☆Klownin'💫

“The maiden dances through the sky She lives in every lover’s sigh. Her smiles teach the birds to fly, And gives dreams to little children” -The Song of the Seven

The Brook

In the bare moonlight, at the hour of the wolf, when the last prayers lie spent a schemes lie sealed, and only the wakeful keep their watch…there wandered a maiden robed in trembling light. Upon mortal lips and the world lies balanced between sin and absolution, she walked. Not as flesh walks. But as something remembered. She moved unseen among the daughters of men, answering whispered pleas for virtue, for solace, for grace unbroken.

The Maiden moved where she was called, and where she was not. In every whispered vow, she lingered. In every trembling doubt, she listened. For she was not one alone, but one of Seven, and never wholly separate from them.

The Father weighed.

The Mother wept.

The Warrior burned. 

The Smith endured. 

The Crone watched.

And she…

She felt. 

Not as mortals felt, in bursts and wounds, but as a tide that never ceased. For such was her charge: to guard what fragile innocence the world so carelessly profanes. 

Men came and went as storms upon a field…taking, breaking, leaving naught but ruin in their passing. Maidens knelt to her with tear-stained prayers: for love betrayed, for vows undone, for lovers lost to war’s unyielding maw. Ever the same lament, yet never did she wholly despair. For still she sought beauty… in valor, in mercy, and in innocence held fast as shield against the dark.

She passed unseen among the daughters of men, gathering their prayers as one gathers fallen petals…each fragile, each already fading. Broken vows. Stolen innocence. Love unreturned, or worst forgotten.

Men, she had learned, were creatures of taking.

And yet…not all.

There was one.

A prince. Dragon-blooded, yet tempered not in fire alone, but in conscience.

She had seen him beneath the sun. Where men performed themselves in steel and splendor. Where the Warrior’s gaze burned brightest. She beheld him once, Prince Baelor, at the wedding tourney of his aunt, Daenerys. That day, she had turned her ear to the bride’s silent pleas, torn between duty of marrying the Prince of Dorne and a forbidden love. The realm bent toward union, yet beneath it stirred defiance: Daemon, wrathful and unyielding, his heart laid bare in steel, willing to risk it all for Daenerys.

He fought like a tempest unchained.

But Baelor—Baelor brought the storm to heel.

She had not meant to linger upon him. He was but one thread among many, one life among countless that would rise and fall beneath the Father’s judgment. And yet, when he rode, it was not wrath that guided his hand. It was restraint. When he struck, it was not hunger that followed. But ending.

Lance met lance in thunderous accord, till in the final tilt the fury broke. The bastard prince was cast down, struck hard and humbled, his rage scattered like splintered wood upon the ground. Not for glory did Baelor ride, but to preserve what sanctity the day yet held, to shield the innocent from the ruin of another man’s grief. 

The Warrior had watched him. 

The Father had weighed him. 

Even the Crone had stilled her turning gaze.

And she…

She had wondered.

What is this thing that does not take, when it may?

In that moment, she had known this one was different.

Rare as starlight at dawn. 

And though she was but a spirit…unseen, untouched…something within her stirred. A longing most improper for one such as she. To be known. To know. 

Yet she stilled her heart.

 I am no maiden to be chosen, she thought, but one to whom prayers are given.

Better to feel nothing…than to break as those she pitied. 

Still, the memory of him lingered. 

And so, beneath a warm summer night, she turned among the fireflies…each a fleeting star caught in mortal air. The fireflies gathered, as they always did, drawn her not to her form, but to what lay beneath it. For a moment, they circled her in quiet orbit…Seven light…always, there were seven. 

A breath. 

A sound. 

Now, beneath gentler light, she let herself take shape.

Not wholly. Never wholly. 

She turned among them, her motion less a dance than a drifting, like a thought not yet spoken. And from her lips came song, though she had never learned it, and never needed to. Her spirit brimmed too full, she sang of valor, of longing, of a prince who made the world seem briefly kinder. 

Of Baelor Breakspear. 

A prince of breaking lances. 

A man who chose less when given more, 

Curious. How curious.

“Why should you linger?” murmured the Crone, somewhere behind her thoughts.

“Why should you care?” pressed the Father, soft but unyielding,

“Why should you not?” whispered something that might have been her own voice.

