In the dim, amber light, the sharp, noble lines of his face soften into something almost unrecognizable. His dark hair is slightly mussed, a few strands sticking out at odd angles that makes him look less like the formidable Crown Prince and more like the young man she met long ago. Before the weight of the Seven Kingdoms had settled permanently onto his shoulders.

He is still wearing his suit, sans the jacket and tie, which have been tossed unceremoniously over the arm of the chair. His vest and the top buttons of his dress shirt are undone, revealing the strong line of his throat. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, exposing the corded muscles of his forearms, hinting at a hidden strength usually concealed behind perfectly tailored suits. A stack of papers lies forgotten on his lap, one hand still gripping the edge loosely, as if he'd been reading until sleep finally claimed him.

She feels her chest tighten with a soft, warm ache, one that has nothing to do with her illness and everything to do with the sight of the Crown Prince sleeping in an uncomfortable chair he must have dragged from the study across the hall.

She continues to watch him, the steady rise and fall of his chest bringing her a sense of grounding comfort. She does not know how long she stays that way, suspended in the quiet amber glow, just watching him breathe, until the silence is broken by a soft, involuntary cough.

Baelor's eyes snap open. There is no slow transition from sleep to wakefulness. He is awake and alert in an instant, his gaze locking onto hers.

"You're awake," he says, his voice thick and gravelly from sleep.

Before she can answer, he sits up, setting the papers aside and leans forward, pressing the back of his fingers to her forehead. His skin shockingly cool against hers.

"The fever is gone," he murmurs, the tension in his shoulders visibly melting away. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit," she rasps and winces at the sound of her voice. Like a middle-school boy undergoing a rough transition to puberty.

Baelor huffs a breath, shaking his head in disbelief, more out of wry amusement than surprise, as if he shouldn't have expected anything less than blunt honesty from her.

"I see your candor is still quite intact, even if your voice is not," he says dryly, but a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

He doesn't pull his hand away immediately, his fingers lingering, she thinks, a touch longer than necessary before pulling away with a none-to gentle flick to her forehead.

"Ow," she croaks, raising a hand to rub at the sore spot while sending him a glare. "What the hell."

Baelor ignores her and stands with an effortless grace, as if he hasn't just spent hours slumped in a cramped armchair. He moves toward the dressing table where a carafe of water sits waiting and she hears a soft clink of glass on glass as he pours a drink.

She tries to push herself up and nearly curses at how clumsy and weak her movements are. But Baelor is already there, his arm sliding behind her back before she can protest and hoists her up with an ease that makes her envious and frustrated at the same time.

The water is cool, clear and a balm against her parched throat. She drinks greedily, her hands instinctively reaching up to hold the glass, her fingers brushing against his.

Baelor doesn't let go, his grip firm and steady, pulling it back slightly. "Easy," he cautions.

Lyarra lets out a breathy, frustrated huff, but does as she's told, taking slower, more deliberate swallows.

"You've only just woken. We don't want you choking on a glass of water, unless you'd like to spend the next ten minutes coughing your lungs back up," he says patiently.

Lyarra gives him a scathing look over the rim of the glass that promises future retribution. Baelor, for his part, simply meets her gaze.

When she's finally had her fill, she lets go of the glass and releases a relieved sigh. Baelor doesn't pull away immediately. He sets the glass down on the nightstand and without prompt, begins stacking pillows behind her until she is propped up comfortably.

"How is that? Better?" he asks.

She sinks back into the makeshift throne of pillows, the soft fortress molding to her frame until a low groan escapes her, the tension draining from her muscles.

"Yes," she answers, her voice still thin and raspy but mercifully no longer cracking. "You're surprisingly good at this. Did you miss your calling as Maester Yormwell's apprentice?"

Baelor breaths a dry, quiet laugh. "Gods forbid."

He doesn't return to the chair, but instead, settles on the edge of the bed, facing her. "I doubt the Maester would have much patience for a student who questions his every instruction," he adds conversationally. "I have never been particularly good at following orders without understanding the 'why' behind them."

That earns him a faint, mirrored huff from her that sounds more like an agreement than a laugh. "An understatement if I ever heard one," Lyarra murmurs.

Baelor rolls his eyes, mouth twitching into a wry, fleeting smile. Then, after a brief pause, there is a sudden shift, the humor vanishes and his features tighten into something sharper. When he speaks again, his tone drops into a quieter, more somber register.

"And I've learned," his gaze bore into hers with a piercing intensity, heavy with silent reprimand, "that I do not quite have the patience for those too stubborn to admit they are unwell."

Lyarra feels the weight of his gaze and words settle over her, pinning her in place. A cold prickle of unease slithers down her spine. The silence stretches between them, suddenly thick and stifling. She hopes and waits for a flash of that familiar, crooked smile to tell her it was just a jest or a sharp, sarcastic quip to break the tension.

But neither comes.

"Then you must find yourself quite a difficult patient to manage," she quips, her voice carrying a playful lilt that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It is a deflection, and they both know it. A clumsy, desperate attempt, at that, to stall against the conversation she has no desire to have, but knows is coming.

Baelor does not take the bait. His face shifts into an unreadable mask—one she's seen a thousand times before. She's seen it in his office, across conference tables, in front of squabbling ministers and bumbling delegates. It is the look of a man who is weighing a thousand variables at once, calculating the cost of every word and the consequences of every silence.

But here, in the quiet dimness of her room, it feels different. More personal. In a way that makes the room feel smaller, the air thicker and the silence louder. The impenetrable mask he wears, no longer like a shield meant to distance himself from the world, but like a dam holding back a flood.

Guilt pricks at her, sharp and unwelcome, nagging at her conscience like persistent, goading fingers. She tells herself to just apologize, but her mind is still muddled from the fever, and the fatigue has chipped away her usual cool. What is she apologizing for anyway?

"Stop," she whispers, the word barely audible.

Baelor doesn't move. He doesn't even blink, but there is a brief flicker of confusion breaking through the mask. "Stop what?"

"Stop staring at me like that," she rasps, her eyes dropping to her lap to escape his gaze.

"Like what?" he insists.

She closes her eyes. Her grip on the duvet tightens until her knuckles turns white. Irritation beginning to creep at the edge of her consciousness. "It's unsettling."

His response comes instantly. Quiet, curious, and demanding.

"Is it? Why?"

Then Lyarra feels her own temper flare, hot and sudden. Perhaps it is the exhaustion, the lingering fever, or both at once, leaving her bare and more vulnerable than she has ever been. Her usual composure missing and backed against a corner, she herself does not fully understand, she retreats into the only thing she has left. Her anger.

"Does it really matter?" she snaps, her eyes snapping open to meet his head-on. "Because you shouldn't be here. You're not even supposed to be here."

Something flashes behind his eyes, but Baelor remains perfectly still, watching her with a calm that only serves to fuels her frustration.

"And where, exactly," he asks, his voice dropping even lower, "am I supposed to be?"

She stares at him incredulously, stunned by the sheer absurdity of the question. Especially coming from someone like him. It was a joke, surely.

"Oh, I haven't the slightest clue," she begins, voice dripping with sarcasm despite its thinness. "Perhaps that towering crimson fortress over there, where your office is? You know, the place where dozens of matters require your attention and where your presence is actually needed. Or maybe, the council chambers? Where, I'm certain, half the ministers have already taken advantage of your absence to advance their own agendas. Where else in the Seven Kingdoms do you think, Baelor?!"

"Are you finished?"

"No!" She wants to say yes but the words are already tumbling out, and whatever semblance of control she has left is gone. "No, I'm not finished! You shouldn't be here, Baelor. You're supposed to be out there! Where it matters! Where the realm needs its Prince to be a Prince, and not…not whatever the hell this is!" She gestures wildly at the room, her hand shaking slightly.

"You are more than just a Prince. You're the Hand of the King, the second most powerful man in Westeros! The one who keeps the wheels of this entire gods-forsaken kingdom turning! You belong to the realm. But instead—" her voice finally cracks, the sound splintering into something painful and raw, "instead, you're here. Wasting your time trying to play nursemaid when you could be doing something—anything—more important. I'm fine, Baelor. I can take care of myself. I've been taking care of myself since the day I left for Essos."

She's breathing hard now, her chest heaving with the force of her outburst. It is unfair of her to try to lecture him on his duties and obligations. Because she knows better than anyone that Baelor is the embodiment of duty itself. He does not need a reminder—he has lived it and breathed it every day of his life. To lecture him on it is like lecturing the sun on how to shine or the wall how to stand firm. It is his very nature, the very foundation of his being, and to remind him of it is like throwing an insult to his face.

She is no longer even sure why she is angry. In fact, she is not even sure why she was angry at all. He has every right to worry. But for him to be here, asleep in a cramped chair for gods know how long, caring for her as if its the most natural thing in the world terrifies her.

Maybe it was not anger after all, but a hidden, deep-seated fear. Fear of what his presence could mean. Because here is the Heir to the Throne, known for his unwavering devotion to duty, cast duty aside to be at her side. But, perhaps most of all, is the fear that deep within her traitorous heart, she wants him to stay.

The silence is deafening.

Baelor remains agonizingly still. He just sits there, his mismatched eyes focused on hers, but the mask is gone. In its place is something Lyarra finds far more dangerous. It pulls at her, making her feel things she's not yet ready to put into words.

"Finished?" he asks again, quieter now.

Lyarra doesn't answer. She is spent, and she doubts her voice would hold even if she tried. Instead, she simply looks at him, her eyes stinging with a mixture of frustration and fatigue.

Baelor releases a slow, heavy breath before leaning in. His presence suddenly fills the small space between them, overwhelming and inescapable. Before she can react or even think to pull away, he reaches out again and gives her forehead another flick. One that is decidedly even less gentle than the first.

"Ow!" she yelps, the sound coming out as a surprised squeak. Her hand flies to her forehead, eyes watering as she stares at him in genuine shock. "What the fuck, Baelor? What is wrong with you?"

"You were speaking nonsense."

He says it so matter-of-factly that for a second, Lyarra can only gape at him. Has he lost his mind?

