ava

A celebration - at least that is what it was called. Though the word feels hollow before it is even spoken; The courtyard has been dressed in the pretense of joy, banners of silk fluttering in the late morning wind, bright against the pale stone of the castle walls, their colours meant to inspire admiration and honor.

Laughter rings across the yard, bouncing from one end to the other, folding over itself until it becomes almost unrecognizable, a forced cheerfulness meant to mark the occasion as something festive, something worthy, something triumphant. 

Goblets clink, the sound harsh and brash, accompanying words spoken in hurried bursts as though speed could impress importance upon them. Everything here declares triumph, a union, a promise, and a chance at a bright future - yet none of it rests comfortably within your chest. The weight of it presses down in a constant ache, a reminder that this space, these voices, these celebrations, are not yours. You stand where you are placed, at the margin of your father’s company, close enough to be seen but distant enough to remain unseen in any meaningful way. 

The position suits you, has always done so, allowing you to observe without engaging, to note the movements and moods of the world without stepping fully into its current, letting it flow around you without interference, as one might allow a river to pass, knowing the water cannot, and should not, be held.

Your hands betray you, as they always have.

Fingers curl, press and tug at the soft edges of your nails, small, habitual movements that sting faintly, sharp enough to ground you in a world that threatens to slip too easily into abstraction. The pain reminds you of everyone’s presence, of the ever-looming attention, of the body you inhabit and the obligations it bears. 

It reminds you that you are here, that this is real, that the motions of the court, the laughter, the clanging of steel against wood, cannot be avoided. Below, the lists have been laid out with the meticulous orderliness of a game long rehearsed. Men move with the assured certainty of pieces on a board, their armour catching the light in dull gleams, voices rising and falling with careless confidence, confident in a world that has never demanded of them anything beyond compliance. 

Among them, the man you are to marry waits.

You do not look at him long; you have learned not to – there is something in him that unsettles you greatly, you have always had a keen intuition. It is in the ease of his smile, the way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long, the way he accepts what has been arranged as though it were his by right, untested and unquestioned. It is an absence of effort that hints at a presence of entitlement. He looks at you as though you were a kingdom to conquer - leering at you.

You are called forward, and to bear him your favor. The favour rests in your hands: a pink woven flower, soft and delicate, every thread placed with care, if not affection. You had chosen the colour because it pleased the eye and.. Well it was your favorite color. At the time, it had seemed a safe decision. Now, nothing about this feels safe.

Your steps are measured and deliberate, down the incline of the stand, your gaze lowered just enough to try not to appear fearful – the murmur of the crowd presses against you, low and unceasing, a tide of sound that seems to follow wherever you move. He waits, your betrothed, he stands tall beneath the weight of expectation, a figure already confident, a man assured of victory before the contest has begun. When you approach, his smile comes without hesitation, easy, certain, and it makes your fingers curl slightly tighter around the stem of the flower. You do not want to let it go, it feels as though if you are to part with it - you deliver him a piece of you.

Sighing, you offer it. You try to hold back your trembling, try to hold back any sign of resistance; your training is evident, every motion disciplined, every gesture controlled. And yet, there is no warmth, no softness beyond that which is necessary. The flower is received as though owed, fastened to his armour without a glance beyond the matter at hand. You withdraw, steps retraced, distance regained. It is done.

Across the yard, Lord Baratheon watches.

He had not meant to notice you – the lists held his attention, the familiar rhythm of lance and charge, the measured distance and weight of steel — all of it a cadence he moved within without thought. And yet, in the midst of that steady pattern, something drew his gaze away, a subtle disturbance in the expected course. You, not for beauty, not for display, but for absence. You moved as one apart, standing in the space that belonged to no one else, neither eager nor proud, participating in your own manner without effort, without joy, without artifice - and when the flower was offered, Lyonel saw the hesitancy beneath the act.

Not the gesture nor the motion -  but the reluctance threaded through it, the quiet refusal to invest more than what was demanded. It was in your posture, the careful neutrality of your expression, the absence of acknowledgment for the man who took it, as though he were nothing to you.

It struck him, sharp and immediate, a tightening in the chest that was neither pity nor softness, but abrupt, unreasonable, and almost like offence, though he could not name the direction of it – at the man, at the circumstance, at the world that allowed it. His jaw set, he did not know your name for he had never spoken to you. It did not matter. By the time the flower had been pinned to another man’s breast, Lyonel had already decided.

He would unhorse him.

The thought came fully formed, clean, without hesitation. He would strip away the ease, the certainty, the arrogance of entitlement, and lay him in the dust before all eyes, before all witnesses, before every voice and cheer that claimed the day as triumph. He would win, not merely the bout, not merely the tourney, but the entirety of it, every man who dared present himself, every lance that dared to rise against him. And when it was done, he would crown you - Queen of Love and Beauty.

The title sat in his mind strangely, not as idle fancy, not as performance for the crowd, but as a deliberate, almost dangerous intention. He did not know why it mattered so much to him so suddenly, he did not care to think about it longer. Only that it would be you, and that, when the field was clear and the last man brought low, he would ask for your hand. It was arrogance bordering on absurdity, but it would not be denied. 

He allowed the strain of thoughts to continue.

The first bout is called.

Lyonel mounts, armour settling upon him with familiar weight, the lance balanced perfectly in hand. He rides, the rhythm of the charge familiar, precise, practiced. The first opponent falls cleanly, a strike measured and hit exactly. The second fares no better. The third meets him with resistance, a momentary counter, before Lyonel adjusts, angles his aim, and sends him to the dust with a force that draws a roar from the stands. 

Still he does not look for you, not yet. But you are there, quietly present, threading through the edges of his attention, a tether that informs every motion.

He rides again, another man, another fall. Wood splinters and the dust rises, the rhythm building, the crowd quickening with each decisive stroke. 

He removes his helm at last, the weight of the day lifting from his shoulders. Breath measured, eyes momentarily closing to take in the expanse, the roar of the crowd rising and falling around him like wind over grass. And though he does not yet turn his head - the moment is not yet for looking - his thoughts are drawn inexorably toward you. Toward the quiet in your gaze, toward the way you offered the flower as though it cost you more than it should, toward the restraint threaded through every careful motion you made. His mouth curves faintly, thoughtfully.

I will take it from him, he thinks. And I will give you something better.

The feast is louder than the yard had been, louder in a way that presses against the walls of the hall, squeezing between the rafters, it rattles the goblets in careless rhythm. Laughter curls into the corners, braids with the music that threads through the bodies pressed too close together, and every shout, every cheer, is proof of a fruitful victory. 

You do not belong to the loud pit of clamboring men and women alike.

You take your place along the edge of the hall, hidden slightly behind a pillar with just enough room for you to breathe, to let you watch without being drawn into the thick of it all. 

Your hands fold and unfold with the same nervous rhythm you always carry, fingers brushing the tender edges of your nails, curling over them, pressing, tugging, an unconscious practice that roots you to something steadier than the noise around you. You do not notice when you begin, you very rarely do.

Your gaze drifts instead. Across these faces you do not know, voices that carry no interest in you nor this wretched betrothal, you do not even show interest in it. You do not know him, just that he is a friend of your fathers friend – that he is grimy and all too grabby. 

You pray to the seven that where you are, stationed behind this pillar, is hidden enough that no one can see you as you delve into your own mind. 

You are not hidden – for he sees you at once.

Lyonel had not intended to linger in any simple conversation, no more than a polite nod or brief exchange. He had come to test your family's choice in wine and drink until the morning. 

The hall offers too many voices, too many hands seeking to claim the right to his attention, too many inquiries about the tilt of a lance, the angle of a seat, the split of a pass. He bears them well enough, replying where required, laughing and slapping a shoulder when necessary, but none of it anchors him. None of it matters when you are there.

You have taken your place as though the hall itself pressed you into the stone, quiet, still, yet unyielding in your removal from its indulgence. The sight unsettles him, more than it should, more than he cares to name, and he stops listening. The lord before him continues speaking, oblivious, words of the sport and of Lord Baratheons skill, but Lyonel does not hear - his attention has already shifted.