And so she sang.

So lost was she in song that marked not his coming —-until the earth betrayed him.

A misstep. A fall.

The world narrowed.

Steel found her hand, not from her, but from memory. The Warrior’s echo, faint but present.

“Who goes there?”

“A soldier,” came the answer, rising. “and a clumsy one.”

“Show yourself, ser, else you shall taste a sharper greeting.”

“Believe me, my lady, of the two, I am likelier to end this quarrel.”

And when he stepped forth into the moon’s pale grace

Her breath faltered.

Not a soldier.

The prince himself.

When he stepped into the light, she felt it then.

Not divinity.

But gravity.

For the first time in all her quiet watching, she was seen. Not as whisper, nor presence, nor prayer but seen.

As though, for the first time, something in the world pulled her instead the other way around. And she who had never needed to steady herself…felt something like imbalance. She, who had watched the hearts of countless souls, found her own laid bare in that fleeting instant. 

“Forgive me, my prince…I knew not who walked at such an hour.”

She would not have said it. She should not have known him.

But she did.

She always did.

“Nor I, fair lady, why one so gently bred walks unguarded in the dark.”

She dared not speak her truth. Yet truth, ever stubborn, slipped through in softer guise. 

“I sought but breath and quiet. This brook soothes more than counsel halls. All this talk of war…it wearies me. Green boys thirst for renown, and yet…” her voice fell, “...it is not glory they remember at the end, but gentleness….all for an heirloom sword placed in princely hands.”

When he answered, ah, how it struck her. 

Not pride. Not hunger. 

But burden.

As he spoke, she listened, and something unfamiliar stirred. 

Not the endless tide of mortal longing she had known since time’s first breath.

This was…

Singular.

Bound.

Finite.

His words did not echo. They did not multiply.

They stayed.

With her.

She listened. 

Not as goddess. 

But as woman. 

Here stood no creature of empty song, but one who bore the very virtues she was sworn to keep alive. Honor without cruelty. Duty without blindness. 

What a wondrous thing, she thought. 

“A bitter charge,” she said softly. “Must it not gall you… to fight in your father’s name?”

And when he answered, when he spoke of truth above blood, of conscience above crown…something within her yielded. This was no fleeting spark. This was flame that might endure.

When he spoke of mercy, 

of the lives weighed upon a single choice, 

of sons and brothers, and lovers he would never wish to slay. 

It did not ripple outward into the world. It settled.

Here.

And when he spoke of the lives he would not take…

She felt, for the first time, the shape of a choice that could not be undone. 

“How strange,” she thought, though she did not say it. “To live where every act is final.”

And how heavy that must be. And how… beautiful.

Her heart, though divine, knew then a mortal ache.

Not for glory. 

But for him.

The night shifted. An owl’s call cleaved the silence—The Crone’s quiet summons. Time, ever watchful, drew its veil. She turned her gaze skyward, lips parting in silent answer.

I know… I must go.

“My prince, I must away. Forgive my boldness. My thoughts run freer that my caution.”

“No, my lady. Your words were dearly given…and dearly taken.”

That undid her more than any blade. 

“I did but amuse myself. I thought not the subject of my song would walk forth to hear it.”

She moved to pass, but he stayed her.

A hand. 

A touch. And then—

A kiss.

Fire.

Not of flame. But of feeling long denied. 

For one impossible instant

The Father did not judge. 

The Warrior did not burn.

The Crone did not turn her gaze forward.

All stilled.

And she felt…not everything.

But one thing,

Warmth.

Sharp. Immediate. Terrible in its clarity.

Her breath caught, not from surprise, but from limitation.

She could not feel this everywhere.

Only here.

Only now.

Only because of him.

And that…

That frightened her more than any prayer she had ever heard.

“You have eased my troubled mind,” he said. “I would see you again.”

Again.

Such a small word.

Such a mortal word. 

It implied time. Waiting. Wanting.

Such perilous hope.

The Crone stirred.

The Father weighed. 

The Mother, distant, grieved for something not yet lost. 

And she…

She chose 

Just a little. 

Fate had already begun its weaving.

“Then return, my prince,” she said softly, “I shall pray the Seven guide you through the storm of war…”

Her hand lingered in his, treacherous in their reluctance.