"Nonsense?" she repeats after a moment, her voice climbing with indignation. "I was speaking perfe—"

The press of a finger to her lips silences her immediately. The touch is firm and gentle, and so entirely unexpected that her all her coherent thoughts simply scatters, leaving her momentarily speechless.

"I thought you were finished," he says calmly. "Or should I flick you again?"

Lyarra swallows and manages something that must have resembled a small nod. Her mind still completely blank and distracted from the warmth of his fingers on her lips.

Baelor drops his finger to capture her hand in his, his thumb pressing against the center of her palm, sending a jolt through her system.

"I want you to listen carefully," he begins, moving closer until she can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "You are right. I am a Prince. I am the Heir. I am the Hand. And I have duties and responsibilities to the realm and its people. I know this. I have known it every day of my life, and I have carried the weight of those expectations for as long as I can remember. It is a burden I never asked for, but it is one I have borne without complaint, because I do not have the luxury of that choice."

His grip on her hands tightens, his gaze falling to their joined hands. A weary, almost pained smile on his lips. "I have spent so long choosing what is best for the realm," he murmurs, "that I seem to have forgotten what it's like to choose for myself."

He lifts his head, his mismatched eyes capturing hers once again—sincere, unwavering, and entirely too honest, she finds herself unable to look away.

"But right now? I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Because I choose to be here," he says with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

Lyarra's breath hitches. It is exactly as she fears. Yet, hearing him say it aloud, instead of growing, the fear recedes, replaced by something else entirely. And for a moment, the only sound she can hear is the uneven thrumming of her own pulse.

"The realm can survive a day without me," he adds, a faint, tired smile appearing. "I'd like to believe I didn't spend all these years working to ensure it does not collapse the moment I step away. My secretary, however…" a mischievous glint enters his eyes, his smile turns teasing, "requires a constant reminder that she is merely mortal, despite her best efforts to the contrary."

Lyarra blinks at the sudden shift. The air in the room, which felt suffocatingly heavy only seconds ago, suddenly feels lighter. But her heart continues its frantic dance, refusing to slow down.

"I…I am perfectly aware of my limitations." She winces at how pathetic that comes out.

"Clearly," he retorts, voice as dry as the deserts of Dorne. Lyarra feels a treacherous heat creep up her neck, "You are being overly dramatic. I'm fine, Baelor."

"No, you're not," he huffs, the sound half-amused, half-exasperated. "Your body has finally decided to make the decision for you because its owner is far too stubborn to realize she also needs rest."

"Now you are being deliberately obtuse."

Baelor raises both brows. "And you are being impossible."

Lyarra glares at him, eyes flashing with stubborn defiance, while Baelor answers her with a look of his own—patient, amused and equally as stubborn as hers.

A soft whine, followed by the gentle pitter-patter of paws against the floorboards, breaks the silent standoff. A large, silver-blue shadow slips through the door—a Northern wolf-dog, said to be a descendant of direwolves, not quite as large but still too large to be mistaken for a common dog.

"Shadow," Lyarra calls, her free hand instinctively extending towards the beast.

Shadow does not hesitate and hops onto the bed with a grace that belies his size, releasing a huff that sounds remarkably like a sigh of relief as he rests his head on Lyarra's lap. He nudges on the intertwined hands with a cold, wet nose, forcing Baelor to release his hold.

Lyarra finds herself unable to suppress a small laugh as she sinks her fingers into the thick fur, Shadow's weight a familiar pressure against her legs. Shadow lets out another low contented rumble, giving Baelor a sidelong, almost judging look before settling more firmly on Lyarra's lap as if staking a claim.

Baelor lets out a short, surprised laugh, hand flexing reflexively before leaning back on it as he gives the wolf-dog a look of mock betrayal. "I see how it is."

Shadow huffs again, a soft, dismissive sound, before closing his eyes.

"Traitor," Baelor mutters.

"It seems you have been thoroughly dismissed, your Grace," Lyarra says, a genuine, teasing smile pulling at her lips. It is, after all, not everyday you see a Prince of the realm being so casually dismissed by an overgrown pup.

"It seems I have," he concedes with a smile, head tilting carelessly as he watches the two of them with a fond expression that makes her heart flutter. "Though, I suppose, I can hardly blame him. He's worried for his master, after all."

"I didn't mean to worry him," she whispers, her expression softening as she absentmindedly strokes the long, thick fur behind Shadow's ears. "Or anyone else."

"And yet," he says evenly, his gaze locking onto hers again, "you did."

He does not say it as an accusation, or with cruelty, but simply because it is the truth.

Lyarra's hand stills in Shadow's fur. She feels the familiar stirrings of guilt again, but this time, it is tempered by the acknowledgement of the truth she no longer pushes aside.

"I know," she admits, her voice barely more than a whisper, her fingers resuming their gentle caress through Shadow's fur. "I'm sorry. I'm…not used to having people worry about me. It's always been easier to just handle things on my own."

"I cannot say I do not understand," Baelor sighs resignedly. "I have been told—on several occasions—that I share that particular flaw."

Lyarra gives him a look. "Only several?"

Baelor's laugh is soft and genuine. "I suppose that makes us a rather poorly matched pair of workaholics. Or perhaps, precisely matched."

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the tension from moments ago completely forgotten, replaced by a quiet, unspoken understanding. Shadow's soft rhythmic snores the only sound in the room.

Baelor shifts slightly as he reaches out, a hand hovering over the pup's back for a second before he lets it rest there, his fingers brushing against hers. His eyes becoming distant, fixed on where his hands rests against the silver-blue fur.

"When Duncan came to me. When I saw you…I was terrified," he admits quietly.

The confession settles deep within her that leaves her momentarily breathless. In all the years she had known him, Baelor had always been a pillar of unshakeable composure. She has seen him weary, she has seen him frustrated, she has seen him mourn but she has never heard him admit to being truly afraid.

"Baelor," she breathes, his name catching in her throat.

He doesn't look up, his eyes remain fixed on Shadow, still distant, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Don't…don't say it is simply a cold or just exhaustion. It does not matter." His voice is low and absent of its usual control, instead there is an edge of vulnerability in it that she has not heard from him before.

​"I realized that for all the power I supposedly wield, I had none over this." His lips curved slightly, dry and humorless. "I could only sit there and wait, and listen, and—" his voice falters, and for a brief moment, his expression shifts as if some unknown truths has made itself known.

Seeing him like this, stripped of the carefully maintained mask of the Crown Prince or the King's Hand, sends a strange, sharp ache through her chest. Slowly, her hand moves through Shadow's fur to cover his. At the first brush of skin, his fingers flinch, hesitating, before he turns his palm up to catch hers.

"Baelor," she calls again, stronger this time.

He finally looks up. The vulnerability she heard in his voice written plainly on his face. And his eyes. His eyes bore into hers with an honesty that is almost too much to bear. "Do not scare me like that again." His grip tightens, his fingers locking around hers as if reassuring himself that she is still there.

That nearly breaks her.

"I'll try," she offers. Her lips curve into a small teasing smile as she continues, "But you know me. I can't promise I won't be difficult."

Baelor lets out a breath that is half-sigh, half-laugh. "That's all I ask."

Between them, Shadow releases a loud, huffing snore, shifting his weight more firmly onto Lyarra's lap, without a care and entirely unaware of the two humans in the room.

Lyarra stares at the pup with a look of disbelief and fond exasperation, while Baelor puffs an air of amusement and releases her hand to give the wolf-dog a playful scratch behind the ears before standing.

"You are leaving?" Lyarra nearly curses at the sound of disappointment in her voice.

He turns back to her with a pointed look, lips quirked. "You are not getting rid of me that easily."

She hates how much relief floods through her at those words.

"I was given instructions by your matron and I intend to follow them."

Lyarra blinks, then her eyes widen in horror. Oh. "Oh no." She'd forgotten about Mrs. Mordane. The elderly matron must have been beside herself when she found her this morning. She will no doubt be receiving a thorough scolding from the older woman once she is well enough.

"Oh no, indeed. I will have you know," Baelor gives her a severe look, but the amusement dancing in his eyes betrays him. "She gave me a stern dressing-down for allowing you to work yourself into such a state. I believe she used the phrase 'appalling lack of regard' and 'utterly irresponsible for a man of your position'. I haven't been spoken to in such a manner since I was a boy."

"Oh gods," Lyarra groans, burying her face into Shadow's dense coat to muffle the sound of her embarrassment. "Please tell me you're joking. Please tell me she didn't just lecture the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

Shadow cracks one eye open and offers a sympathetic huff of breath against her neck as if sensing his owner's distress.

"She did." She can hear the grin in his voice. "Quite thoroughly too. She has a way of making a grown man feel like a boy of six, standing in the kitchen with a fistful of stolen sweets. She reminded me of my mother."

A sound that can only be described as a strangled whimper of pure shame escapes her lips. Because this is no ordinary grown man, this is the Hand of the King, second only to the King himself. The mental image of the most formidable statesman in Westeros being scolded by a diminutive, elderly lady from the North with a penchant for strong tea and stronger opinions is enough to make Lyarra wish the floor would simply swallow her whole.

"I am absolutely mortified," she mumbles into the fur. "I am never leaving this room again. I shall live here now, in permanent exile. You will receive my letter of resignation tomorrow."

"Nonsense. Now who is being overly dramatic?"

Lyarra peeks out one narrowed eye at him. "You are enjoying this far too much for someone who was just told off by someone nearly half his size."

"I am." Baelor doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. In fact, he looks remarkably untroubled and entirely too pleased. "Besides, despite the initial lecture, we found ourselves of similar mind regarding your tendency to overexert yourself."

Lyarra lets out a long, suffering sigh, hiding her face fully once again against Shadow's coat. And as if adding insult to her already bruised dignity, the wolf-dog lets out a chuffing sound that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Even Shadow agrees."

She groans, the sound muffled by fur. "Traitors, all of you."

"I prefer the term collaborators."

She hears him move around the room, the gentle scuff of his shoes against the floor becoming more distant. Lyarra peels her face away from the safety of Shadow's neck to find Baelor by the door, one hand resting on the heavy oak.

She feels a sudden, irrational spike of panic, and calls before she can stop herself. "Where are you going?"

