock.

"Baelor, I've been thinking about it and..." he mutters but pauses when he takes in the ‘situation’. You and Baelor... at the window? Until he sees his brother's arse.

"Oh, seven fucking hells, will I never be spared anything?!" he suddenly exclaims. Baelor pulls you close at once, covering you with protective instinct rather than thought. Only then does he look back himself.

"Father..." you begin in a breathless and fragile voice, but Baelor's voice is louder.

"Maekar, I’ll talk to you later," says Baelor, also breathless. But Maekar has already turned away and is making his escape. After your father leaves Baelor’s study, there is silence... until you let out a breathless laugh. Baelor can’t quite suppress a grin but shakes his head.

"The things you always tempt me to do," he whispers, kissing your neck. Slowly, he pulls his still hard cock out of you and you gasp for air.

"What are you doing? You didn't come?" you whisper breathlessly. Baelor stands there, gently stroking his cock up and down, with precum dripping slowly from its tip, as he pants lightly.

"Yes, I don't think that's going to happen now," he murmurs. Before he has finished speaking, you turn to him and pull your skirt down. Looking up at him, you see his dark eyes meet yours. You just smile, which makes him raise his eyebrows slightly.

"Well, as a good wife, I can't let that happen," you say in your teasing tone before kneeling down. He looks down at you and the half smile you love so much graces his lips. You don't hesitate and wrap your fingers around his entire length before your lips follow and envelop his cockhead, while his hand slides into your silver hair. The precum tastes salty on your tongue as you take him deeper into your mouth, moaning as you try to take him all the way in.