Not because she forgot to withdraw it—

But because she wished, for the briefest treason—

To know how it felt.

To hesitate.

“And…that they show you mercy.”

======================================

The Hastilude

Since the war, the Seven had been called upon in many guises. 

The Father, to weigh justice, that the rightful might find his seat upon the Iron Throne.

The Mother, to cradle the wounded, to comfort the orphaned, to fill the cold halls with bread and warmth.

The Warrior, to lend strength where steel was drawn.

The Smith, to forge and shield, that even the frail might stand in battle. 

The Crone, to grant wisdom, that men might yet discern their path in a broken world. 

And the Stranger…

That it might, at last, be stayed. 

But the Maiden…

She remained among those who endured. A gentle keeper of hope, of innocence unbroken, she walked where prayers were whispered still: among septas in their vigils, among maidens in quiet homes, among children who yet believed in spring beyond ruin. 

The war did end. 

She saw it as one might see the turning of a tide. 

Baelor rode with his host from one horizon, and Maekar from the other. Two brothers drawing the realm back into itself. It felt, in that moment, like a herald’s cry made flesh: it is done.

And then came Bloodraven. Arrows fell like rain.

Daemon and his sons were struck drown, and the field was made red with ending.

She did not turn away. 

War demanded witness, and she, above all, must be fair. 

Yet within her, in some small and secret place, there lived a single fragile wish:

Let him live.

And he did. 

She felt it before she saw it. The quiet easing of breath. The loosening of dread. He rode for home with a heart made heavy by victory, his gaze shadowed not with triumph, but with remembrance. He mourned them all. Even those who had stood against him. 

Eight moons passed.

The realm rose slowly, like a child long neglected, learning again to stand. From ruin came order. From grief, a fragile kind of pride. A good king was praised, and a just Hand beside him. Fields were tilled. Bread was baked. Life, stubborn and unyielding, endured. 

And from afar, the Maiden watched. 

She smiled, at times, to see what he became.

Yet sometimes a thought would trouble her:

Did he remember?

Surely not. She had been but a moment, a passing thread in the long weaving of a prince’s life. 

Then came the feast, held for the birth of Maekar’s son, Daeron, named for the good king. The great and lesser houses gathered, clothed in splendor, eager to forget the taste of war in wine and song. 

The young sought her favor, whispering prayers for love, for fortune, for gentle matches. 

And she granted what she could. 

Yet a thought, bright and dangerous, stirred within her:

May I not, just once, be granted the same?

The Crone would have warned her.

The Mother, perhaps, would have understood. 

So she yielded.

Just once.

She withdrew to the godswood. There, beneath ancient boughs, she let her voice rise, not in praise as minstrels made it, all grandeur and gilded falsehood, but in truth.

She sang what she had seen. 

What she had known.

What she had come, despite all reason, to love. 

And she thought herself unheard.

“Wake me, my lady,” came a voice behind her, soft and breathless, “for if this be a dream, I would know when I must mourn its passing.”

She turned. 

Baelor stood before her, winded from haste, his gaze fixed as though afraid she might vanish between one heartbeat and the next.

“My prince—”

“Yes,” he said gently, stepping nearer, “it is I. Led by a voice I could not mistake, though all the world conspired to drown it.”

They spoke. Lightly, at first.

As though neither dared name the weight beneath their words.

He spoke of a soldier—-

She answered as though she did not know him.

Yet in every turn of phrase, they circled the truth.

For all the times she had felt his presence in the press of a battle, she knew the measure of each stroke. 

When it should fall true, and when it should turn aside. In some small, guarded chamber of her mind, she had never wished it would not land….that fate might stay its hand, and grant her but one meeting more. 

The thought did flood her then, and summon forth a smile most fond, unguarded, and bright with quiet grace. 

“He lives,” said she, soft as a prayer. “The gods, in mercy, saw fit to return him.”

“Then I must thank them,” he murmured.

“You stand before gods not your own,” he said.

“I am,” she answered. I am one of them.  

“yet I think the world too wide for any one voice…or any face of it. There are spirits in all living things, I would have them know they are not forgotten.”

She said it lightly, but something in the air stilled, as though the trees themselves listened.

“Then you are kinder than most rulers I have known,” said he. 

“And you?” she asked. “Are you kinder now, my prince...or only more careful?”

