mazzy🪐

"Do not give me hope, I beg of you." You sighed, snipping away another loose curl. 

You could not see his face as you stood behind him, yet you knew a mischievous smile had surely found its way upon his lips.

Baelor had been tasked to attend the tourney at Ashford in a week's time alongside Valarr, Maekar, and his sons. You could not say precisely why, but ever since he had spoken of the journey, a quiet dread had settled upon your heart, tightening around it with each passing day. 

More than once you had tried to persuade him not to go, yet he had insisted it was good for House Targaryen to strengthen its ties with the lesser houses. As much as you wished to object - even if it meant clinging to his boots until he relented - you understood the truth you had accepted long ago.

Baelor belonged to the realm before he ever belonged to you.

So you decided to steal him away from the endless weight of duties and drew the chamber doors closed, determined to grant him a proper trim before his journey south. Fingers wandered gently through his hair, guiding each lock with the comb before the shears followed in a measured pace.

You plucked a single silver strand between your fingers and held it before his eyes. "Hmm. You have grown more of these since the last time I remember." 

One brown eye peeked open. Baelor had grown quite accustomed to your teasing whenever the mood took you. A smile touched his lips as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“So even the blood of dragons must bow before the passing of years.”

"Oh, thanks be to the Seven! Else you Targaryens would never cease boasting." You said, gently turning his head forward and resumed your work.

The silver caught the afternoon light like pale steel woven through black velvet. Yet to your eyes, it only made him handsomer than any youthful knight or lord in all the realm. You would never confess as much. Teasing him was far more enjoyable.

"Are you certain an old prince is fit to ride so far south?" The shears gave another soft snap as more silver strands drifted to the floor. His hair had always been thick, yet it remained surprisingly soft. 

"You could fall from your horse," you pleaded, grasping at one final attempt to sway him from his journey. "Or worse, lose your way in the woods."

Baelor laughed. The sound filled the chamber with the warmth you had long known as home. For a while, he said nothing more, allowing you to finish your work in peace.

"Then perhaps," he said at length, "should this old man meet the Stranger upon the road, my wife may find herself glad enough to wed some younger lord. One with fewer grey hairs."

The words stunned you. Each one found its way to strike somewhere deep within, far deeper than a jest ever should. Has he lost his mind?! Your heart thundered against your ribs as the chamber fell silent. Your lips parted, yet the reply you wished to give refused to come. The shears remained motionless in your hand. You could only stand there, unable to fathom how a few careless words could cut so deeply.

Sensing the silence that had fallen, Baelor turned to look at you. A single tear had already slipped free before you could stop it. You did not even realise you were crying.

The smile faded from his face, replaced by horror as he understood the pain his careless words had caused. "My love, I was only—"

“Have you lost your mind?! I tease you over a few grey hairs and suddenly you are speaking of dying?” You had not meant to raise your voice, but it had carried in your tone all the same. More tears began to pool around your eyes, threatening to spill down your cheeks.

He reached for your hand immediately to soothe you, but when you stubbornly refused it, he reached for your waist instead, drawing you effortlessly onto his lap despite your indignant protest. You made the faintest attempt to escape before his broad arms settled tightly and securely around you, forcing you to surrender.

“I am so sorry, my love, my heart, my world. It was a poor jest. I am a foolish old man for saying such a thing,” he said, scattering gentle kisses across your damp cheeks while his thumb brushed away the tears that refused to stop.

“That’s very cruel.” Your voice softened, the anger giving way to something far more fragile. “If the Stranger takes you, I will sail to Valyria myself. I will curse every stone of that forsaken land and tear you back from death if I have to.”

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth before he raised his hands to cradle your face. “Listen to me,” he whispered.

“Nothing shall part us. Not fair ladies, nor younger lords, nor servants, nor duty, nor any burden this realm may lay upon me." 

He pressed his lips to yours in solemn promise. “And when the Stranger comes, he will find me arguing with him over the hour. Not even death shall hasten me from you.”

The matter of his grey hairs no longer seemed amusing. You almost cursed yourself for having brought it up in the first place, and so you reached up with gentle hands to smooth the silver at his temple. “Do you swear it?” you asked softly.

“I swear it with the whole realm as my witness.” He planted a kiss on the tip of your nose.

You both remained like that for a while, held in each other’s arms, until at last you summoned the composure and grace befitting the future Queen and rose from his lap. “Right, husband. Now let me finish making you look handsome before your journey to Ashford.”

Standing behind him once more, you studied the silver strands you had always loved. Each pale strand was a testament to the years he had spent labouring and sacrificing -  striving to become the prince the realm needed rather than the one it had merely expected him to be.

You wondered if any soul within the Kingdom had ever truly seen the grey upon Baelor’s head and understood the burdens that had brought it there, or if they saw only a prince who had begun to age. Your fingers lingered for a final moment around the silver before carefully evening the hair above his ear.

“What would you have from the south, my dear?” Baelor asked, breaking the silence that stretched. 

“You. Just for you to return safely to me.” The words came simply, though your mind was already haunted by the thought of being left alone in this great castle without his presence for a month.

“Consider it done,” he said. And you believed him, for Baelor had never once broken a promise he had made. There was hope and happiness in those words, enough to make you forget the fear of his leaving.

When at last the trimming was complete, you brushed the stray strands from his shoulders before taking a step back to admire your work with a pleased smile. “There. Now you look every bit the prince you were meant to be.”

You leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the back of his head, heart swelling with love and pride for the man you got to call husband. One day, a crown shall rest upon this very head, you thought. And the realm shall be blessed to have such a man upon the throne.

Baelor turned towards you, smiling widely as he always did whenever you fussed over him. Taking your hands in his, he pressed a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

“Thank you, my love. Now I have greater confidence that the South will remember me properly.”