Baelor turns his head slightly, the amber light from the hall bathing him in a warm, gilded glow making him look ethereal.

"Only to the kitchen," he says, lips curving into a reassuring smile. "Mrs. Mordane made it quite clear that you need to eat something when you wake. I shall fetch the broth she prepared. I will return shortly. And then you will eat. And you will take your medicine. And then you will rest."

"Tyrant." she mumbles.

He snorts. "One has to be, when dealing with a subject as stubborn as you."

Lyarra gives him a flat stare and removes one hand from Shadow's coat to give him an obscene gesture. Normally. Normally, she wouldn't dare. To Maekar, perhaps. But the day has already left her worn. And this man, this infuriating man in front of her has already managed to send her emotions into a spiral, bouncing from one end of the spectrum to the other in one conversation.

Baelor clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I forgot how vulgar you can be. No wonder you get along so well with Maekar."

"It's why you like keeping me around," she smiles sweetly and regrets it instantly the next minute.

Because the stare Baelor gives her is overflowing with an intensity that makes Lyarra want to crawl beneath the covers and stay there until her pulse stops its frantic pounding. And after what seems like an eternity, but in reality is only a few seconds, he finally looks away with a huff of breath and a shake of his head. "Among other reasons," he says, then leaves.

Lyarra gaze lingers for a beat on the closed door, before sinking back into the pillows, releasing a long shaky exhale.

Among other reasons.

She turns the phrase over in her mind, trying to find any hidden, deeper meaning within it. Baelor is not a man to wastes words. Every sentence he utters is measured, weighted with intent, calculated to achieve the best result possible.

She tries to tell herself that he simply meant her efficiency, her sharp mind, or how well they work together. It had surprised them both how easily they fell into a rhythm that went beyond a partnership and into something more akin to a singular, synchronized force.

But even as she tries to rationalize it, the way he had said it and the way his eyes had lingered on hers suggested something that is far less practical. But rather something far, far more dangerous.

Lyarra looks at the empty armchair he had occupied. The memory of him sitting there is burned at the back of her eyes. She can still see the way his head rested against the back of the chair, the way the sharp lines of his face softened in sleep, and the way he had looked when his eyes fluttered open. She can feel the phantom sensation of his fingers brushing her forehead, and the sting of the flick that felt far more intimate than it should be.

The room feels impossibly quiet now, but it still held the lingering heat of his presence that seems to have woven itself into the very air of the room. Soft, steady, constant. And comforting in ways she doesn't want to admit.

She raises her hand, the one he had held on so firmly, and her fingers curl instinctively, as if trying to catch the ghost of his touch. She remembers the gentle pressure of his thumb against her palm and the way he had idly traced the lines of her hand.

"Among other reasons," she whispers into the silence.

The words hang in the air. Three simple words and yet, far more complex in its intent and meaning than any treaties or decrees she has ever read. Only three simple words and yet, her mind—usually sharp and disciplined, a fortress of logic and pragmatism—feels like a tangled mess that had left her far more confused than the lingering fog of her illness.

Lyarra lets her hand fall to her lips where his finger had pressed. It was a fleeting touch, barely more than a heartbeat, but it had been enough to leave her skin tingling. The mere thought of it sends a new wave of warmth from behind her ribs. A slow, creeping heat that spreads through her limbs up to the tips of her fingers.

It is a dangerous sort of warmth, she thinks. It is not the fiery, all-consuming heat that seeks to burn everything it touches, leaving only ash and ruin in its wake. Instead, it is a slow-burning ember, the kind that settles deep into the marrow and makes a person forget they were ever cold. The kind that keeps a hearth glowing long after the sun has set, promising a comfort that is as terrifying as it is alluring and one that is far more difficult to extinguish. It is the kind of warmth that invites a person to lower their guard, to unlace the armor of duty, and let the wall of frost she had so carefully built over the years simply melt away until there is nothing left to shield the heart from the sun.

Lyarra lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, the sound hitching in her throat. For years, she had survived on the cold, sharp edges of her own independence. She had grown used to the solitude of her own mind, finding a sort of comfort in the fact that no one could reach the parts of her she chose not to reveal. She had preferred the careful distance she had maintained. Just close enough for people to think they have the measure of her but never truly close enough to see the woman behind the wall of her name and station.

For years, she had managed to keep people at a distance, to some extent even to her family. She hides herself behind polite deflection, witty gibes, and professional boundaries. No one had come close enough to scale those walls, except perhaps her brothers. And even then, only when she permits it.

But Baelor. Baelor did not scale her walls. Never even attempted too. He had simply stood and waited. And without even knowing herself, let him walk through her defenses with quiet, devastating confidence as if he had always held the keys.

Lyarra stares at the door, her heart hammering a rhythm that contradicts every cold, logical though she's ever had.

Shadow lets out a soft, low whine, as if sensing her internal turmoil. He shifts his massive weight, nudging his wet nose against her jaw as if to bring her back to the present.

"Oh, Shadow," she whispers, her fingers trembling slightly as she buries them back into the silver-blue fur. "It’s just the fever. It has to be."

But even as the words leave her lips, they feel like a lie. She knows it is. But it is a lie she will cling to because to do otherwise is to admit a truth she is not yet ready to face.

Lyarra closes her eyes, drawing a long, shuddering breath. She tries to fortify the crumbling remains of her resolve, tries to conjure the image of the Wall—vast, and unyielding but all she can see is the image of him in that gods-forsaken chair with his dark hair messy, looking utterly exhausted yet entirely present and so damn beautiful…

She freezes.

Beautiful.

She covers her face with her hands, horrified at the sudden, unbidden thought. No, no, no. Baelor is brilliant. He is capable. He is kind. He is infuriating. And yes, she admits he is a handsome man. Any woman with working eyes could see that. He is arguably one, if not, the most desired bachelor in Westeros. It is simply an objective fact. There is no shame admitting to that.

But beautiful? Beautiful is different. Beautiful is personal. Beautiful is an admission of a deeper, more dangerous kind of appreciation. One she has no business having. One she has no business even entertaining.

She pulls her hands away, her face flushed that certainly has nothing to do with her fever. She looks at the empty chair again, and for a terrifying second, she wants him back in it. To hear his low, gravelly voice thick with sleep and relief. To look at his mismatched eyes, soft, gentle and honest. One the color of honeyed amber that glows with a warmth she had once thought reserved for the sun over the Summer Sea, and that deep, piercing cool indigo that seems to see right through her.

"Stop it," she hisses to herself.

But her mind is a traitor. As she presses her palms against her eyes, the image remains. Stubborn and vivid. Lyarra releases a silent scream, shaking her head as if to physically dislodge the memory of him. It fails spectacularly.

Beside her, Shadow gives a long, weary whine, ears twitching as he looks at her with judgment in his golden eyes, clearly unimpressed at his mistress' descent into what could only be described as nothing short of an emotional meltdown.

"Hush you," she mutters, though she reaches down to scratch behind his ears. "You're no help, at all."

Shadow huffs, a warm, wet puff of air against her wrist as if to say she is being ridiculous before deliberately turning his head away with a finality that suggests he's done with her dramatics for the evening.

Lyarra lets out a short, resigned but genuine laugh. Leave it to a wolf-dog to provide the only shred of sanity left in the room.

"Fine," she whispers. "I guess you're right. I'm being ridiculous."

Shadow snorts that sounds remarkably like a confirmation.

Lyarra rolls her eyes and stares at the ceiling, trying to regain whatever composure she has left. She forces herself to think of the Braavosi trade deal, of the Small Council meetings, of the mountain of correspondence waiting at her desk. She tries once more to hide behind the cold, unyielding comfort of her duties and wrap herself in the familiar, safe mantle of professionalism.

Then, she hears the distant, muffled sound of footsteps returning down the corridor and her pulse, which had just began to settle, gives a traitorous little skip. Every attempt to raise her crumbling walls fail before the first brick can even be laid.

Among other reasons.

Her mind echoes again. The three words returning like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised, forcing her to confront the reality that 'other reasons' might not be the mystery she wants it to be, but a truth she has been avoiding all this time. But she's not yet ready to know what those reasons are, not yet ready to name what is happening between them.

Yet, as the door creaks open and the soft, warm light of the hallway spills across the floor, Lyarra thinks that maybe for tonight, only for tonight, she doesn't have to resist. Let 'other reasons' continue to be a ghost in the corners of the room. Let it remain unnamed and untouched tonight, and allow herself to simply feel and be lured by his warmth that makes the world less cold.

*

AN:

I've taken some inspiration of how modern monarchy works from some of the European royal families despite the Targaryens still ruling as an absolute hereditary monarchy or at least a mixed one in this modern Westeros au.

Lyarra is Baelor's Private Secretary after replacing her brother, while Duncan function as his equerry or something like an aide-de-camp.

She tries to swallow and feels instant regret when her throat burns as if she's just swallowed shards of hot glass. Her nose is completely blocked, forcing her to breathe through her mouth, which only further parches her throat like a piece of dry parchment. The dull, rhythmic pounding behind her eyes begins to form into a full-blown aching throb that feels like her head is about to split open.

The sound of the alarm is like a hammer beating against the inside of her skull, each chime like a nail being driven deeper into her temples.

Slowly and painfully, she reaches out from under the duvet and fumbles blindly for her phone until the noise finally cuts off, plunging the room into an absolute silence that should have given her relief.

It does not.

Instead, the quiet feels heavy and loud, amplifying her misery a thousandfold, and only growing more unbearable with every passing second.

When she tries to sit up, her muscles ache in protest, and the slight movement sends a wave of vertigo rolling through her. The room seems to tilt at an unnatural angle, and her vision blurs, darkening at the edges until she's forced to squeeze her eyes shut.

She groans and falls back into the pillows, burrowing herself into the blanket as a chill runs through her spine. She tries to take a deep breath to steady herself, but the cool air tickles the back of her throat, triggering a dry, hacking cough.

When the fit finally subsides, she just lies there, her body rebelling even at the thought of moving. The shivering intensifies and she pulls the duvet tighter, trying to create a cocoon of warmth but failing miserably.