“Careful enough,” he said, “to know the difference.”

The night deepened around them, soft with bloom and silvered light. 

“It is good to see you again, my prince." The ache to say those words has finally eased her heart. 

“And I you,” said he, and it made her heart feel warm of all sorts. 

He held forth his hand, and never before had such an offering been made to her. A fleeting thought did stir, what judgement the Seven might cast upon so strange a touch…yet she did drown it swift and silent. 

And then she placed her hand in his, and his grasp about it felt as the warm embrace of morning, breaking gentle after a bitter dawn.

She had known the rugged press of his palm, battle worn were his hands, and longed to kiss away their harshness…to restore them unto gentler grace. Yet, ah how tenderly did he cradle hers. And as her eyes did linger upon his face, she marked a graze upon his cheek.

“You are marked.” she murmured, her fingers brushing the faint scar upon his cheek.

“A small remembrance.”

“War leaves little that is small,” she replied. 

“Then let this be counted among its mercies,” he said, smiling fondly.

They laughed, then soft, unguarded, as though the world beyond the trees had no claim upon them. And in that laughter, something shifted. Something neither could name, yet neither could deny. When his hand seeked her again, with the loving brush of his thumb, she felt his willingness to cross oceans to stand beside her.

“Tell me your name,” he said at last, quieter now, “I would not lose you again to silence.” 

She hesitated.

To be known…or to remain as she was: untouchable, unseen, safe. 

Yet nowhere in all the realms did she wish more to remain than here.

With him. A touch of heaven for him, and for her more than anything. 

Then laughed she, like unto the spring in bloom, and moved as summer leaves upon a gentle breeze, light and unencumbered, with a merry gleam within her easy eyes. A modest twirl did bear her just beyond his reach, as though she took delight in being near yet not attained. She turned the tide of their discourse, for well she knew it would but break her heart to watch this fair and budding feeling unravel before them both. And so she asked the poet to spare her verses and bid her time still. 

“Must I perform at your bidding?” he said at last, recovering. “And be commanded so boldly? I ought to have you seized for such insolence.” he jested. 

“Oh how noble,” she laughed and he could not help but join her. Oh their laughs, it sounded like a million little stars twinkling.

“Come, my prince. Spare a few pretty words, if any be true to your spirit.” 

Please, for it might be the last time I might see you…

And so he stilled. And drew courage from within 

As if his life depended on it, as her lady commands him. 

He spoke with such earnest and unashamed manner, being seen for who he was, not by titles, and for the grace he was given, for the chance to see her once more. 

And she too never had felt more seen, appreciated, and yearned for. Of feelings growing out of love? Oh. Of love that cannot be. For she was a god, and he was a mortal.  Her tears fought her back, and trickled upon her somber cheek. 

“Forgive me,” he said softly, stepping nearer. “I had hoped for smiles, not sorrow.”

“It is no sorrow,” she answered, her voice warm despite the trembling. “But something…growing.”

It was all she can tell him. She smiled then. Soft, unguarded.

“As payment for such words, my prince, I would offer you a token.”

“A token?” he said lightly, though his voice betrayed him. “What treasure might suffice for one so burdened with titles?”

“Close your eyes.” she whispered low. 

This shall be my gift. 

To him, and yet unto myself. 

For a love that may not be. 

Let this pass, and live only in remembrance. 

And when he did—

She kissed him.

Lightly at first, as though the moment itself might break beneath too much truth.

But it did not break. It deepened. Careful, searching—not conquest, but recognition.

When they parted, it was only for breath.

“I was lost in it,” she said, wonder trembling through her voice.

“It is I who must beg pardon,” he answered, unsteady. “For answering boldness with more of the same.” They laughed again, softer now. Changed. 

And then…from the hall beyond faint yet unmistakable, rose the same ill-wrought song he had so despised. 

The hammer smashed the bastard with giant veiny—-Host of Dornish spearman!

Baelor groaned, closing his eyes. “Of all the moments to be remembered, must it be that one?”

She laughed again, brighted now. “Take care, my prince. The realm already makes you legend.”

“A poor one, if sung so badly.”

“Then you must give them better verses.”

He looked upon her…in earnest did he behold her. His gaze, his very eyes, and the quiet hold he kept upon her seemed to stay the march of time itself. 