To you.

He cuts the conversation short, polite but firm, offering an apology without waiting for its response - He crosses the hall.

You notice him only when he is near enough that the denial of him coming towards you is impossible. Your hands still, though not before he has seen them. Your eyes lift uncertainly, searching, trying to locate his intentions before he speaks.

“My lady.”

Even across the distance, the ease of his voice carries. It is tempered with warmth, the careful cadence that suits others well, but there is something quieter beneath it now, something that does not need performance.

You incline your head, careful, proper. “My lord.” It comes out rather meek, but he hears it and smiles.

For a long moment, neither moves. He studies you, and from what you can gather by the heat of his stare on you; it is not cruel but rather questioning, a stare of curiosity. He admires your attention to detail, the details being things that lesser men would have missed entirely. The pearls in your hair, threaded with care; the soft pink of your gown, Lyonel assumes it must be one of your favorite colors. It rests upon you without seeking immediate attention, he finds that your presence is a breath of fresh air - It does something to him; there is a burning in his heart when he looks at you - at the curve of your nose, the line of your lips and the pool of color that is your eyes.

“I had thought the hall might offer better.. company than the lists,” he says lightly, as though the thought carries no weight, as though he had spoken without intent. “I find I was mistaken.”

You do not laugh. A pause stretches, faint but sharp, and in it he senses the smallest flicker of doubt. Not offence - you do not wear offence easily - but a quiet, distant disinterest, a calibration of attention that is not meant for him alone. It is strange, to meet such a thing unvarnished.

“Perhaps the lists are more honest than the people in this hall,” you reply, quiet, deliberate, each word chosen before it passes your lips.

It catches him – brow lifting, interest sharpening. “And the people here are not?”

“Not always,” you answer softer still. He exhales, a breath that almost becomes laughter, tempered by the realization that amusement is inadequate to the moment. “You are kinder than I would be, were I made to stand among it.”

You glance at him properly then, reassessing, measuring. It is brief, enough to register, enough for him to note. Good. He presses on, remarks lighter now, hoping to coax you out of your shell. Each time he speaks; you share your opinion, though he notes how careful you are when you speak - as though wary of the company you are in.

He should leave it there but he does not, there is something stubborn in him, more than pride, more than habit, more than his casual arrogance. It is curiosity rooted too deeply, a tendril of interest that has burrowed beneath reason, and it refuses to retreat.

So he remains and he decides to speak again, and again - not pressing for information, nor demanding an answer, but he simply speaks and hopes that you are listening. Talking is something he is good at, and thankfully listening is something you are good at. He doesn’t know what he said when it happened, it just.. Did. It startled you as much as it startled him.

A single retelling of a story; something he had told many people - yet it was entirely new to you. You merely blinked at him and then you laugh.

It was loud and uncontained; it escaped you for a mere second - your hand lifts as if to catch it, but too late - it has already happened.

He feels it.

Gods.

A smile spreads across his face at the sound - he wants to hear it again. Tomorrow, the day after, every day that came after that day, your laughter fades and the buzzing quiet returns. Your gaze dips, a faint glint in your eyes, and your hands - traitorous, restless - returns to your fingers.

He sees it - of course he does. The faint marks of habit, raw against your skin, betray the quiet unrest you carry. You seem unaware, attention caught elsewhere even as your fingers move with unconscious rhythm.

He acts before thought, before he can even think of hesitating; his hand settles over yours.

His hands are large, warm – they cover your own as though they were a blanket.

You go still at his touch and for a long, suspended moment, nothing exists but the press of his palm against yours, a quiet interruption you had not known you needed. Then your eyes rise to meet his.

Surprise there, yes, and the faintest question, but not fear - only softness, a hesitancy held without words. “Do not do that,” he murmurs, voice lowered, the ease among others tempered into deliberate weight.

“My lord?” you ask. “You will hurt yourself.” The soft warm tone of his voice melts whatever had you worrying so.

The way you look at him then - as though no one had noticed, as though such care had never been acknowledged - it settles in a space deeper than thought. Your lips curve, small, hesitant. That quiet, meek smile returns, unclaimed by the room, offered solely to him.

He exhales, slow and it shudders – this is a mistake.

He knows it; the same certainty with which he made his earlier vow holds him now. You are promised, bound already to another - lines drawn long before either of you stepped into this hall, to cross them invites complication, ruin not for him but for you - something he could not dream of.

He should step back - he does not.

Instead, his thumb shifts slightly against yours, unnoticed yet felt, enough to still the motion, enough that you might sense it.

Gods forsake it – he will try.

Whatever this is, however ill-placed, however unwelcome by those who would measure propriety and consequence, he will see it through. He looks at you once more, properly this time, committing to memory the quiet of you, the way you stand apart yet cannot vanish, the way your smile arrives coaxed rather than given freely, the way you look up at him as he holds your hands in his - the fluttering of your eyelashes..

He should have left it there.

A conversation held at the edge of a hall, quiet enough to be dismissed, brief enough to be forgotten if he had any sense about him. His hands laid over yours, not lingering, not improper, merely corrective - and yet it had lingered in his memory. A smile drawn from you, reluctant at first, then given despite yourself, as though it had been coaxed from somewhere long kept shut; It should have remained there, contained, folded neatly into recollection and set aside with all the other small, inconsequential moments that make no claim upon a man’s mind.

It does not.

By morning, it has rooted itself too deeply to be pried loose.

Lyonel wakes with it still fixed in place, not dulled by sleep, nor softened by distance, but sharpened instead, made clearer by the passing of hours. There is no confusion in it, no uncertainty. He knows precisely what it is, and more importantly, he knows what stands against it. 

You are promised - bound by arrangement, by expectations, by the quiet and suffocating weight of agreement that men far older than you have already deemed sufficient. It is not a thing easily undone. 

He considers it – and discards it just as quickly.

Gods can forsake him but he will fucking win.

The second day comes; and it is surrounded by clouds.

The weaker men have been cast aside, thrown from their horse with a lance to the chest. Each man who rides does so with the understanding that he will either advance or be removed from the field entirely.

Lyonel rides with that knowledge settled cleanly in his bones – yet there is something altered in him. He has felt your hands in his now; a feeling he finds himself mourning as he settles into his gauntlets.

Nevertheless he does not simply ride to win, he rides to be seen doing it - by you and only you.

The first pass breaks clean, wood splintering with a crack that carries easily across the yard. The second sends a man from his saddle with enough force to wrench a sharp, involuntary sound from him as he strikes the ground. Lyonel does not look back for there is no need. The outcome is already decided the moment the lance connects where it should.

He adjusts and pushes forward.

There is something like amusement beneath it now, though it does not reach his expression. He is aware of it, of the way the crowd leans forward when he gives them just a fraction more than required, the way attention gathers and holds. A show-off, some might say. He has been called worse, and he has never cared for the opinion.

He leans into it regardless.

Another opponent, another thrown to the mud. The impact rings through his arm, into his shoulder, settling deep in his chest where it lingers only a moment before being dismissed. The man holds longer than expected, balance wavering but not yet lost - then it goes, cleanly, inevitably, body following where it must.

Lyonel turns his mount with controlled ease.

Again. And then -

He is unhorsed.

It comes without clumsiness, without fault. The strike is well placed, better than most would manage, and for a brief, disorienting breath the world tilts, horse and rider separating in a motion that is always sharper than memory allows. The ground meets him hard. The sound of it draws a reaction from the crowd, something caught between anticipation and satisfaction, for it is not often they are given cause to see him brought down.

Though, he was not the only one unhorsed; his competitor decides to continue in a combat of arms and he is back on his feet quickly; he does not look up to you, not see you leaning over the side to watch anxiously.

Blades are drawn, however, it does not last long.

Too brief for any true contest to form, too controlled to become anything resembling spectacle. Lyonel moves with a certainty that borders on disinterest - not in the act itself, but in its conclusion. Steel meets steel once, twice, the sound sharp and clean, then not at all. The other man falters, overreaches, leaves an opening where none should be left.