Pale morning light begins to creep through the gaps in the curtains as she stares blankly at the ceiling.

She needs to get up.

She needs to prepare for work.

She can't afford to be sick. Not today.

There is so much to do: briefings before the Small Council convenes in the morning, a lunch meeting with the Braavosi delegates to finalize a trade deal, a visit to Hayford Memorial to oversee and support the donation of a new medical wing, a pile of correspondence that won't sort itself, and a mountain of other things she needs to do.

Baelor is expecting her.

Baelor needs her.

Baelor chose her and trusted her to do her job with unwavering precision, and the thought of failing him makes her already feverish skin crawl.

With grim determination, she pushes herself up against the mattress once more. Ignoring her protesting muscles, she slowly swings her legs over the side of the bed. The moment her feet touch the cold hardwood floor, another shiver races up her spine, and the room suddenly spins into a sickening roll that threatens to send her crashing face-first to the floor. She lurches backward out of instinct and collapses back onto the mattress, her heart hammering against her chest.

She lies there unmoving, staring once again at the ceiling while trying to suck in air through her nose that remains stubbornly and hopelessly blocked, with the reluctant acceptance that she was truly and utterly…

Fuck.

…sick.

The realization tastes as bitter as the bile rising in the back of her throat. She's spent five years in Essos—she's survived the humid, sweltering heat of Pentos, the dusty, treacherous winds of Volantis and the biting, salt-crusted air of Braavos—all without so much as a sniffle. Then the moment she returns to Westeros, just a few months in the capital, and she is already taken down by a common cold. What a cruel joke.

As if adding insult to injury, the pale light, now a bright glare piercing through the curtains, hits her right in the eyes, sharp and unforgiving. She lets out a muffled groan and pulls the duvet over her head.

Outside, the city is beginning to stir, the distant hum of morning traffic filtering through the window, marking the start of another day. The hum of the capital usually brings her a weird sense of comfort. But King's Landing is a cruel mistress. It does not care if you are bleeding, grieving or dying. And it certainly does not care if you're sick.

"Damn it," she rasps, her voice a pathetic, unrecognizable sound.

Baelor will have to do without her today. She might be stubborn but she isn't delusional. As much as her pride rebels at the thought, she knows she'll only be a liability in this state. It's humiliating enough she's taken out by a common cold, it would be far more worse if she collapses in the middle of a trade meeting.

With a sigh that comes out more like a wheeze, she reaches for her phone again. She needs to call Dunk. He'll have to hold down the fort for now. While he's young and lacks the experience in handling the intricate politics of the realm, he's capable enough to assist Baelor with the more straightforward demands. But most importantly, he is fiercely loyal to a fault and persistent. If there's anyone she trusts more to remind Baelor he's missed lunch again, it's Dunk.

Her finger hovers over his contact.

She hates this feeling.

This vulnerability. This helplessness.

But her body has finally decided it had enough.

She stares at her phone.

There's really no point delaying the inevitable. She might as well just get this over with.

She taps the call icon and presses the phone to her ear.

~

Lyarra doesn't remember much after the call with Dunk.

She has a vague, hazy recollection of his slightly panicked voice when she mumbles her goodbye, then the world simply dissolves into a haze and she drifts into a restless, fevered sleep.

Her dreams are a disjointed mess of the past and present. One moment she is back in the cold but familiar halls of Winterfell, and the next she is standing in the sweltering heat of Volantis.

Voices drift through her consciousness. A man and a woman speaking in hushed tones, too low for her to catch the words. They sounded…worried? For her? The voices fade and she is drifting alone again.

Then she feels an arm slide around her shoulders, firm and steady, hoisting her up. A glass is pressed to her lips.

"Drink," a voice whispers. "Just a few sips."

The drink is bitter, and she grimaces, trying to turn her head away, but the hand at the nape of her neck is insistent, anchoring her.

"I know," the voice murmurs again, closer this time. "It's foul, but it will break the fever. Come now, Lyarra. Be as stubborn with the medicine as you are with me."

That touch of dry humor is familiar. Had she been awake, she would have offered a sharp retort about his own stubbornness, but instead, she forces herself to swallow a few more mouthfuls. The liquid burns through her throat, but the warmth that follows is a welcome relief, spreading through her chest like a slow-burning hearth, lulling her back to sleep.

Before succumbing once more to the darkness, she feels a soft fleeting touch across her cheeks with a gentleness that feels more like a dream.

"Sleep," the voice commands, though it sounds more like a quiet plea.

And she obeys.

This time the sleep is like a deep, cool well, pulling her down into its depths where the darkness is no longer heavy, but soft and weightless. The constant, frantic hum of the city outside falls away into a gentle murmur as if the world itself decided to hold its breath.

As she sinks further into the darkness, she feels the tension in her body bleed away, leaving her lighter than she has felt in years. There are no deadlines here, no trade deals to negotiate, no council meetings to navigate, no weight of expectations.

For the first time since she set foot back in King's Landing, she lets go. The armor she's worn like a second skin finally dissolves. There is no longer the need to hide behind the exhausting mask of perfection. Here, in the quiet sanctuary of her mind, she is simply Lyarra—tired, and oh so, only human.

She lets out a long, shuddering breath and allows the cool well of sleep to claim her completely, knowing that when she wakes, the world will still be there—relentless and unforgiving as ever—but, for now, it could wait, and she lets herself dream of kind, warm eyes: one the color of dark honey like an autumn afternoon, and the other a beautiful blue-purple hue, like the Northern winter sky in sunlight and a deep indigo like summer twilight in the dark.

The colors shift and dance behind her eyes, a kaleidoscope of colors that is filled with a warmth that wraps around her like a soft, woolen cloak warding off the last of the lingering chills.

It had not been enough to change his earlier views on the royal family—a view, heavily influenced by his Peake cousins, whose anti-monarchist sentiments ran deep. Yet, it had planted a seed of doubt. Perhaps the Targaryens were not monsters his more radical kin made them out to be. 

It would be years later when his loyalty, and his life, would take a drastic change. 

Unlike his cousins, he does not belong to nobility. Connected to the high houses only by virtue of marriage—his aunt’s with one of Lord Peake’s sons. However, his family is by no means poor. His father owns one of the largest crabbing industries in Westeros. But he is only the third son. With his eldest brother set to lead and his second brother already entrenched in the business, there was little room for him in the family legacy. Although he could have still opted to be part of the family trade, he found he was too restless and too ambitious to spend his life counting crates in the shadow of his brothers.

And so, fueled by youthful exuberance and perhaps a mix of stubbornness and foolishness, he joined the military. And whether by sheer luck or the strange pull of circumstance, he was assigned to the company of the Crown Prince himself, then a freshly promoted lieutenant. 

It was then that his views truly started to shift. The ‘tyrant’ his cousins had described in jealous and angry tones was nowhere to be found. Rather, here was a prince of the royal blood, the very Heir to the throne, comporting himself among his peers not as their superior, nor as their future King, but as a man who ate the same meager rations, slept in the same mud as the common-born recruits and bled the same red as the rest of them—refusing the comforts his station could have easily afforded him.

Donnel saw a man shouldering a pack that weighed as much as any soldier’s with quiet strength and marching until his boots were ruined without a word of complaint. He saw a man with everything to lose willing to give his life for unknown, insignificant comrades, just as they would now, without hesitation, give their own lives for their Prince. 

Donnel finally found what he hadn’t known he had been searching for. A purpose that quelled the aimlessness of his restlessness, replacing it with an oath. A cause worth his life.  So when the offer for the coveted white cloak came, there was no hesitation.

The decision tore a rift through his family that remains to this day. His cousins had all but severed any contact with him, but not before delivering one final, scathing message. They had called him, and still call him, a traitor to his own blood. But he didn’t care then and he finds he cares even less for their angry, resentful voices now. 

His parents and brothers, who had always remained neutral in Westerosi politics, were confused, surprised by the sudden animosity from their Peake kin. He had tried to explain it as best as he could but he had found it quite impossible to put into words. They could not see what he saw. To them, the crown, the Prince, was just a distant figure, one that had pulled a son and a brother away from his family. They ought to have resented him for it. 

Yet, what happened next was something he should have expected. 

The Prince, though known as exceptionally just and honorable, the very heart of chivalry, is no idealistic fool. Underneath it all is a practical man, willing and capable of making hard decisions for the sake of the realm. Donnel has seen it in the way he takes measure of a situation, making precise, calculating decisions, often setting aside personal sentiment to ensure the greater good.

So it shouldn't have come as a surprise. Really. He should have known better. But what he knows now, he was still learning then. And the Prince has always preferred to work in silence. 

How the Prince knew, Donnel didn't know, but through the years he's come to grasp that the man always makes it his business to know everything about those who surround him. The Prince had leveraged his influence to ensure the crabbing industry of Donnel’s family received the Crown’s direct patronage, effectively shielding them from any economic spite the Peakes might have attempted and, in so doing, elevated the family’s standing to heights they could never have reached on their own. 

He had not known of the Prince’s machinations until much later, when his usually apolitical family had nothing but praise for his connection to the Crown. 

Thoughts, questions raced through his head, spinning and forming possibilities. Of how the Prince had brilliantly and shrewdly bound Donnel and his family to the Crown, making it impossible for them to remain purely neutral, yet he did it in a way that offered them security and prosperity. And in doing so, had silenced the poisonous whispers of the Peakes and effectively neutralized their influence on his family. 

It was a sobering realization. A cynic would say he had bought their loyalty.

With the realization sitting heavy in his gut, Donnel had confronted him for it. The Prince did not look offended. He didn’t even look surprised and merely regarded him with the same calm, steady gaze that had first captured his admiration years ago.

“Do you believe in reciprocating loyalty, Donnel?” the Prince asked softly.

“I do," he continued after a brief pause, not waiting for a reply. "I firmly believe that loyalty should be rewarded in equal measure. If not more. Those who stand by me will find that I offer nothing less than the same unwavering dedication.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a grounded, earnest tone. “Your cousins would have you believe that loyalty is a one-way street. A debt carried by the small to support the Great. But a realm is not built on subservience. It is built on a pact. You gave me your allegiance when I asked nothing in return. Why should it surprise you that I would use the tools at my disposal to protect what you hold dear?”