Scarce had the echo of that wretched song faded from the air when another voice broke the night, clear, well-known, and far less sufferable in its insistence. His dearest brother called out for him, seeking his presence amidst the godswood. The world returning.

“Stay,” he said, taking her hands once more. “I would have you known–not as some passing dream, but as you are.”

Her smile faltered. “There are truths,” she said gently,”that fare better in quiet places.”

“Then let me be the judge of that,” he replied, smiling gently. “I would not have you fade again into some dream I must doubt come morning.”

Her lips parted…

She almost told him.

Almost.

The moment hung, fragile as spun glass.

“My prince…” she began.

And stopped.

Her gaze did soften then. And whatsoever truth had stirred therein sank once more beneath the surface. A tender strife. 

Oh that I might be seen, her spirit cried, and yet remain unseen, to be held in truth, yet never wholly known. 

She would not steal from him the fullness of his days. She would have him live—live richly, brightly—take joy, take love, and raise fair children who should bear his likeness, his mismatched eyes and his bearing. Such was the quiet mercy she chose, though it tore at her breast. 

For the realm had need of good men such as he—steadfast, gentle, and true—and she would not be the shadow that dims worthy a light.

Love, she knew, could unmake as surely as it could bless. 

I must not wound his heart anew, this must be done. 

“Go,” she said at last. “I shall remain.”

He believed her. 

With one last kiss, he turned—and was gone.

And when he returned—-

There was nothing. 

No trace. No sign.

Only silence beneath the pale tree.

The wind stirred, soft as a farewell. 

And there, upon the carved face of the weirwood—

A single firefly glowed. It lingered…

Then drifted toward him, slow and gentle, until it came to rest upon his shoulder.

Baelor did not move. 

His eyes fixed upon it, wide with something he dared not name. 

Then it flew. Gone.

He stood very still.

And at last—

A single tear fell.

======================================

The Tourney

She heard them before she came. 

Not with ears, as mortals do, but in the quiet turning of devotion. In whispered hopes tied with ribbon and breath. In soft, trembling prayers laid at unseen feet. 

Gwyn of Ashford. A maiden crowned in bloom and expectation. They called for love. For beauty. For favor. And so she came. Not as a queen, nor as judge, but as a blessing.

She moved unseen among garlands and laughter, her presence no heavier than sunlight upon water. Where Gwyn walked, the air softened. Where she smiled, courage found root. A gentle hand, unseen, guiding the tilt of a chin, the grace of a word. 

This was her place. This was what she was. 

Until—

He came. 

Baelor. 

Not in prayer. Not in plea. Not seeking her. 

And still—she knew him.

Her stillness broke. 

Not outwardly, no mortal eye marked the change, but within, where no change had ever been before. 

A remembering. 

Not of thought… but of feeling. 

Her gaze found him across the tourney grounds. And for the first time since her making, something in her faltered. 

He lives. 

Not wonder. Not yet. 

Something closer to trembling. 

Then came cruelty.

Swift. Thoughtless. Bright with arrogance.

Aerion Targaryen moved as fire does, all consuming, not caring what it left behind. A scream. A girl’s finger, broken.

The Maiden stepped forward and was stilled. 

Not by force. By presence. 

The Father’s gaze.

The Crone’s knowing. 

Do not.

Not common. Not unkind.

But law.

She stilled. 

And watched. 

Then a hedge knight stepped where she could not. 

Again—choice. 

Again—cost.

And something within her, long untouched, bent toward him in quiet approval. 

Men who chose. 

Men who could fall—and did not.

Duncan, rough-handed, uncertain, carrying truth like a burden too heavy for his years. He asked for justice—not with grace, but with need. 

And Baelor answered. 

She watched that closely. 

Not the words, but the choice. 

Recognition stirred in her again, not of face, but of soul. The same man who had stood at the brook. The same quiet defiance of ease, the same turning toward what was right, though it cost him.

He remembers, she thought.

Not her. 

But what she had shown him.

And that was enough to wound her. 

When Baelor sought Duncan, she lingered near. 

So near. Closer than breath. She could have spoken to them.

A word. A whisper. A nudge of knowing.

A nearby brook offered him solace in pondering what must needs be done, to fight against kin, or to fight for what is right. 