Lyonel takes it without ceremony.

A turn of the wrist. A shift of weight. A strike placed precisely where it must fall.

The man goes down; yielding.

Lyonel steps back, breathing even, nothing of it wasted, nothing of it lingering. There is no satisfaction in it, not the kind that settles or stays. It is simply done.

He takes the victory as it is given, mounts again, and rides on into the next bout.

He sees your betrothed perform. The man rides well and there is no denying it. Better than Lyonel might have preferred. There is skill in him, and confidence besides, the kind that has not yet been tested to its limit.

It does not trouble him. If anything, it sharpens the anticipation. It excited him, a bit.

The field narrows. It always does. And when it does, there will be no avoiding what comes of it. No distance kept, no polite separation maintained for the sake of courtesy.

They will meet.Lyonel knows it with a certainty that requires no justification.And when they do, it will not be enough to simply unhorse him.

There is no feast that night. Not in the formal sense, not within the hall - Lyonel feels like a starving man, no touch of you today, not a whisper, nor even glimpse. The mood within his tent has turned inward, less restrained, more indulgent in a manner that does not seek approval. The people drink freely and they laugh without measure - they speak over one another without care.

His tent, filled to the brim with all he could want - wine, women, food - And yet, his attention does not settle; It drifts, unbidden, returning to the same point again and again despite his better sense.

To you - He wonders, briefly, what you might be doing; whether you are permitted any measure of this freedom, or kept instead within the walls, seated at the edge of something meant to include you without ever quite doing so. The thought does not sit well.

He sets it aside as a burst of laughter cuts through the noise of his thoughts. It was a harsh bout of laughter, so harsh it irritated his ears.

He turns and seated near him is your betrothed among a cluster of lords, their heads inclined just enough to suggest privacy, though not enough to prevent what is said from carrying.

“…a fine arrangement,” the man is saying, his tone thick with amusement that does not bear examination. “Gold where it ought to be, land enough to make the trouble worthwhile.”

There is agreement among them, a nodding of heads as if agreeing.

“And the lady?” another asks, his tone suggests some sort of malicious intent, Lyonel’s grip tightens on the blade within his hand.

There is a long pause, met with a lazy shrug of his shoudlers.

“She will serve well enough for what is required of her,” your betrothed replies, careless in a way that settles poorly. “Though I have no intention of making a life of it.” A few quiet laughs follow. “I have my comforts elsewhere,” he continues, lowering his voice only slightly. “A maid, though she is more than that now. She has given me children already. Strong ones.”

The words bring a distaste to Lyonels tongue - he does not move, but he wishes to - he wants to throw this dagger into the fuckers eye.

“Marriage itself is for the lands and the castle – the rest will remain as it is. She will have her place, I mine.”

“And the bed?” comes the question, half-curious, half-mocking. Your betrothed smiles, it is nasty - thick with evil.

Lyonel sees it clearly. “Let it grow cold, for all I care - she's hardly one to look at.” The lords laugh on.

Something in Lyonel stills - entirely. They dare sit here. Under his protection, eating his food, drinking his wine, talking about his— His nothing.

He grunts; the wine fogging his vision slightly. He tosses the dagger at your betrothed, and it lands; digging deep into the wooden table– he and his friends yell, startled. But as he looks up, Lyonel is already gone- retreating for the night.

By the third morning, the field had thinned to near nothing. Those who remain do so with purpose, each aware of what lies ahead, each carrying it in their own way. Lyonel prepares himself as his squire buckles his armor.

He refuses to look directly at you - for fear of faltering his game.

One man falls, then another, each pass is clean, decisive, leaving little room for contest. He does not prolong it. There is no reason to, the crowd takes what it is given, and he gives them enough to hold their attention, no more, no less.

Until there is only one left.

The man you are meant to marry.

Across the field, your betrothed prepares, movements easy, confidence untouched by what he does not yet know has already been decided for him. Lyonel watches him only a moment.

Then he lowers his helm.

You watch from above.

The booth grants its usual distance, its careful separation from the violence below, yet it does little to steady what has settled within you. Your hands betray you again, fingers finding the same tender edge of skin, pressing, worrying, seeking distraction in something small and immediate. It stings, but you cannot stop.

Your gaze remains fixed upon the field – not on the man you are meant to favour, not once.

On the other; on the one who rides as though the ending has already been decided and he is merely seeing it through. You feel a shard of guilt stab at your chest for not caring for your betrothed, but something about Lord Baratheon was utterly.. Enthralling. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, cocky and arrogant - yet undoubtedly tender-hearted.

And when the call is given, when the two of them take their places at opposite ends of the lists, when lances are lowered and the world seems, for one brief and fragile moment, to hold its breath - your fingers press harder into your skin, and this time, it is not for the man you are to marry - not at all.

The first pass breaks clean, the sound of it sharp and bright, wood shattering between them in a scatter of fragments that catch the light before falling away to nothing. It is a testing strike, nothing more, the measure of distance, of timing, of how each man will answer the other when it matters. 

Your breath does not settle.

It catches, holds, refuses to return to its proper rhythm until he has made it through. Your fingers press harder, the sting sharpening, grounding you in something immediate, something that does not allow your thoughts to run too far ahead of what unfolds below.

The second pass comes harder.

The crack of it carries further, louder, the force of the impact jarring through wood and iron alike – both lances shatter nearer the hand, the fragments thrown aside as each man absorbs the blow and rides on. Your betrothed holds, so does Lyonel.

They turn again before reaching for the third lance from their squires.

By now the crowd has found its voice once more, drawn in despite itself by the length of it, by the refusal of either man to give ground where lesser riders might already have faltered. The sound builds, restless and eager. Feeding upon the tension that stretches between each pass. 

The fourth pass leaves its mark, subtle though it is. You see it in the shift of your betrothed’s seat, in the way his horse fights the line for a fraction longer than it should, the balance not entirely his for that brief, telling instant. Lyonel does not press it, not yet – he rides through, controlled, measured, as though he has all the time in the world to decide how this will end.

He is patient – painfully so.

The fifth makes your heart stumble, a misstep that sends a cold ripple through you, sharp enough to make you draw breath too quickly, too shallowly. The lances meet with a force that seems to travel through the ground itself, through the stands, through the very bones of those who watch. For a single, dreadful moment, it seems as though it might break differently, that the balance might tip in a way you cannot bear to see.

Lyonel does not fall - but you notice your betrothed start to falter, more and more.

It is then you notice the blood, a small, bright bead gathered at the edge of your nail where you have torn the skin without realizing it. You do not care; the sixth pass comes, and with it, the end.

It is not sudden; but instead it is entirely inevitable.

There is a shift in Lyonel at the last instant, so slight it might be missed by any who are not watching for it, a correction in angle, in timing, in intent. It is as though he has channeled some inner fury; His lance meets true and your betrothed breaks.

The impact takes him cleanly, tearing him from the saddle with none of the composure he had carried into it. He strikes the ground hard, the sound of it dull beneath the sharper crack of the lance, and for a moment the entire field seems to still, the crowd drawing breath as one before it remembers to exhale.

It is done.

Lyonel dismounts without haste, the motion unhurried, as though there is no urgency left in the moment now that its outcome has been decided. 

He hands his reins away without looking, trusting the man who takes them, his attention already fixed elsewhere. He steps across the churned earth, boots sinking slightly into ground that has been turned over too many times to hold firm, his gaze not upon the fallen man’s face, nor upon the attendants who move to look at him, but upon the small, misplaced thing fastened to his armour.

Your favor, It had never belonged there; on a man less honorable than a hedge knight – not truly.

He marches forward and snatches it from the lame man. His hand closes around the fabric, fingers tightening with a deliberate firmness that leaves no question of his intent, and he tears it free in a single motion that is neither careless nor gentle. The threads resist for the briefest instant before they give, the flower coming loose in his grasp as though it had only ever been waiting to be taken.

For a moment, he holds it; and keeps it tight in his grasp.