Donnel opened his mouth to argue. About pride. About the independence of his house. And just the principle of the thing. But the words died in his throat. Instead, “You’re a prince of the blood. Your tools are meant for the security of the realm, not for… for something as small as my peace of mind. I…It's not...People will talk.”

“Let them. People will label it what they wish, even if the truth is dangled right before their eyes,” the Prince answered, a faint, amused, yet entirely sincere smile touching his lips. “I simply call it looking after my own. And I will pay any price necessary, within my power, to ensure that those who guard my life never have to worry about the safety of their own—or for their family.” 

In that moment, the weight in Donnel’s gut shifted. He no longer saw a crown; he saw a man who had proven he was worth the weight of the realm he would one day inherit. And every piece of the radical rhetoric of his youth crumbled, replaced by simple, unshakable devotion.

~

The ‘yes’ he had given the Prince then, is a vow he would give a thousand times again, in this life or the next. And what was once a grace the Prince had afforded his family, Donnel now reciprocates as he stands before his cousin, whose face is lined with the same sharp bitterness it held decades ago.

"Step aside, Duskendale," Gormon Peake's voice is thick with disdain. "That boy dared lay a hand on my son. They seem to think the Academy rules don't apply to those with royal blood."

Donnel answers Peake with a steady gaze, eyes flicking once, twice, taking in the whole scene. Behind Peake, stands his heir, a young boy with eyes full of the same brittle arrogance and hatred as his father, nursing a bloody and likely broken nose. Four other boys huddle near him, each sporting either bruises or split lips, their uniforms torn and messy.

"The rules of the Academy are quite clear, Lord Peake," Donnel says calmly that seem to grate against the elder Peake's nerves. "And that boy is your future King. Or have you forgotten? As your son and his friends seem to have forgotten the consequences of speaking baseless accusations against the Crown."

Gormon's face twists, flushing a deep, ugly purple. "Baseless? They were speaking the truth of this dynasty! If the princes cannot handle the weight of their family's sins, then perhaps they should not be here among sons of true noblemen."

"Be careful what you say next, Peake." Aerion spits, wiping blood from his lips. The sharp venom in his voice sounds wrong coming from one so young and yet not.

Donnel lets out a slow, measured breath, but he stands his ground. He turns his head slightly to look at the young princes behind him.

Valarr is perfectly still, eyes burning with heat, his knuckles raw and beginning to swell, yet he stood with a defiant, quiet dignity that was a perfect mirror of his father. Beside him, Daeron's usually lazy, indifferent air is gone, replaced by a rare fire as he stands protectively in front of his cousin with one hand gripped firmly on Aerion's shoulder, anchoring his brother's volatile temper in place as much as protecting him from the consequence if it is let free.

"Is this what you've truly become, Cousin?" Gormon grounds, the word cousin sounding more like an insult than a familiar turn. "Still playing the loyal hound for the dragons who bought your allegiance?"

Donnel's eye narrow, his expression hardening into stone. He has long since stopped considering the Peake's as kin. The blood between them souring beyond reconciliation when he'd learned of their attempt to ruin their own kin simply because his choice of allegiance didn't mirror their own.

"You speak of 'true noblemen', yet I see five 'noble' sons who couldn't even best three younger boys," he starts, voice a low and dangerous rumble. "You speak of sins, while you stand in a hall granted to you by the very grace of the throne you insult."

He takes a slow, deliberate step forward. "As for my allegiance. It was earned. But I suspect it is a concept that is as foreign to you as the honor you claim to possess."

He stops a hair's breadth before the other man, looming over him, taking more pleasure than he should have when Peake takes an unconscious half-step back. He glances over Peake's shoulder at the five boys, who are now looking anywhere but at him, then to the three princes behind him, who watched the confrontation with icy resolve. Though Aerion's rage looks barely contained.

"These boys are my charges. If you have a grievance with their conduct, you may bring it to their fathers. You can explain to the Crown Prince and Prince Maekar why your heir and his friends were spouting treasonous filth to their sons."

He leans in closer, his shadow swallowing Gormon's face. "I wonder, Cousin. Do you think Prince Baelor will be as forgiving as you hope when he hears you've been feeding your son the same poison that nearly cost your house its head?"

The threat hangs in the air. Donnel knows the Peakes can ill afford a full scrutiny from the Crown given their long history of dissent.

The silence that follows is tense and fragile like thin glass about to shatter.

And it does.

The sound of the heavy oak door opening and closing, followed by rhythmic, measured footsteps, rings out along the halls. He does not need to turn to know who it is. The air itself seems to shift, growing heavier, more focused. And as the steps grow closer, he watches with grim satisfaction as Gormon Peake seems to diminish in stature, his earlier confidence leaking away until he turns deathly pale at the sight of the Crown Prince.

The Prince approaches with that same grace Donnel remembers from the streets of King's Landing, but now it is tempered by the hard authority of a man who had seen and dealt with far greater threats than a bitter lord.

He stops beside Donnel, a perfect image of calm. But like the calm before a storm. Entirely too quiet, too void of emotions to mistake it for what it is. Donnel tries to suppress the sudden urge to shudder. He thinks, perhaps, mercy would have been Prince Maekar coming through those doors like a thunderclap, whose anger was loud and blunt. Predictable.

The Crown Prince's is like deep water. Terrifyingly still. Hidden, dark, deceptive. Just a vast, cold expanse in the surface. Yet, underneath run strong massive currents, a powerful force pulling everything under the abyss. The pressure, crushing and immense, that grows only heavier the deeper you dive.

The Prince does not look at Peake immediately. He does not even acknowledge the five boys cowering in the shadows. Instead, his eyes sweep over his son and nephews. He moves with deliberate slowness, catching Aerion's chin, tilting the boy's face, eyes tracing the blood on his nephew's lip. The gentleness of the gesture an unsettling, chilling contrast to the icy aura radiating from his frame. Aerion, for once, grows quiet.

Next, he turns to Daeron, taking in the protective stance over his younger cousin and brother. The Prince tugs on a skewed collar, straightening it with a steady hand, his thumb brushing a smudge of dirt from the boy's cheek. He gives a slow, single nod of approval.

Finally, his gaze settles on Valarr, who answers with a steady gaze of his own. There is no shame in the boy's eyes, only the mirrored reflection of his father's steadfast resolve. Reaching out, the Prince rests a hand on his son's shoulder, while the other gently traces the angry, darkening bruises blooming on the boy's knuckles.

"Father…" The younger prince starts but falls silent when his father brings a hand up to cradle a cheek with a tenderness that makes Donnel look away.

He feels like an intruder, witnessing a moment of quiet vulnerability that looks entirely out of place. It is a rare glimpse of the man behind the crown. But the moment of quiet intimacy ends as abruptly as it began as the Prince lets his hands fall. The shift so sudden and visceral as the warmth of the father vanishes in an instant, leaving only the crushing weight of the Crown Prince.

"Ser Donnel," the Prince calls, his voice smooth, controlled and entirely devoid of the affection he had shown a few moments before.

Donnel snaps to attention, his back straightening instinctively. "Your Grace."

"Take the princes back to the Keep. See to it that their injuries are seen by Maester Yormwell, and ensure they remain there until I come for them. Lady Lyarra will be waiting for you in the palace grounds."

The Prince doesn't look at him. His eyes are fixed solely on Gormon Peake—cold, bottomless, and unblinking. When he speaks again, his voice drops to that low, rumbling register that makes the hair on the back of Donnel's neck stand. "Lord Peake and I are going to have a long-overdue conversation about certain Lords mistaking arrogance for truths."

Donnel doesn't need to be told twice. "As you command, Your Grace."

He gestures to the three princes, who—thank the Gods—also felt that the air in the room has become unbearably heavy. Suffocating. As if the very air has been sucked out of it.

Valarr moves first with an uncharacteristic stiffness, his eyes fixed forward, while Daeron follows quietly, still keeping a tight grip on his younger brother's arm. Aerion, whose mouth usually runs like an open wound, remains silent and allows himself to be led away without protest.

As they cross the threshold, Donnel gives his fellow Kingsguard who had remained unobstrusively by the door, a single nod. A silent acknowledgement. He sees the coiled tension in Crakehall's massive frame. The other man's gaze remains locked on the Prince, his face blank, but the slight tightening of his jaw tells Donnel all he needs to know. Roland Crakehall is ready to step in when necessary. Donnel doubts he needs to. At least not in a way their service ought to. Crakehall is not there to protect the Prince from Peake. But rather the other way around.

As they pass through the door, he takes one last look back through the narrowing gap of the heavy oak doors. The Prince hasn't moved an inch. But Gormon Peake looks like he's forgotten how to breath.

And as the door clicks shut, he feels the air rush back into the space around them and nearly laughs as they all let out a deep, steadying breath in unison, as if they've all just surfaced for air at once after being held beneath a rising tide.

He turns his attention to the boys, who've finally let their guards crack. Daeron is the first to sag, his grip on Aerion's arm loosens, his fingers trembling slightly as he let's go. Aerion remains uncharacteristically subdued, eyes fixed on the floor, looking slightly pale. Valarr's shoulders drop an inch as he finally unclenches his fist, his eyes darting towards the closed door. The steady resolve is still there but now there's the heavy realization of what has happened and what is still to happen behind those doors.

And guilt begins to bloom on the boy's face as the realization of the political disaster they've just caused settles in him. "I shouldn't have…I should have kept the peace." Valarr whispers, the words barely carrying over the sound of their footsteps. "Father has spent years trying to bring the Marcher lords back into the fold. And I…I just…"

Donnel looks at him and sees a boy trying to carry the weight of the crown before it's even been placed on his head. So much like his father.

"Do not blame yourself. Gormon Peake has only himself to blame for allowing the rot to fester in his house," Donnel says, placing a hand on the young Prince's shoulder, forcing the boy to stop and look at him. "It is regrettable that it ended the way it did, and your father might have a few words with you regarding that." He looks from Valarr to Daeron, and finally to Aerion. "But do not be sorry for standing your ground to protect your family's honor. Be proud of that."