The Crone turned her gaze. 

Trust.

So she did not.

And for the first time…it hurt to obey…

The trial was called. Seven stood. And Seven watched. Not as one—but as many. She stood among them.

Whole.

Untouched.

Unmoved—until him.

Steel rang. Bone answered. 

Men broke beneath force and will—and she remained as she had always been: unshaken, unmarked. 

Until Baelor bled. 

Then—something tore. 

Not flesh. Not form. 

Something deeper. 

Every blow he took echoed where no blow had ever reached. 

And when the mace fell—

When brother struck brother—

She gasped. 

A sound not meant for her. 

Small. Broken.

No.

She moved.

Too fast. Too far.

And the Stranger stood before her. 

The stranger did not bar her with hand, but with certainty. “He is mine.”

“No,” she said. 

The word came raw. Unshaped.

The Warrior did not turn.

The Smith did not speak. 

The Mother wept—but did not move. 

The Crone watched.

The Father…considered. 

“I beg you,” she said. 

Not as goddess. Not as aspect. 

But as something lesser. 

Something learning how to kneel.

Silence held.

Then—

A yielding. Not victory. Not mercy. 

Allowance.

“Until dawn.”

They laid him out in a noble bed. Washed and still. Mourned in waiting. 

Between fire and earth.

Between king and god. 

Between ending and decree. 

And in that narrow space…She came.

He was broken.

Even in stillness, the wound spoke. Bruise beneath skin. Blood beneath bandage. The quiet violence of what had been done. She touched him—and trembled. Not from fear. From knowing. 

This could end.

This should end. 

Her hands hovered, then pressed—light as prayer. 

“Mother,” She whispered, voice unsteady, “lend me mercy.”

“Crone…show me what must be done.”

No answer came. 

A bramble lay within her hand, poised to be wrought into a circlet, each thorn and tendril bent toward that should bespeak the Seven. Her will was steel beneath the silk, unyielding, resolute, bent wholly to her prince, and yet, in truth, to him.

All this she bore for that man, whom the realm had scarcely yet beheld in full measure. For in him there burnt a promise not lightly spent, and she, though set apart, would see it flourish, though it cost her every hidden longing. 

So she chose.

It was not power. 

Not as the others wielded it.

It was giving. 

Piece by piece. 

Moment by moment. 

Something of her…undone…

Something of him…restored…

She did not know when it was enough. 

Only that she could not stop. 

Until—

Breath. 

When he stirred, she broke.  Not into light. Into tears. 

“Spare him,” she whispered—not to gods now, but to whatever still listened. 

“Spare him.”

And when he spoke—

She became something new entirely. 

He spoke—and the world altered. Not in sound. In meaning.

She had been called before. Praised. Named. Worshipped in fragments of understanding. But never…seen. 

“You’re alive.”

Such simple words. Such mortal relief. 

And something within her answered—not as goddess, but as woman newly made. 

He reached for her. Slowly. As though she might vanish if he moved too quickly. 

She did not withdraw. She could not. 

Not when something in her—unformed, unnamed—leaned toward him in answer.

“Do not leave me again.”

Again. 

The word struck deeper than any prayer. 

He remembers. 

Not her face. 

Not her name. But the absence she left behind. 

“I cannot stay,” she said. 

And this time, it was not truth alone. 

It was cost.

When he woke again, the night had deepened. So had she. 

Time did not pass for her as it did for him. 

But now—now she felt it. 

Each moment thinning. 

Each breath…borrowed. 

He looked at her as one looks upon something already half-lost. 

“Tell me your name.”

She almost did. 

The impulse rose—sharp, sudden, dangerous. To be known

To be called. 

To belong to something beyond prayer.

She shook her head. 

Because if she spoke it—she feared she might never return to what she had been. 

“You are no courtly maid,” he said softly. 

His gaze did not waver.

“You come as prayer comes…unseen…and all at once.”

She stilled. There it was.

Not knowledge. Not yet.

But nearness. 

He did not understand her. 

But he had begun to understand the shape of her. 

And that… frightened her more than the Stranger ever had. 

“Then be mine.”

The words came fragile and fierce all at once 

“And I shall give the realm a queen worthy of it.”

A mortal promise. 

Earnest. 

Impossible. 