It did not belong to that excuse of a man, it never did. Nor did you.

The laurel is brought to him, as it must be.

He takes it as he has taken everything else this day, without flourish. It rests in his hands, light, almost insignificant in comparison to what has already been decided long before it was placed there.

He removes his helm and the air meets his face, cool against skin warmed by exertion, and he draws a slow breath that does little to ease the tension that has settled beneath it. 

His gaze lifts, not to the crowd that calls his name, not to the lords who watch with interest or calculation, but to you.

You have not moved, but you are now standing, though there is something in you now drawn tight, held in a way that suggests it may not easily be released. Your hands have stilled at last, though the evidence of them remains, faint red marks against pale skin, small and telling. You look as beautiful as you did in that hall – wearing a gown made of a purple fabric, it made his head spin at the simplicity of your never-ending beauty.

For a moment, the space between you feels altered, reduced, as though distance itself has lost some of its meaning.

He steps forward – closer.

To the barrier that separates him from you, from where you stand slightly elevated, removed and yet not untouched. Close enough that he must tilt his head slightly to meet your gaze fully, close enough that there is no mistaking who it is he addresses when he speaks.

“My lady.”

His voice carries, clear without being raised beyond necessity, shaped not for the crowd, but for you.

“Will you accept the title of queen of love and beauty?”

There is no jest in it.

It is a question, plain and unguarded, set between you as deliberately as any strike he has made this day.

You hesitate - only for a moment.

Just long enough for the weight of it to be felt, for the knowledge of what it signifies to settle where it must. Then you nod, small, careful “Of course, my lord. Thank you for your bravery.” You smile tightly, speaking loud enough for the crowd to erupt in applause and shout praise.

He exhales, slow, something easing within him that had been held too tightly for too long. He does not throw the laurel.

Instead, he steps closer still, one hand coming to rest briefly against the edge of the barrier as he leans in, closing the distance, the laurel is lifted, held steady, and for a brief, quiet moment, his gaze shifts to your face, as though committing it once more to memory in a way that does not require words.

Then he sets it upon your head, carefully.

His hand lingers only a fraction longer than it must, the touch light, almost imperceptible, before it falls away once more. He notes how soft your hair is, how much he did not want to move his hand.

The crowd surges back to life, voices rising in approval, in excitement, eager to claim the moment as theirs; to sing tales of triumph and bravery.

This moment is none of those things - not to him.

He steps back, the distance between you widening again, though it does nothing to ease the sense of it, the quiet pull that remains, unspoken and yet entirely present.

He should leave it there – he knows he should.

Yet as he turns, as he takes that first step away from the barrier, something in him resists the neat finality of it, the suggestion that this might be enough to satisfy what has already taken root.

It is not, it had never been.

Not from the moment he first saw you Not from the moment you laughed. Not from the moment he laid his hand over yours and felt you still beneath it. He knows what stands against him, he knows the cost.

He knows, with a clarity that borders on cruelty, that what he has begun will not end cleanly, will not be granted without resistance, without consequence that may yet reach further than either of you has reckoned with.

His mouth tightens, just slightly, the only sign of the thought that passes through him.

Gods help him.

He is not finished, not with you, not yet.

Evening settles differently after the lists have been cleared, servants pass in low, efficient motion, bearing cloth, silver, wine, their heads bowed to their work, their silence not entirely born of discipline but of a shared understanding that this night is not as simple as it should have been.

You are kept from the celebrations, for a time, you are placed amongst your father’s household; You watch as the Hall is prepared.

You sit where you are bid, as you have been taught, your back straight, your hands folded neatly in your lap, a picture of composure that might satisfy anyone who looks too quickly to see what lies beneath it. 

Yet your hands betray you, if only to yourself - they ache in a slow, persistent manner, the dull sting of skin worried past comfort, the crescent marks at your nail beds fresh and sore where you have picked at them without thought, without pause, as though the act alone might keep the rest of you from unraveling. You press your fingers together now, firm enough to feel the pressure, to anchor yourself in something tangible, to stop the restless urge that has not yet left you.

And still, despite all of it, you think of him.

You should not - you know this. You know the weight of what has been set in motion, the fragile balance that rests now between arrangement and disgrace, between duty and something far less easily named. Yet the thought comes unbidden, persistent, threading its way through every careful effort you make to remain still, to remain proper, to remain untouched by what has already been done.

You remember the way he had looked at you, not as the others had - not as something agreed upon, something already accounted for and thus of little consequence - but with a steadiness that had felt deliberate, chosen, as though he had taken the time to see you and had not found the effort wasted. 

You remember the weight of his hand over yours, not heavy nor with possession - much like your betrothed's hands that grabbed at your arms - but firm enough to halt you, to draw your attention back to yourself when you would have rather let it wander. 

And the crown.

Gods, the crown.

Set upon your head before all, in full view of men who had no right to witness it, done with a care that had not belonged to the act itself, as though he had stripped it of its spectacle and left only the meaning behind. 

It had not felt like a victory then. It does not feel like one now, it feels like a reminder that you are not marrying him, however much you wish it to happen.

You do not know what you are meant to do with it, the crown - or your feelings.

He does not wait for the feast, nor does he leave the matter to chance or to the slow rot of rumour – Lyonel seeks your father before both he and Lyonel leave for the hall, before wine has been poured deeply enough to dull the serious edge of what must be said. 

It is a deliberate choice, one that speaks not of impatience, but of a certain unwillingness to allow the truth to be softened by comfort or delayed by courtesy.

Your father receives him as is proper. He stands apart from the main passage, where the sounds of preparation echo faintly but do not intrude, his posture composed, his regard attentive in that measured way of a man accustomed to being approached with requests he may or may not be inclined to grant. There is no hostility in it, not yet, though neither is there ease.

“My lord Baratheon,” he greets, his head inclining just enough to mark respect without yielding ground. “You have ridden well; the field was not easily taken.”

Lyonel answers in kind, though the courtesy sits lightly upon him, worn because it must be, not because he has any particular fondness for it. “You are kind to say so, my lord..”

The space between them does not linger long in silence. “I would speak plainly, if it pleases you,” he continues, his tone even, neither pressing nor retreating.

Your father studies him a moment, something in his gaze sharpening, as though he senses already that whatever follows will not be easily dismissed. “Plain speech is often the better course.”

“Then I will not waste your time,” Lyonel says, and there is a quiet finality in it, as though he has already decided that what comes next will not be softened. “I would have your daughter’s hand.”

There is no ornament to it, no careful lead into the matter, no attempt to dress it in politeness beyond what has already been given. It is placed between them as it stands, whole and unyielding.

Your father does not start. He is not a man easily unsettled by directness. Yet something in him stills, some internal measure shifting as he considers not only the words but the manner in which they have been spoken. Your father barks out a laugh, “Do not be foolish, my lord,” he replies, and though his tone remains level, there is a firmness to it that closes one path even as it leaves another unspoken. “She is to be married to Lord–”

“I am aware of the arrangement.”

The interruption is clean, neither raised nor sharpened, yet it cuts through the rest of the sentence all the same. It is, by any polite measure, ill-mannered. It is also entirely intentional.

Your father’s expression alters, not to anger, but to a more guarded attention. “Then you understand why I must decline… unless you have defiled her–”

“Nonsense, your daughter is an honorable lady, my lord!” Lyonel's brow knots as he defends his honor, and yours. Lyonel does not shift his stance, does not look away, does not give any sign that he has misstepped or regrets it. “There is nothing to understand,” he says, and though his voice remains calm, there is a harder line beneath it now, something that does not bend easily. “The man is not fit to have her.”

That draws it.

A narrowing of your father’s gaze, slight, but unmistakable. “You speak boldly.”

“I speak the truth.” He insists, “He came to my pavilion last night,” Lyonel continues, each word measured, placed with care not to embellish, not to exaggerate, but not to spare either. “I know you love your daughter dearly, that the match was made with her in mind– but my lord, he spoke of her; of mistreating her. Of–” Lyonel stops himself, hoping to hook your father.