He feels the tension in the boy's frame begin to ease and gives his shoulder a firm, assuring squeeze. The guilt hasn't vanished—not entirely. But he knows there nothing more he could say to absolve the boy from his conscience. Only his father can do that now.

"Valarr," Daeron chimes in, his voice cutting through the silence with a sudden airy quip, "your father is scary."

Valarr winces. "I know."

"Shut up, Daeron." Aerion growls.

Donnel lets out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh in any other company. "I hate to be a bearer of more grim news, but I feel it is worth noting. We have yet to hear from Prince Maekar."

The reaction is immediate. A synchronized groan rises from the boys, a sound of pure absolute misery that is music to his ears.

"Oh, Gods."

"Please…don't remind us."

"Father is actually going to kill us this time."

He suspects, however, that this rare opportunity is no accident; his wife and eldest have likely planned this ‘spontaneous’ outing for weeks, a silent pact to get him away from the demands of King’s Landing. While he feels a touch wronged at being handled so underhandedly, as if he were a piece of delicate glass, he finds he lacks the heart to call them on it. They mean well. He cannot deny that his breath comes easier than it has for weeks and the persistent, dull ache behind his eyes has vanished, leaving him with crystalline clarity he hasn’t felt in months. 

Perhaps, he grudgingly admits to himself, they were right and he needed this retreat more than he cares to admit. He leans back into his seat, allowing himself to be swallowed by the plush pillows and heavy layers of wool blankets, finally letting the weight of the realm slip from his shoulders. 

Beside him, Myriah’s hand found his, her fingers warm and steady, a grounding presence over his. 

“You’re thinking again,” she says softly, her voice a pleasant hum against the sound of the sea. “I can hear the gears turning from here, Daeron. Stop it. Maester Yormwell said rest.”

Daeron offers a small, tired smile, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I am resting, my dear. I am merely thinking of simpler times. Look at them,” he says, gesturing towards their family scattered in the gardens, “I miss this.”

She answers with a contented sigh, resting her head against his shoulder. She follows his gaze across the gardens, watching the silhouettes of their children and grandchildren against the golden afternoon, her expression one of tranquil, settled happiness. A silent testament to a life well-lived.

In front of them, settled on a blanket spread over the grass, Alys works a comb through Aelora’s hair, the sunlight catching the silver threads as they spill over her shoulders. Aelora hums a low, childish melody, her small hands busy weaving a crown of wildflowers.

Nearby, sheltered beneath the shade of a tall pine, Aerys is huddled over a massive leather-bound book, with Aemon and Aelor peering over his shoulders, their eyes wide and focused as they listen to Aerys’s every whispered word.

Further out, Rhaegal lay sprawled in the grass, looking utterly content, his mind clearly drifting to some far-off place. On either side of him, Aegon and Matarys lay with their heads on their uncle's torso, little fingers pointing at the sky, voices rising in a gentle rolling argument over the shapes of the clouds.

Across the lawn, a sudden roar of laughter erupts. Valarr sends the ball soaring past Aerion, who is already turning to argue the point with a heated look. Beside them, young Daeron laughs, wiping sweat from his brow. Their fathers watch from the sidelines; Baelor offering words of encouragement every now and then while Maekar remains silent, sharp eyes tracking the boys’ every move, ever the watchful guardian.

"I have worn the crown for many years," Daeron whispers, turning his gaze back to Myriah. He hopes she sees the love he bears for her and for the family she has given him. "But this...this is the only thing that was ever truly worth the weight of it."

Myriah squeezes his hand, her thumb tracing the familiar lines of his palm. ​“It is a heavy thing,” she murmurs, “The crown. It asks for everything and offers only duty in return. But look at them, my love. That is not duty. That is the harvest of the peace you’ve kept.”

Daeron doesn't answer, letting his wife’s words settle over him over the afternoon light. He watches the grandchildren in the grass, laughing and playing without a care in the world–exactly as children ought to. Then he looks to his sons, all grown men with their own distinct strengths, now with families of their own to protect. 

“Do you remember when Baelor was no taller than little Aegon?” She asks, her tone turning wistful. 

Daeron lets out a quiet laugh at the memory. “I remember. He was a menace, though one would hardly believe it now.” 

He continues, voice dropping to a softer, more reverent tone, his hand twitching beneath hers, “And now, he carries the realm on his shoulders. I look at him, and I know the crown is safe. He has the weight of it already, and he carries it better than I ever did.”

​Myriah doesn't let him retreat into self-doubt. "He carries it well because you taught him it was worth carrying, Daeron.” She turns her hand, interlacing her fingers with his and squeezing firmly. “Because you showed him it wasn't a burden to be feared, but a duty to be honored.” 

​She looks back at Baelor, who has paused in the distance, watching them with a quiet curiosity as if sensing the turn of their conversation even from afar. "You didn't just give him a crown; you gave him a reason to wear it.”

​Daeron lets go of her hand, but only to sweep his arm around her shoulders. He pulls her into a steady embrace, tucking her against him and pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. 

​“You always know the exact words to steady me,” he murmurs against her hair. “I suspect the realm would have fallen apart years ago if I didn't have you to remind me why I was holding it together.”

​Myriah doesn't argue and simply leans into him, her head finding its place on his shoulder as the golden light finally begins to deepen into the long shadows of dusk washing the garden with a soft violet hue. 

An unfortunate server passing by catches the sharp edge of Maekar’s scowl and instantly pivots mid-step, scurrying back towards the kitchen. Good. Let the boy serve as a warning that he is no longer in the mood to entertain empty small talks; having long since reached his limits for superficial smiles and hollow promises. 

He has always loathed these functions. For every guest truly committed to the cause, there are ten more who are interested only in currying favor with the royal family. Pretenders. Social climbers. The sheer transparency of their greed makes his blood boil. Yet, he understands the necessity for it, no matter how much he loathes it and no matter how shallow he thinks the sycophants in the room are. Unfortunately for him, being born into this family means enduring these endless, torturous social obligations. It doesn’t, however, stop him from wishing–and looking–like he’d rather be anywhere else but this godsdamned room. 

His gaze sweeps through the entire room until it lands on his eldest brother. Baelor stands at the center of a swarm of patrons, with his easy smile and commanding presence, effortlessly charming everyone within sight. His brother looks every inch the future King–diplomatic, radiant, effortless and possessing that innate ability to make anyone feel like they are the most important person in the room. The Perfect Heir. 

There are times Maekar feels envious of how easy Baelor makes it look, while he finds the air in the room suffocating. Then he sees it, the slight tension in the set of Baelor’s shoulders. It is subtle, carefully hidden but Maekar knows his brother too well. It is a reminder that while Baelor may seem like he thrives in such an environment, he also carries the weight of the crown, heavy and pressing. Even more so now with their father ailing, and taking fewer and fewer duties, passing it on to others, mostly to his heir. The weight is shifting.

It has already begun. A slow transition of the center of gravity shifting away from their father’s quiet throne towards wherever Baelor stands. And while ordinary citizens are yet unaware, the elite and those who work closely with the royal family have begun to notice and are now bit by bit beginning to circle around the new sun.

Maekar feels a twinge of relief, grateful that he is only the fourth son. Far enough from the throne that he is afforded some freedom, yet close enough that it still feels like a gilded cage. Baelor doesn't have that luxury. His brother may be the most powerful man in the room, but he will be forever chained and bound to the Iron Throne, a prisoner of his own rank, displayed for all to see, and expected to shine until he is hollow. It is a burden Maekar would not wish even on his worst enemy.

But Baelor bears it with such infuriatingly elegant grace that one almost forgets how heavy it is. Maekar may not know–and gods forbid, may he never know–the full tremendous weight his brother carries, but he knows enough. And he vows to help carry even just a fraction of it, even if it means trudging through these wretched events so his brother is not standing alone.

As if sensing his thoughts, Baelor turns and catches his eye with that annoying knowing smile of his. Maekar watches him make his excuse and with practiced ease weaves through the throng of guests.

“Maekar,” Baelor greets softly, his voice a low, teasing murmur. “You look like you’re having the time of your life.”

Maekar snorts, face curdling in displeasure, “I detest these gatherings. It’s all pretense and posturing. It’s fucking exhausting.”

“And yet, here you are,” Baelor counters, a tiny quirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Dressed in your finest scowl, no less.”

Maekar rolls his eyes, but he feels the tension in his jaw easing. “Someone has to keep the vultures at bay. You’re too busy being charming to notice they’re trying to pick your pockets.” 

He knows it isn’t true. 

For the briefest of moments, Maekar watches the mask slip a tiny fraction, a flicker in Baelor’s eyes. There is a momentary cooling of the Crown Prince’s warmth that most people mistake for simple kindness. No, his brother will not be devoured by these vultures; he is merely letting them perch where he can count them. Baelor is not blind. He is simply biding his time, playing a long, patient game and weaving them into a web so fine they aren’t even aware they are in it. 

Baelor leans in, dropping his voice to a chilling whisper. “You need not worry, brother. I know exactly whose hand is in which pocket.”

Maekar stiffens. It is rare for the mask to slip, especially in public, but when it does, the air around Baelor turns to ice. 

“You play the game with a smile,” Maekar counters, his own voice a low rasp, “While I’d rather just flip the table and be done with it.” 

And just like that, the frost vanishes just as quickly as it appears and the easy charm snaps back into place. Baelor chuckles, taking a slow sip of his wine. “We play our parts, and the kingdom thrives as a result.”

“You play your part,” Maekar mutters. “I’m merely a spectator.”

Baelor turns to him with a flash of mischief in his eyes. “And that is why I need you here. You are the only honest soul in this room. Just keep looking like the one they should be afraid of. It keeps them on their toes."

Maekar stares at him, his expression a warring mixture of annoyance, awe and disbelief. And perhaps, beneath it all, a tinge of fear at his brother’s cunning. He can hear the unspoken words: You play your part well, too. 

“Fuck you,” Maekar says flatly, but he allows the ghost of smile to grace his lips. “But I can do that.”

It is a terrifying thing. The ability to be the most loved and respected man in the Seven Kingdoms while silently spinning an intricate web that can suffocate those who dares to undermine the throne. Maekar wonders if the court has any idea just how sharp the golden heir’s teeth actually are. 