And for the first time—

She felt sorrow not as observation…but as wound.

“The gods would forbid it.”

“Then why are you here?”

Because I chose you. Because I broke.

Because I wanted—

She swallowed the truth.

“Because I asked to be.”

“I pleaded with time,” she continued, quieter now. “For this moment.”

“And what price?”

Everything. 

Nothing.

Something still unfolding…

She lowered her gaze. 

Not in shame. 

In uncertainty.

A thing she had never known before him.

He did not press.

And in that mercy—she loved him.

When he drew her close, it was not possession. 

It was invitation. 

“Let me love you,” he said, voice rough with pain and something brighter beneath it.  “If only for this night. Let the dark be our witness…and no god judge us.”

At that, she stilled. Something flickered across her face…like candle light shaken by breath. Something in the air shifted, subtle, but certain. As though the world itself had drawn breath.

“No god…” she echoed, softer. Not in defiance…but in wonder. 

Then she closed her eyes. 

Then whispered…

”Then I am yours.”

“And I, yours.”

And she, who had never been asked, answered. 

At first, she did not understand what passed between them. 

Touch, to her, had always been distant. 

Wind through leaves. Light upon water. 

The brush of prayer against something unseen. 

But this—

This was weight.

Warmth.

Nearness that did not fade. 

She trembled. 

Not from fear. 

From too much. 

Every place his hands found her became suddenly known. 

As though her form, once only shape, now filled with meaning.

“Am I—” she faltered, the question breaking before it formed. 

He stilled at once. 

“You are,” he said gently, though she had not finished.

Always answering.

Never taking.

She followed him then.

Not guided—but learning.

As though each motion revealed something newly possible. 

Where he was careful, she grew certain.

Where he hesitated, she answered. 

Not as mortal woman taught by time—

But as something discovering what it means to become one.

Their breaths met. 

Not taken. Shared. 

And in that sharing, something passed between them that neither god nor man had named. 

Not hunger. Not innocence lost.

But innocence given. 

Freely. 

Knowingly. 

Once. 

Time bent around them. Or perhaps—she simply began to feel its passing. 

Each moment sharper than the last. Each touch more fleeting. 

As though the world itself had grown aware of what it would soon reclaim. 

When stillness came, she lay against him. 

Listening. Not idly. 

But with quiet urgency. 

His heart. 

Unsteady. 

Mortal. 

Finite.

“I would give my crown,” he whispered, voice worn thin, “to keep you.”

Her hand stilled over his chest.

“You cannot.”

“I would.”

“I know.”

And she did.

That was what made it unbearable. 

And sleep took him, she felt it. 

The failing. Not yet death…but its nearness.

The slow unmaking already begun. 

“No,” she whispered. 

This time—not to him. 

To everything. 

She bowed her head. And prayed.

Not as a goddess. 

But as supplicant. 

“Let him live.”

Silence.

“I will leave him,” she said. “I will not come again. I will not touch what ist not mine to touch.”

Still silence. 

Her voice broke. 

“Take from me what must be taken—but let him live.”

And somewhere—something answered. 

Not in words. 

In balance. 

When he woke—whole—she was already gone. 

But not far. 

Never far. 

She watched as he searched. 

As he spoke her into doubt before others. 

As he tried, and failed, to make them understand what cannot be held in mortal certainty. 

And still—he did not forget. 

It began softly. As such things often do. A cough in the city. A fever in the alleys. A quiet closing of doors that did not open again. 

No trumpet marked its coming. No omen named it. The Great Spring Sickness.

And yet—she felt it.

Not as mortals did, in flesh and failing breath—but as a shift. A rebalancing. A scale long tilted…correcting. 

She stood above King’s Landing. Unseen among its towers, and listened. Not to prayer. To absence. 

Where voices should have risen, there came only stillness. Where candles should have burned, there was wax left cold and untouched. 

And beneath it all—the Stranger moved. 

The Stranger did not rage. Did not hunger.

He gathered.

Quietly. Endlessly.

As he always had. 

As he always would. 

She knew it then. Not in thought. In certainty. 

This was not cruelty. 

This was answer. 

“One life,” said a voice behind her. 

The Crone. 

She did not turn. 

“One life, held past its hour…must be answered.”

Her hands trembled. Not with doubt. With recognition. 