Your father does not interrupt him this time. “Of what?” he asks, quieter now, though the question carries anger; not directed at Lord Baratheon, but at your betrothed.

“Of what he has no intention of telling you, nor her..” Lyonel answers. “He keeps a woman already, a servant he has turned into his mistress. She has borne him many children, and he spoke of them without shame and without caution. He intends to never have children with your daughter - and to favour his bastards, to leave what is yours to them when he dies, and to take your daughter only as the means by which he secures his gold.”

“He spoke of her as one might speak of an item,” he adds, and there is the faintest tightening at his jaw now, a brief fracture in the otherwise steady composure. “A name to be tied to his own. Nothing more. If you require witnesses, I know the men who he was talking with..”

The silence that follows is heavier than any before it, not empty, but full of consideration, of calculation, of something quietly hardening where it had once been merely set. “And you expect me to take this on your word alone?” your father asks, though the challenge in it is less certain than it might have been.

“I expect you to recognise dishonour when it is placed before you,” Lyonel replies. “If you doubt me, ask him yourself. He will not deny it well…” Another pause, longer now, stretched thin by the weight of what has been said and what must be decided.

“If what you say is true–”

“It is, I assure you..” Your father exhales, low and measured, his gaze shifting away for the first time, not in dismissal, but in thought.  “If it is true,” he says at last, more firmly now, “then it will be addressed.” Lyonel inclines his head, accepting it for what it is. “That is all I require.”

For now.

By the time you are brought to the hall, the air has changed.

There is sharp conversation moving throughout the tables - eyes refusing to meet yours, not out of shame to look at you, but in pity. You hate it, for you have no idea as to why they pity you so.

You take your place as before, near enough to be seen yet far enough to be spared the immediate press of attention, your hands once again folded though the restlessness beneath your skin has not eased. You listen in on many nearby conversations - names begin to surface – not all at once, not clearly. But enough, your betrothed’s name passes first, spoken low, followed by words that do not belong beside it, words that catch, that repeat, that refuse to be mistaken.

Mistress.

Children.

Neglect.

They do not come as a full account, but as fragments, each one settling into place until the shape of it becomes unavoidable.

You do not move.

Across the hall, near the doors, a disturbance gathers, small but unmistakable to any who care to look. Your father stands there, his posture rigid, his voice contained yet carrying the weight of command that does not require volume to be obeyed; he stands digging a finger into the chest of the man beside him - the one who had been meant for you - who does not meet his gaze.

He tucks tail and runs.

There is no ceremony to it, no attempt to preserve what little dignity might have been salvaged. He does not even bid you goodbye, though you are somewhat thankful - the man was wretched, awfully grabby and held a strong refusal to court you properly. He goes quickly, his steps sharp, his expression drawn tight in a manner that speaks less of shame than of thwarted intent. The doors close behind him, and in that closing, the matter is settled more surely than any proclamation might have managed.

It is done – the arrangement has broken before it could bind.

You feel it not as relief at first, but as a shift in weight, something lifted from you without warning, leaving behind a strange, uncertain lightness that you do not yet trust.

Eyes turn to you now, they linger where before they had passed over you without pause, measuring, curious, uncertain of what you have become in the span of a single evening.

You lower your gaze – it is easier.

He enters without announcement, as he always has, as though the space makes room for him without needing to be asked. There is something faint at the corner of his mouth, not quite satisfaction, not quite amusement, but something that suggests he is not displeased with how matters have fallen.

He knows, of course he does.

His gaze moves once across the hall, steady, unhurried, and finds you without effort. It settles there, and in that moment, the noise of the room seems to recede, not entirely gone, but dimmed enough that it no longer presses so sharply against your senses.

You meet his eyes.

There is something there, in the space between you, that had not existed before this night - not confidence, not certainty, but something quieter, more fragile, something that has been allowed to take root despite every reason it should not have.

You smile, small and hesitant - it is utterly yours, he deems.

He comes to you without haste, without drawing attention beyond what his presence naturally commands. When he stands before you, he does not speak at once, he does not need to. He grabs your hand, laying a kiss to your knuckle - before holding it in both his hands. There is a familiarity already, slight though it is, in the way he occupies the space near you, in the way it no longer feels entirely foreign to have him there.

“My lady.”

“My lord.”

The words remain unchanged from the last time you spoke them, but they do not carry the same meaning.

He rubs his thumb over your knuckle, gently tracing the curve of your skin before meeting your eyes.

“Will you dance?”

You hesitate, not from refusal, but from the mere fact that your wish could come true now. That you could very well marry the man with warm hands and kind eyes, with a determined spirit and strong knack for jousting.

Then, slowly, you nod, placing your hand in his other open palm – It fits, you feel as though just by looking at him you cannot breathe. Lyonel feels like you have dug your hand into his chest and kissed his heart.

He draws you with him, gently, as though you are glass. Hands still in yours as he guides you from the edge of the hall into the measured space of the crowded dancefloor as though it had always been meant to happen this way. The music gathers around you, not loud, not insistent, but present enough to carry you forward, to give shape to the movement that follows.

He pulls you flush against his chest, his hand in yours as the other lay atop your waist. His face does not change from that same blissful smile, you peer up at him and lose yourself in his eyes.

The dance itself is nothing remarkable to those who watch it; It does not draw attention, does not seek to impress. It is soft and warm, the two of you moving within its bounds as though the rest of the hall has loosened at the edges, as though what matters has drawn inward rather than outward.

Yet within it, there is something that does not belong to routine, his gaze does not leave you, not once.

It is not a gaze of demand nor a gaze of anger - it is a gaze of longing, of want, of something as tender as love. 

Fuck.

The womans’ bathroom is the first place that comes to mind.

You move quickly down the hall, keeping your eyes lowered as a group of students pass by, laughing loudly about something that feels miles away from your current state of mind - your shoes echo softly against the floor as you round the corner and slip through the door marked for the ladies, the quiet of the room wrapping around you the moment it swings shut behind you.

The bathroom is mostly empty, though not entirely.

At the long row of mirrors stands another girl, leaning slightly against the counter while she adjusts the strap of her bag. Her reflection catches yours the moment you step in. She has the most striking hair you’ve ever seen - thick curls the color of bright pink spun sugar, piled loosely around her shoulders in coils that bounce slightly when she moves. Beneath it, her eyes are a warm brown, lively and curious as they flick over you.

You pause at the sink beside her, reaching for the paper towels as casually as you can manage, though your heart is still beating a little too quickly for comfort. The mirror tells you what you already suspected - your hair slightly disheveled, your lip-liner mostly gone, your cheeks still flushed in a way that is definitely not subtle.

Wonderful.

You quickly turn on the tap, splashing a little cool water over your wrists before patting gently beneath your eyes, trying to erase whatever evidence might still linger there.

“You’re stunning, you know.”

A voice that can only be described as melodic spoke - however the comment comes out of nowhere.

You blink, glancing up at the mirror again in surprise.

The girl beside you is watching you now with a pleasant sort of smile, her head tilted just slightly as though she’s genuinely puzzled by something.

“What?” you laugh softly, immediately feeling your cheeks warm again.

“I mean it,” she continues easily, completely unbothered by your embarrassment. “The eyes, the hair, the whole thing. You look like you walked out of a painting.” She gestures vaguely toward you with one hand before adding, “Are you studying here? I haven’t seen you around before.”

You open your mouth, still a little flustered by the unexpected compliment. “Oh - um. Yes. History of Westeros.” Your voice comes out slightly softer than intended, though you manage a polite smile. “It’s my first day back this semester.”

“Well, that explains it,” she says with a small nod, as though that settles everything.

You glance at her again properly now, and the first thing that catches your attention is the hair. The color is so bright it almost glows under the bathroom lights, the curls thick and soft and impossibly pretty.

You can’t help smiling.

“Your hair is incredible,” you say honestly, gesturing slightly toward it. “It looks like candy-floss.” For a second she simply stares at you.

Then she laughs.