He finds himself trembling with both fear and a strange, frantic excitement. His earlier worries vanish, replaced by a singular, unyielding conviction: If any man can carry the crushing weight of the crown without breaking, it is Baelor. And Maekar will be there to witness it, a silent sentry at his brother’s back–a willing shadow cast by Baelor’s blinding sun.

"Indulge me just a while longer, little brother." Baelor says. His tone gentles, expression softening, the calculating prince nowhere in sight. He offers a small, apologetic smile.  "Our host has been most generous, and it wouldn't do to offend him by leaving early."

Maekar makes a sound somewhere between a grumble and a dry laugh, bristling at the diminutive. He’ll have a word with him later about using such ‘little’ endearments in public, but for now, he’ll let it slide. “Then shouldn’t you be out there enchanting everyone with your charming personality instead of intruding on my fucking solitude?”

Baelor huffs out a genuine laugh, this time loud enough to cut through the low hum in the room; the sound rare enough that heads turn. A few guests, curious and bold enough to consider approaching, take a tentative step toward them. They don’t get far. The look Maekar gives them is so pointedly lethal, they suddenly find their own shoes fascinating, and retreat back into the crowd.

“Even I need a brief respite.” Baelor’s grin is so carefree it reminds Maekar of their boyhood days, when things were simpler and the weight of the realm was just a story for another time. “And where else would I find such a quiet corner? No one dares approach when you’re in a mood, Maekar. As you’ve so efficiently demonstrated.” 

And as if trying to prove his point, Baelor gestures at the wide, empty berth between them and the rest of the crowd – a no-man’s land in a small corner of the room carved out by Maekar’s surly presence.

“Piss off,” Maekar scowls, the expression instinctive, but there is no real bite behind it, and he finds his lips twitching with a reluctant, fond amusement. “Fucking asshole.”

Baelor chuckles and gives Maekar’s arm a firm, supportive squeeze. “Half an hour. Then we can make our excuses. Until then, try to uncurl your lip, brother. And for Seven’s sake, stop scaring the servers.”

With a wink, Baelor steps back into the light, his mask of effortless charm snapping back into place. 

"Your Grace!" a high-pitched voice calls out from the crowd.

Maekar watches Baelor turn with a smile that could blind even a blind man. The transformation is instant, flawless, and utterly chilling.

“Val, what should we get Dad for his birthday?”

Valarr looks up from the book he was reading and finds Matarys watching him. He glances at his phone, checking the calendar. Seven days. Exactly one week until their father’s birthday.

“I don’t know, Mat,” he confesses, setting his book down. He’s been thinking about it for the past couple of weeks but the answer just seems to continue to evade him. He’s thought of several ideas but for some reason, he feels like they are not enough. They all just felt hollow. Because, seriously, what can you give a man who wants for nothing? “It’s hard to find a gift for someone who already has everything.” 

Matarys tilts his head, his young face scrunching in genuine confusion. “That’s not true. Father was really happy when we gave him the tie last year. Remember? He even wore it the day after.”

A wave of affection washes over Valarr. Matarys is still too young to realize that their father’s happiness was more from the sentiment behind the gift than the gift itself; still at an age where happiness seems directly tied to material things.

“Oh, Matty,” Valarr says softly with a fond smile, slipping into the affectionate nickname their mother had once used. His words are gentle, hoping to guide his brother toward the same  lesson their father once taught him. “I’m sure he loved the tie. But I’m also absolutely certain that Father would be just as thrilled with anything we give him, as long as it comes from us.” 

Matarys falls quiet, his face twisting in deep thought, before looking back at him, eyes wide with innocence.  “Even if we give him a piece of rock?”

Valarr laughs, reaching out to ruffle his brother’s hair affectionately, “Yes, even then. He’ll probably use it as a paperweight on his desk just so he can look at it every day.”

He sees Matarys’ eyes brighten as if he’s just thought of a perfect solution to their problem. “No, Mat,” Valarr interjects gently, sensing where his brother’s mind was headed, “We are not giving Father a rock.”

“But you said– ” Matarys begins to protest, but another look from Valarr makes him slump back in his seat. “Fine,” he sulks, crossing his arms in a display of dramatic, reluctant acceptance.

Valarr leans back in his chair, eyes tracing the intricate patterns on the ceiling as he thinks, and lets out a quiet sigh. He’s starting to feel the frustration creeping in now. He doesn’t want another store-bought gift; he wants this year to be different. Something that would actually mean something.

“I want to get Father something special this year. Something meaningful,” he muses, more to himself than to his brother. “It doesn’t need to be flashy or expensive. Just…something that is him. Or maybe something a bit more personal.”

Matarys looks up, his earlier pout fading into curiosity, "What do you mean?"

Valarr sits up, his mismatched gaze locking on his brother’s purple ones. "I mean, what does Father do when no one is watching? When he isn’t busy with his duties?” If they want to find the perfect gift, they need to look past the crown and look at the man beneath it.

Matarys pauses in quiet thought, his brow furrowing in earnest concentration as he starts counting off on his fingers, “Well…he likes to drink that tea Grandma gave him, the one that smells like flowers. He also likes the wine Uncle Maekar gave him. He reads those books with fancy words I don’t understand. And, he likes to take long walks…”

“Walks…” Valarr echoes, his mind transported back to a memory. “Yes, Father loves being outside. Remember when he used to take us on the hidden trail at Summerhall? Before things were so…busy?”

“Can we go there?” Matarys’ eyes beams with a sudden, infectious excitement. “We can take him back!”

Valarr starts to nod, but then reality hits him. His face falls as his mind begins to list the problems a simple walk can make. Going to Summerhall is out of the question. His father’s schedule will never allow such a ‘spontaneous’ outing – not without uprooting months of careful planning. They can maybe hike somewhere closer, perhaps in the Kingswood, but the Kingsguard will never allow it without a week of security sweeps – not to mention the gaggle of security that will accompany such a walk.

“That’s the problem, Mat. We can’t just go there,” His shoulder slumps, suddenly feeling the weight of their family name. “Not anymore.” 

Matarys pouts. “So no hiking then?”

“I’m afraid not,” Valarr says, his voice thick with shared disappointment. He is, at least, thankful his brother doesn’t ask why. While he is eager to pass down lessons their father taught him, he doesn’t want to be the one to show his brother the reality of their station. “Maybe we should just focus on something smaller. Simple, but heartfelt.”

The room settles in heavy silence. Both brothers are stuck in their own thoughts when Matarys suddenly goes rigid, then hops off the sofa with enough force to send a cushion flying. His eyes wide and sparkling with barely contained eagerness. “Val, I know! We can cook for him!”

Valarr stares at his brother, frozen. The first thought that flits through his mind is how absurd the idea is. He can already envision the potential chaos; and a series of terrifying images flash through his mind: burnt pots, flour everywhere, and the very, very real possibility of a kitchen fire. 

But then, he also sees the other side–their father, tired and weary from a day full of commitments, coming home to a mess of a kitchen that smells of something hearty, and perhaps something burnt, met by his flour-covered sons. A meal that is not catered nor plated. Just a simple dinner for three.

A slow, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It really, really is an absurd, and disastrous idea.“The food will probably taste like ash. He’d likely hate it,” he whispers, but his mind is already working on how to bribe the kitchen staff to take the day off.

“But Val, didn’t you just say, he’d love whatever we give him?” Matarys insists, tugging at Valarr’s sleeve.

Valarr laughs and stands up, snatching his tablet from the counter. Oh the cheek and innocence of a child. “Then let’s decide what we should make. Father will most likely eat anything we put in front of him. But for the sake of his stomach–and ours–let’s, at least, try to make something edible.” 

He nudges Matarys to make room for him on the couch and adds as an afterthought, “We should also probably alert Ser Donnel of our plans. Just in case a fire breaks out.”

~

Nothing is going to plan. 

Or maybe, Valarr muses grimly, everything is going exactly the way it’s supposed to, just not the way they want it. 

The entire plan had nearly collapsed before they could even begin preparations when their father needed to go to Sunspear on urgent business four days ago. He had been ready to call it off, but thank the gods for small miracles, Baelor is expected to return on the eve of his birthday.

But now on that very day, at half-past two in the afternoon, with only six hours left before their father arrives, Valarr stares helplessly at the cake that looks like it’s about to fall if someone so much as breathes on it. They’ve been at it since morning. And this is their third attempt at a ‘simple’ chocolate cake. Lies, he thinks, because there is absolutely nothing simple about it.

A sudden sneeze beside him sends the cake toppling down into a sorry heap of chocolate mush.

Matarys, who has somehow managed to get himself covered in flour and cocoa powder from head to foot, gives him a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

Valarr lets out a long, weary sigh just as the heavy kitchen doors swing open.

“What the absolute fuck?”

Valarr winces and turns to find their uncle, looking extremely out of place in his sharp, tailored suit, surveying the carnage with horror.

“Uncle Maekar!” Matarys squeals, darting towards their gobsmacked uncle before Valarr can stop him.

Maekar recovers just in time to stop Matarys from barreling into him, planting a firm hand on his nephew’s head to keep him at arms length, “Don’t touch me, boy. You’re covered in…whatever the fuck that is,” he grimaces, looking down at the dark residue now coating his fingers with disgust.  

“Hello, Uncle.” Valarr greets calmly. He tries to muster whatever dignity he has left, despite the smudge of chocolate frosting on his cheek. “We’re…trying to cook dinner for Father.”

“It’s our surprise gift for his birthday!” Matarys adds proudly.

Maekar steps carefully over a cracked egg, reaching for the kitchen towel that has somehow miraculously escaped the chaos. He looks at the fallen cake, then back at his nephews, “If your goal is to surprise him with a stroke, you’re well on your way. This place looks like a fucking bomb went off in a chocolate factory.”

“I don’t get it,” Valarr admits, genuinely perplexed, gesturing vaguely at the chocolate puddle that was once a cake. He has always prided himself as a quick study. But this? This baffles him. “I followed every instruction correctly, but it always comes out wrong.”