“I did not take them,” she said. 

“No,” the Crone agreed. “But you asked.”

“And I was answered.”

“And so,” said the Crone gently, “must the world be.”

Below, the city broke. Septas fell at their altars, hands still folded in prayer. Children burned with fever, their cries fading into silence. Mothers held bodies that would not wake. 

And among them—

Him. 

Baelor wept. 

Not as king. Not as symbol.

As father. 

She came to him. Or as close as she could. 

Closer than wind. Closer than memory.

And still…he did not feel her. 

“Why?” he asked the empty air. 

His voice did not rage. That would have been easier. 

It broke.

“I gave what was asked. I ruled as I must. I kept faith.”

His hands clenched. 

Then opened. 

Powerless.

“Is this the cost of living?”

She knelt before him. Though he could not see. Though he could not know. 

“I am here,” she whispered.

“I am here.” 

But her voice did not reach him.

Not anymore. 

That had been the price she named. 

Jena wept beside him. A mother with empty arms. And Baelor….Baelor did not curse the gods. That, more than anything, undid her. 

His grief did not turn to cruelty. Did not harden into wrath. It opened. Wider. Softer. As though loss had carved in him a space large enough to hold the suffering of others. 

And she understood. Too late to undo it. Perfectly in its design.

He lived. 

And so–-others did not.

Not by his will. Not by hers alone.

But because the world does not bend without breaking elsewhere.

“I would have borne it,” she whispered, unseen. “All of it. If only it had been mine to take.” 

But she was not the Mother. Nor the Stanger. 

She was only—

The one who chose.

And so she watched. And wept. 

And learned the shape of consequence. 

Years had worn him. Not into weakness, but into quiet. The kind that comes when a man has outlived too much of what he loved. 

The Crone came to her once more. 

Not unkind. Never unkind. 

“It is time.”

This time—she did not beg. 

She only asked. 

Once.

And the answer came—

Not as resistance. 

But as opening.

So she went. To the godswood. 

To the place where memory had taken root. 

He came as she knew he would. 

Drawn not by command…but by something older than reason

He walked slower now. 

Each step measured. Each breath known. 

And yet—

When he saw her—

He stopped as though struck by something beyond pain. 

“Will you leave me again?”

His voice broke on the question. 

Not as king. 

As the man who had once woken to emptiness and never ceased remembering it.

She smiled. 

And this time—

There was no sorrow in it.

Only truth. 

“No.”

He did not run to her.

Did not fall.

Did not question. 

He came to her as one approached something long awaited and finally understood. 

“I have known you,” he said, voice low, unsteady, “all my life since.”

Not certainty. Not proof. 

But something deeper.

“I have looked for you in every kindness I could not name.”

“I have come to bring you home,” she said. 

He exhaled. Not in fear, not in grief. But in release. 

“To them?” he asked. 

“To all you have lost.”

She paused. 

Then softer— 

“And to me.”

She reached for him as he took her hand. It was warm. It was real. And for the first time he understood why it had always felt so certain. As though all mercy he had ever known had once passed through it. 

And now—he felt it. 

Not as flesh. Not as heat.

But as recognition fulfilled.

“My maiden fair,” he whispered.

And for the first time…she did not turn away from the name. 

“My king,” she answered.

Behind him, the world remained. Before him, something gentler. Not darkness. Not ending. But a place where nothing was taken. Only kept.

And together…he went.

He laughed then. Soft. Worn. 

Almost disbelieving. 

“I wondered,” he said, “if I had dreamed of you.”

“You did,” she answered. “And you did not.”

His hand found hers. 

No tremor now. 

No hesitation.

“I would have followed you then,” he said. 

“I know.” 

“I would follow you now.”

“I know.”

And this time, there was no cost left to name. 

The world did not shatter. 

Did not mourn. 

Did not mark the moment with storm or flame. 

A king died. 

So softly, none might mark the hour. Within the quiet of the woods he passed as though the earth itself had hushed to keep his rest. 

They found him laid upon a bed of grass, as one but newly fallen into gentle sleep…

Peace upon his brow, and his lips a smile so warm, so kindly set, it grieved the heart to wake him.

But something else…long divided was made whole…

And where head fallen—there came, in time, a small and quiet blooming.

Unseasonal. Unbidden.