It’s a warm, easy sound that fills the quiet room, and she lifts one hand to fluff the curls slightly as if suddenly aware of them.

“Finally someone else sees the vision” she smiles with amusement.

“It’s really pretty.” You grin. It really was. No one around here seemed to show any sign of originality; it was refreshing to see a bright color in a place surrounded by beiges and sickly oatmeal colors.

“Well, thank you,” she says with an exaggerated little nod, clearly pleased by the remark. “I’ll accept that.”

She straightens slightly and offers you her hand across the counter.

“Kiera,” she says brightly. “Kiera of Tyrosh.”

You dry your hands quickly before taking it, returning the friendly shake. You introduce yourself in return, smiling a little more easily now that the initial awkwardness has faded.

“Nice to meet you,” Kiera says warmly.

There’s something very natural about the conversation, the sort of instant friendliness that makes the whole interaction feel oddly effortless. “So,” she continues, leaning casually against the sink again, “History of Westeros. That’s a heavy subject for a first day. You surviving it so far?”

You huff out a small laugh. The irony.

“Barely,” you admit.

“Good,” she says immediately, grinning.

The two of you talk for another minute or so, the conversation light and easy, drifting briefly toward classes, schedules, and the general chaos of the first week back - Kiera seems the sort of person who talks to anyone without hesitation, her warmth almost contagious.

Eventually she glances toward the door with a small groan.

“Gods, I actually have to get back to class,” she sighs, pushing herself upright again and adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

Before leaving, though, she pauses and turns back toward you.

“We should hang out sometime,” she says simply, as though the decision has already been made. “You seem nice.” You blink once at the sudden suggestion, then smile.

“I would love that.”

“Perfect,” Kiera says immediately, pleased. “Fastest friendship I’ve made all semester.” She gives you a small wave before heading for the door, the bright pink curls bouncing softly behind her as she disappears back into the hallway.

The bathroom falls quiet again. You stand there for a moment, staring at your reflection once more before letting out a small breath.

Right.

Now the real task begins. You lean closer to the mirror, quickly fixing what you can. A little concealer beneath your eyes, a careful swipe to smooth the smudged edges of your eyeliner, fingers combing through your hair until it falls into something resembling order again. Your long-sleeve is tugged back into place, the fabric smoothed down carefully over your waist, and your black jeans adjusted until they sit properly again. You try to ignore the pain between your legs;

You pause, studying yourself critically.

Not a perfect attempt to regain dignity; But atleast you look far less like someone who had just been thoroughly fucked in an office.

That will have to do.

Satisfied enough, you grab a final paper towel to blot your lips, then toss it into the bin before heading for the door. Your hand rests briefly on the handle as you take a quiet breath, steadying yourself once more.

Then you push the door open and step back into the hallway - the hallway feels longer than it had earlier. Perhaps it is simply the way your thoughts keep drifting back to him, to the feel of his lips on yours - to the burn of his beard; to the whisper of his promises. You push through the glass doors that lead outside, the cold afternoon air cool against your face as you step out onto the path that winds toward the university car park.

You walk quickly, though not quite rushing. Your shoes tap softly against the pavement, the sounds of campus fading behind you as the open lot comes into view. Cars sit scattered across the rows, most students already gone for the day.

Your gaze lifts almost immediately, searching without much thought – you find him at once.

Baelor stands beside a dark car parked near the edge of the lot, tall and unmistakable even from a distance. One hand rests lightly against the roof as he speaks to someone near the driver's side door; the man beside him wears a simple fully black suit, posture straight, expression watchful in the way of someone clearly employed to be so. You definitely do not miss the gun that is attached to his hip.

A bodyguard, you realize after a moment. Of course.

You slow slightly as you approach, suddenly aware of how ordinary your own little car looks parked several spaces away. Baelor notices you before you can decide whether to wave or not. His attention shifts easily, conversation with the other man ending with a quiet word you cannot quite hear. Baelor looks positively beautiful. It was strange almost, how attractive he looked in his.. fancy ass suit.

The bodyguard gives a small nod and steps back.

Baelor’s gaze settles on you as you close the remaining distance. There is something warmer in it now, something that perhaps was not there prior; surrounded by a classroom. You knew how wrong this was, a student with their teacher. But you had met prior to knowing he was your teacher.

“You found the place easily enough,” he says, voice calm as ever. You laugh softly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “It’s a car park, professor. I think I managed.”

A faint smile touches his mouth at that. He reaches forward then, opening the back door with an easy motion before glancing back toward you. “Come. I will take you home.”

You blink, stopping short of the door.

“Oh-” you begin, glancing back over your shoulder toward the row where your own car sits. “What about mine?”

Baelor follows your gaze briefly, then looks back to you again as though the matter hardly requires thought.

“It can be handled.” You hesitate another moment. “Handled how?”

The bodyguard beside the driver’s seat steps forward slightly, “I can bring it round later, sir,” he says calmly. Baelor gives a small nod in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to you, expression steady.

“There,” he says simply. “No cause for concern.”You stare at him for a second, processing the ease with which that solution had appeared.

“You’re just… sending someone to drive my car?” you ask, digging into your pocket to retrieve your keys - begrudgingly passing them to the Bodyguard - who nods out of respect.

“If that troubles you,” Baelor replies mildly, “I could have it brought to my building and left with the valet instead.”

That somehow feels even more absurd. Fucking wealthy people. Your mouth opens, then closes again as you glance once more toward your car, then back at the open passenger door waiting beside him.

He watches you with quiet patience, one arm resting lightly along the top of the doorframe. There is no pressure in the gesture, no impatience either. Just the calm expectation that you will step forward when you’re ready.

Your cheeks warm slightly again. “Oh,” you say faintly. “Right.” shaking your head.

“Your life is ridiculous,” you murmur under your breath as you slide into the seat.

Baelor closes the door gently behind you, the quiet thud sealing you inside the car.

A moment later he moves around the other side and settles into the seat beside you, the faint scent of his cologne filling the small space between you once more; was it weird to admit he smelt really nice? It probably was.

“You will grow accustomed to it,” he says calmly; eyes meeting yours. You huff out a small laugh, folding your hands together in your lap as the driver starts the engine.

“I’m not so sure I will.” You jest, and he smiles at you. Baelor’s hand found your thigh almost without thought, fingers resting there with a weight that was both grounding and intimate. You felt yourself stiffen for a fraction, then relax when his thumb began to trace slow, idle circles over the fabric of your jeans – his hand was placed respectfully. Thank the gods. You could have jumped him right there.

“History of Westeros,” he murmured, glancing at you with one eyebrow arched, lips teasing the corner of a smile. “Why that subject?” His voice wasn’t formal or commanding here - there was an ease to it, a curiosity.

You fidgeted slightly under his gaze, playing with the rings on his hand that lay on your thigh - if it bothered him, he did not say anything.. “I… I guess it just fascinates me,” you said, voice careful but firm. “The politics, the wars, the mistakes; Modern days ability to fix most of them. Kings, queens, the power struggles. Why people do what they do, and why history remembers it the way it does.” You paused, glancing out the window. “Not the dragons. Though dragons are cool, sure.” You smirked to yourself - a light reference to the Targaryen past.

He let out a low chuckle, one that brushed against your ribs like silk and made your stomach do a little flip. “Refreshing,” he said, thumb brushing over your knuckles where your hand had found his. “You’re not like everyone else. Most people glance at history and see dry facts; you… see the cracks. It’s compelling.” He leaned back slightly, fingers curling over yours, palm warm, thumb stroking in small, deliberate circles. “You’re… invigorating.”

Your cheeks warmed and your hands fidgeted, curling around each other for a moment before he leaned in and brushed a kiss over the back of your hand. That simple, deliberate gesture made your heart skip. It was intimate without being overbearing. Though you doubt any of him could be over-bearing. It seemed to be going all too fast. Going from a club last-night to here, now, in his fancy car – to him kissing all over you..

After a moment, you hesitated, then let the words tumble out. “Was… last night a one-time thing?” The question felt both absurd and necessary, and your pulse sped up in response to the weight of it, and the brush of his hand still lingering against yours.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied you, eyes soft but steady, his fingers playing with your hand like a quiet anchor. “No,” he said finally, and there was nothing abrupt in the word – only certainty. “You’re… unlike anyone I’ve met. There’s something in you that… revives a part of me I hadn’t realized was asleep. I want to know you. Not just last night, nor earlier today; not just in a single glance or a single touch. I want…” He paused, searching for the words without seeming like he needed them. “…I want to see what we could be. Whether that’s friendship, more… or something entirely new.” He interlocks his fingers with yours.

You blinked, startled, cheeks burning hotter, because the candor wasn’t flustered or performative - it was genuine. “I… I want to know you too,” you admitted softly, fire flickering in your chest despite the flush in your face. “Tell me about yourself,.”

His hand tightened over yours, just slightly, and then relaxed, brushing against your fingers again. “My favorite color is purple– I have two sons,” he said, searching your eyes for a flicker of anything other than interest; and shockingly he found nothing but interest. “Valarr- he’s just a little younger than you- and Matarys, who’s just turned eleven. They’re staying with my brother and his children whilst I’m here, teaching. I… wouldn’t leave them alone, not really, but I needed to be here for this semester. For a change of scenery.” He looked at the road for a moment, hand absently brushing over the rings on his fingers, then back at you. “ I have three younger brothers. Regretfully, I’m not very close with them. Only the youngest, Maekar. He’s… dependable in ways the others aren’t. He makes life a little easier.”

You blinked, absorbing the flow of information, a small smile on your lips. “It sounds like you have a nice family, Baelor, a sweet one.” He grinned; interlocking your fingers once more.

You swallowed, feeling the warmth of his hand, the softness in the brush of his thumb over your knuckles. You dared to glance up at him, heart thudding. “What do you do outside of teaching – or your other responsibilities.”

“Outside?” he murmured, tilting his head, eyes locking with yours, a flicker of humor threading through the seriousness. “I’m… still figuring that out. Perhaps I’ll find out with your company.” He squeezed your hand gently, thumb brushing along the curve of your knuckles once more, a small, intimate gesture.

You huffed, a small laugh breaking through your nerves. “You make it very hard to get to know you casually,” you said, the words sharp with teasing, but softer beneath the surface.

“And yet,” he said, voice low, a flicker of amusement still there, “You’re trying. That’s something I like about you.” He leaned back slightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead with a hand that lingered longer than necessary, thumb stroking lightly. 

The car eased to a stop outside the hub for his apartment. The two of you walk together toward the elevator, the soft click of your shoes on the polished floor echoing lightly in the lobby. He doesn’t speak, but the hand he slips over the small of your back; that trails around your waist as you approach the doors is grounding, rather possessive, yet gentle. When the elevator hums to life, and shuts behind you - he moves close, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, deep kiss that leaves your knees just a fraction weaker. You breathe it in, caught somewhere between exhilaration and nerves, feeling the warmth of him pressing close, and you cling to the edge of composure, flushed from the contact, aware of how much space he claims without even speaking.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open to the final floor. You step out, following him down the narrow hallway - and even though you’ve been here before, the view always steals your breath. He opened the door; revealing the large window that showed the entirety of King’s Landing stretched below, gold and gray and alive with the hum of the city. You linger for a moment, gaze fixed on the horizon, letting the quiet awe wash over you.

A shadow falls over your back, and you feel him before you see him - Baelor’s arms sliding around your waist from behind, pulling you into the familiar warmth of him. The subtle pressure of his chest against your back, the tilt of his head so that his lips brush against the corner of your neck, sends a shiver down your spine. He leaves soft, feathered kisses, trailing slowly up to your ear, murmuring in that quiet, commanding tone that seems reserved for moments like this.

“This position…” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, he places another kiss. “brings back… deja vu.” The memory is clear, sharp - you standing in the same spot, the night prior; the same closeness, except this time you were sober. You smile, pressing back lightly into him, letting your hands rest over his forearms, feeling the familiar tension and ease in one.

You inhale sharply as he leans slightly closer, eyes glancing down at your hands still resting on his arms. “Dinner,” he says suddenly, voice low, intimate, and measured. “Would you join me tonight? Out, somewhere… just us.”

Panic flares instantly - you glance down at your black jeans and long-sleeve, mentally kicking yourself for not picking something even slightly flamboyant; you're flustered at the thought of public eyes - even if fleeting. “I-I don’t know. I’m not exactly date ready..”  you start, but he cuts you off with a soft wave of his hand, amused by your hesitation.

“The restaurant,” he says, voice calm and assured, thumb tracing the line of your jaw, “will be empty - except for the waiter and front of house.” He doesn’t elaborate, but there’s a certainty in his tone that leaves no room for argument. 

There’s no way this could possibly go wrong. You swallow, nerves settling slightly. Finally, with a small, reluctant nod, you give in. “I would love to join you for dinner,” you murmur, voice quieter than intended, but firm enough to carry intent. Baelor’s smile broadens at your answer, quiet triumph in his eyes. “Then it’s a date..” Before you can fully process it, he bends just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss against your lips.

The restaurant was quieter than you expected.

Not empty exactly, but close enough that the low murmur of the room barely carried past the soft music drifting from somewhere unseen. Candlelight glowed against dark wood and polished glass, the sort of place where every table seemed deliberately placed, every movement slow and deliberate.

Baelor’s hand rested lightly at the small of your back as the host guided the two of you to a table near the tall patio overlooking the city. King’s Landing stretched out below in scattered gold lights, the streets still alive despite the late hour; a festival glowing in the dark streets below.

You slid into your seat, smoothing your sleeves down automatically. Baelor noticed; his lips tweaking slightly. Yeah, to him it was humorous..

“You’re thinking about the outfit again.” He declared, as though he could read your mind. “I’m not,” you said quickly; it was a lie. He gave you a look that made you sighed. “Fine, maybe a little.”

“You look perfect.” He mused, fingers tightening around your hand; assuring you with his touch. “Baelor, I am wearing a long sleeve and jeans to dinner with a Targaryen.” You protested, you were not even wearing your good jewelry.

“You’re wearing a long sleeve and jeans to dinner with me.” He smiled; and for a moment it stunned you entirely. “That is significantly worse.” You could not help smiling back. He chuckled lightly as he sat down across from you.

Dinner came gradually. Wine first, then the quiet rhythm of plates arriving and disappearing again. The conversation moved easily in a way that surprised you both, drifting between light teasing and long pauses that felt comfortable instead of the awkward that fills most first dates.

At some point you leaned back in your chair slightly, studying him over the rim of your glass.

“This is strange.” He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This.” Baelor waited for you to continue. “You realize,” you said slowly, “that this time last night we hadn’t even met.”

He did not look particularly troubled by that.

“You’re aware of that, yes?” You smiled sheepishly. “I am.” He defined - it really did not bother him.

You leaned forward a little, lowering your voice though no one was close enough to hear anyway. “And now we’ve had…” you paused, clearing your throat slightly, “drunken sex, an awkward lecture, followed by office sex, and now.. dinner.”

“An efficient timeline.” He chuckled - followed by a sly smirk. You narrowed your eyes at him; “That wasn’t meant to be flattering.” You chirped; eyeing him.

“I didn’t take it that way.”

A small laugh slipped out of you despite yourself. You rested your elbows on the table, fingers loosely around your glass.

“I’m serious though,” you said quietly, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “What is this?”

Baelor didn’t answer immediately. Instead he watched you in that thoughtful, steady way of his, like he was actually considering the question rather than dismissing it - it was an admirable trait of his.

“We met yesterday,” you continued, softer now. “And somehow we spent hours this afternoon sitting on your couch talking like we’ve known each other for years.”

You remembered it clearly; arriving at his apartment – sober this time – and then sitting for hours; the two of you sitting on the couch with coffee growing cold while the conversation drifted from your studies to his sons, to your plans after graduation, to things that had nothing to do with either of you being professor and student.

“I told you things I don’t usually tell others– hells, not even my friends..” you added.

“I noticed.” he quipped; you watched him carefully; his fingers twirling a ring around his fingers. “And now we’re here.” 

Baelor finally spoke– “I don’t have a precise definition for it.”

“That’s not comforting.” You frowned slightly; eyebrows knotting.

You leaned back slightly. “Do you at least acknowledge this could go horribly wrong?” Your stomach twisted with nerves; His brow lifted slightly– “You are my professor,” you continued. “Technically- Which I’m fairly sure breaks several rules.”

“Several.” Baelor drawled on, his tone dripping with lack of care.

“And if someone found out-” You tried to caution; but he cut you off.

“To the seven hells with teaching,” he said calmly; a small smile on his face as he looked at you; a look of admiration on his face.

You blinked, once. And then twice.

He folded his hands loosely on the table.

“You have treated me with more decency in the past twenty four hours than half of my colleagues have in the last five years of me teaching,” he continued. “If the university finds itself scandalized by that, I can survive their disappointment.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” If the University kicked you out; you would have nothing. You would have to move back home and sell fucking oranges.

“If it comes to it,” he said quietly, “I will return to the company.”

You frowned slightly.

“I thought you wanted to stay away from it.”

“I do.” His voice softened a fraction. “I would prefer my freedom a while longer.”

The waiter returned just then with dessert. Tiramisu.

Proper tiramisu – the faint scent of coffee hitting you as it graced your table.

One plate, and two forks. You smiled at the waiter and gave him your thanks as Baelor pushed it slightly toward you.

You raised an eyebrow as you took the first bite. It was different.

Then, without really thinking about it, you scooped a forkful and held it across the table.

“Here.”

He looked at the fork, then back up at your smiling face. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you feeding me?”

“Yes.” you grinned.

“You’ve known me less than twenty four hours.” He smirked.

“You’ve already seen me naked. Eat the tiramisu.”

He leaned forward and took the bite; you enjoyed watching him, especially when he knew you liked to watch him. Drawing it out by licking the cream off his lip whilst making eye contact. Curse him, you swore.

The moment lingered just long enough to feel almost strangely domestic; You took another bite, then held one up again.

“Open.” You teased; fork steady in your hand.

He shook his head with a smile; but accepted it anyway. 

That was the exact moment the first camera flash exploded through the window.

Bright, sudden, blinding.

You froze mid-laugh – Another flash followed instantly.

Baelor turned toward the glass; a scowl on his face.

Outside on the pavement two photographers had appeared with cameras already raised.

Another flash lit the room.

And there you were – feeding baelor fucking targaryen.

Exactly the sort of photograph tabloids lived for.

“Mr. Targaryen!”

“Who is she?”

“Is this your new girlfriend?”

More flashes burst against the glass.

Baelor stood immediately; shaking the table - the wine falling over at the sudden movement.

“Damn it.”

You glared at the window.

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

He moved around the table quickly, taking your hand.

“We’re leaving.”

“But I didn’t finish the tiramisu.”

“We are leaving.”

The staff were already moving to guide you toward a side exit as the cameras outside continued firing.

By the time you reached the waiting car the driver had the door open; Baelor ushered you inside before sliding in beside you. The car pulled away almost immediately – For a few seconds neither of you spoke; the driver cautiously pressed a button - the privacy window separating him from the tension of you two.

Baelor ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear across his face – you felt bad for him.

“I am so sorry.” You looked at him. “Those photos-”

“Baelor.”

He stopped.

You sighed and leaned your head back against the seat.

“I do not care that they caught us together. I promise. I care that they caught me in a long sleeve and jeans.”

He blinked.

“No necklace. None of my good rings. Not even my best earrings.”

There was a long pause; you hoped he’d laugh. Then he did; Baelor laughed - a hearty one that made your damn heart clench at the sound.

“You’re upset about the outfit.”

“Obviously, people are gonna think you’re dating a tramp..”

“You are no tramp, however they may print those everywhere.”

“And now they’ll think this is how I dress all the time.” You groaned; rubbing your hand across your face.

He leaned back slightly in his seat, one arm resting along the door, his other hand loosely folded in his lap, though his attention remained entirely on you.

You, on the other hand, had become distracted.

Your hand played with his rings - with his sleeve, rubbed his arm; practically groped his unseemly large biceps; Baelor was entirely aware; he glanced down at your hand briefly, then back at your face, and tried very hard not to smile. The effort failed after a moment.

“You’re very affectionate tonight,” he said quietly. “I was last night too, and If I remember correctly – as were you..” You smile swiftly.

A second later you leaned in, pressing a quick, almost careless kiss against the corner of his jaw.

Baelor exhaled softly through his nose and turned his head slightly toward you, studying your expression as though trying to determine what exactly had come over you tonight.

You seemed perfectly content. By the time the car slowed outside the apartment building your grip had tightened just enough that when Baelor shifted forward to open the door you were pulled with him slightly.

He glanced down again.

“You’re aware you’ve attached yourself to me, darling.” Your head spun at the usage of a domestic petname. Gods. Any other man could not have gotten you like this within twenty-four hours of meeting him. It was almost dangerous.

You looked at your hand as though noticing it for the first time; then you shrugged.

“I don’t see the problem, do you?.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.The driver had already stepped out to open the door.

Cool night air drifted into the car as Baelor stepped onto the pavement first, then turned and offered you his hand. You accepted it without hesitation, letting him guide you out after him.

The moment your feet touched the ground his other hand settled automatically at your waist, 

You crossed the pavement holding his hand, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his with each step. The building’s entrance was quiet at this hour, the lobby nearly empty except for the distant hum of lights and the quiet ticking of the front desk clock.

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. Inside the enclosed space the quiet deepened further.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply stood beside him, one hand still gripping his bicep whilst the elevator began its slow ascent. Baelor watched the numbers above the door change one by one, though he could feel the warmth of your shoulder against his arm and the heat of your hand through his clothes.

If he wanted you to move he did nothing to show it; If anything, he shifted slightly closer.

The elevator stopped with another soft sound – the hallway outside was dim and empty.

Baelor unlocked the apartment door, pushing it open with one hand while the other remained at your back as he guided you inside.

The moment the door shut behind you something switched within you. Baelor had barely turned the lock before your hand pulled lightly on his jacket, drawing him toward you.

His hands moved to your waist almost immediately, pulling you the rest of the way in as your mouths met halfway between you.

The kiss landed with none of the hesitation that had existed the night before. It was familiar now, warm and eager, your fingers sliding under his shirt; placing them on his waist as he kissed you back. But you didn't stop there - a hand dipped lower, boldly massaging the growing bulge of his cock through his pants, squeezing firmly as you pressed your body against his.

Baelor groaned softly into your mouth, his own touch turning more insistent. One hand slid down from your waist, gripping your ass and pulling you tighter against him, kneading the flesh there with a respectful firmness that made your pulse race.

He walked you backward without quite meaning to; step by step.

Your hands moved from his jacket to the back of his neck, holding him there as the kiss deepened, your palm moving up to grab his shirt - or his bicep; it needn’t matter aslong as you had your hands on him somehow.

You were laughing softly against his mouth when the back of your foot caught the edge of the living room rug. You nearly lost your balance anyway, catching yourself by grabbing his shoulders.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. The laugh that escaped you then was quieter, breathless. Baelor kissed you again before you could say anything else – slower this time.

His hands tightening slightly at your waist as the two of you drifted further into the living room, the city lights spilling faintly through the windows behind you. Then, with a gentle but deliberate motion, he slipped one hand up under the hem of your shirt, his fingers tracing up your side and under your bra until they found your breast. He cupped it softly at first, thumb brushing over your nipple before pinching it lightly, tweaking with just enough pressure to send a spark through you.

A surprised gasp escaped your lips, muffled against his as your body arched into his touch; That sound seemed to urge him on - his tongue slipped past your lips, exploring your mouth with a deeper, more insistent rhythm, tasting and teasing as the kiss grew hungrier.

Another kiss followed.

And another.