“Well, that means, you’re not doing everything correctly then, doesn’t it?” His uncle’s voice is as dry as the burnt edges of their first attempt. 

Valarr scowls, not particularly happy at being told the obvious. 

“Can you help us, Uncle?” Matarys asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “Please?”

“Fuck no,” Maekar replies instantly. “I’ve a meeting in half an hour, and I know fuck all about cooking, let alone baking.” 

Maekar glances at his watch. For a heartbeat, Valarr notices him go perfectly still, a rare flicker of hesitation passing his stern features. His uncle’s eyes shift from his watch to Matarys’ drooping shoulders, then snaps his wrist back under his cuff and turns to leave. “I just came by to drop off some files for Baelor to look at later, but I think I’ll keep them for now, lest you–Seven forbid–burn the place down.” 

But before he reaches the door, he pauses and turns back to them, eyes narrowing at their disheveled states. “You have eaten lunch, at least? Or are you two just surviving on raw flour?”

“Yes, Uncle, Ser Donnel was kind enough to get us some burgers,” Valarr answers.

Maekar grunts, looking around. “Speaking of…where is Duskendale? Shouldn’t he be putting a stop to this domestic terrorism?”

Valarr can feel the heat climb at the back of his neck, ears turning slightly red. He clears his throat, trying to hide his discomfort but failing spectacularly, “He was also kind enough to go fetch us a cake,” he mutters. “After our third failed attempt.”

Maekar blinks then barks a short, sharp laugh that echoes through the kitchen, making Valarr groan in embarrassment. 

“Smart man.” His uncle says, a sardonic smirk visible on his lips as he leaves. “Best of luck, nephews,” he calls over his shoulder, “Try not to burn the place down before Baelor arrives.”

Valarr exhales another heavy sigh as silence settles over the room, broken only by the rhythmic drip of chocolate batter sliding off the edge of the counter into the once-pristine floor. 

Maybe it’s time to just call it, hang the apron and just order in some of their father’s favorite food. What was it that their father once said to him? That a great leader knows when to step back. That there is no shame in surrender. That being able to admit a situation is unwinnable is not weakness, but wisdom. 

Then he catches sight of Matarys, who is barely recognizable beneath the layers of white powder and dark cocoa. The sheer absurdity of it and of the situation they find themselves in hits him; and his embarrassment and frustration breaks into an involuntary, genuine laugh.

"Maybe we should have just gone with the rock,” Matarys says.

His delivery is so straightforward and earnest that it makes Valarr laugh harder. Matarys follows suit, and soon the two of them are doubled over in the middle of their culinary battlefield, the tension dissolving despite the mess around them.

As the laughter gradually fades, Matarys looks at him with a gaze full of absolute trust that younger brothers reserve for older brothers they believe know the answer to everything. “So, what now, Val?”

Valarr looks at the ruined cake, then at the clock, and finally back at his brother’s hopeful face. The situation isn’t completely unwinnable yet; they still have time. And he remembers another of their father’s lessons; Success is simply the result of failure until it’s not. 

And they are Targaryens, after all. They are their father’s sons. And they are known to be persistent, determined and stubborn to a fault.

Valarr squares his shoulders, “Now,” he says, his voice steadying with renewed determination, “We clean ourselves up a bit. Then, we start with the main dishes. Father will hopefully forgive us about the cake.”

~

It is well past midnight when Baelor finally arrives home. The journey was long and tiring, but the urgent business that took him to Dorne proved less troublesome than he’d feared, despite the initial concerns; and matters were settled more swiftly than anticipated. They could have returned to King’s Landing a day earlier, but small, other less pressing, yet still important, matters kept piling up, as they often do, demanding his attention. Then, the unrelenting Dornish winds grounded his flight for nearly four hours, a testament to the unpredictability of the desert winds.

Now, standing in the quiet of his home, he feels the full weight of exhaustion settling deep into his bones. He loosens his tie with a sigh; his only desire now is to crawl into the comfort of his bed and the promise of sleep. He moves deeper into the house, stepping quietly through the darkened halls. By now, he assumes, the boys should be long asleep, lost in the realm of dreams. He intends to slip into bed without disturbing anyone, but as he enters the living room, he stops short. 

In the dim, flickering glow of the television, he finds his sons sprawled across the oversized sofa. Valarr is stretched out, a tangle of growing limbs, his head tilted back at an awkward angle, mouth slightly open as soft snores escape him. There is a curious streak of white dust in his hair, opposite where his natural silver-white streak should be. Beside him, Matarys is curled into his brother’s side, one hand clutching Valarr’s shirt, the other wrapped around a favorite blanket. 

A small smile tugs at Baelor’s lips, and a sudden warmth swells in his chest at the sight of his boys. Fatigue momentarily forgotten. He moves silently, stepping closer to adjust the blanket over them. As he leans in, he notices a dark smudge on his youngest's temple. 

Chocolate? He wipes it gently with his thumb, careful not to disturb the sleeping boy. It is chocolate, but as he brings his thumb to his nose, he also detects a hint of something sharper and something…burnt? Baelor's brow furrows. Is that burnt garlic? 

He straightens and turns his head towards the direction of the kitchen. A smudge of chocolate. The smell of burnt garlic. And now he’s certain, that was a dusting of flour in his eldest’s hair. What on earth were they doing while he was gone?

Quietly, he switches the television off and takes one final glance at his sons before letting his curiosity lead him towards the kitchen. As he enters, he winces at the sudden, potent waft of garlic that hits him like a physical blow. He reaches for the switch, squinting against the sudden glare of the overhead lights. When his eyes adjust, he freezes as he absorbs the scene before him. His once-immaculate kitchen now resembles what he can only describe as a culinary battlefield. 

“What in the Seven hells?” Baelor mutters, unknowingly sharing the same thought to that of his own brother several hours earlier. 

Layers of flour and spatters of sauce have transformed the gleaming room into a site of domestic carnage. Flour coats almost every surface like a fine layer of snow, marred randomly by dark patches of spilled cocoa. He takes a cautious step further and hears a soft, dry crunch. Lifting his foot, he finds a mosaic of scattered, but mercifully empty, eggshells. Thank the gods.

He sighs and lets his gaze drift to the sink, where a mountain of discarded pots and pans lies in disarray. In one of the pans, he spies charred remains of what might have been garlic cloves, clinging to and coating the bottom black. 

Then his eyes shifts to the center island.

Amidst the chaos, the granite countertop remains perfectly spotless, as if it has been recently scrubbed clean. And there, in the middle of this clean oasis, sits a glass dome. A tired, huffed laugh escapes him as he lifts it and finds a plate of pasta and steak that has since gone cold. 

He inspects the meal that his sons must have, from what he’s surmised, painstakingly prepared for him. The pasta is glistening, drowning really, in a pool of olive oil and what looks like enough minced garlic to fight off a legion of vampires. And the meat looks worryingly still too crimson at its center, clearly pulled from the heat before it was ready.

A welcome home dinner, he realizes, a knot forms in his throat that has nothing to do with the smell of burnt garlic. And one he has unknowingly ruined by arriving later than he’s supposed to. He knows it was beyond his control. Desert weather has always been highly fickle. Yet he still feels guilty all the same as he tries to imagine his sons laughing and excited as they wreck havoc in the kitchen to surprise their father.

Returning to the living room, he discards his suit jacket on an armchair and sits quietly on the edge of the sofa, brushing the hair from Matarys’ forehead.

The boy stirs, unconsciously leaning into his father’s touch. “Dad?” he whispers, blue-purple eyes blinking, voice thick with sleep.

“I’m here, Mat,” Baelor whispers back.

Valarr wakes at the sound, instantly jolting upright. “Dad! We…I fell asleep…we tried to wait. Oh no, the food! I think it’s gone cold.” He stands quickly, nearly stumbling in his haste. 

“Valarr,” Baelor tries to interrupt but his eldest is already heading towards the kitchen. He watches his son’s retreating form before turning back to his youngest, who is still blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Come on. Let’s go follow your brother before he destroys the kitchen further.”

“S’not,” Matarys mutters sleepily with a tiny pout, but allows Baelor to lift him effortlessly from the sofa.

Baelor chuckles, “Really? I beg to differ.”

Matarys nuzzles his head comfortably into the crook of Baelor’s neck, his small voice a muffled murmur. “We wanted to surprise you.”

Baelor pauses, the guilt returning with a force that cuts deeper than his exhaustion. He settles a hand protectively against the back of the boy’s head, thumb tracing slow, rhythmic patterns against his hair. “I know. I’m sorry I was late.” 

Matarys pulls back just enough to look at him with heavy-lidded lilac eyes. He finds no resentment there, only the simple logic of a child. “It’s not your fault.”

His grip on Matarys tightens as a sudden wave of affection washes over him. His youngest seems unaware, but those few simple words are enough to soothe the lingering guilt. It is not entirely gone, but it has made it bearable. He presses a tender, lingering kiss on the boy’s head, and carries him into the kitchen.

Valarr is standing over the center island, looking determined but entirely unsure of his next move. 

"Valarr, truly, it's fine," Baelor says as he lowers Matarys onto a relatively clean patch of the counter. "You don’t have to–"

“No, Father!” Valar insists, his tone vehement and panicked, as if not wanting to disappoint. He's already found a clean pan that’s sitting on the burner. “We can still reheat it. I…I just…It was supposed to be ready when you walked in. It was supposed to be perfect. For your birthday.”

Baelor stands beside his eldest, placing a gentle hand on his head. He can see the frustration in his son’s eyes. “Hey. Look at me.” 

Valarr looks up, a mismatched gaze meeting his own. There is frustration there, but also a stubbornness that is entirely unyielding. But most of all, there is disappointment–not in anything else, but in himself. There is a fierce and quiet determination to get things right. And for a moment, Baelor sees a ghost of his younger self. 

He softens his expression, his hand settling on Valarr’s shoulder, his thumb absentmindedly tracing soothing circles. Of his two sons, Valarr is almost a perfect mirror of himself, from the mismatched eyes to the very way he carries himself–a “perfect carbon copy,” as Maekar would say.

“It’s perfect,” Baelor counters gently, leaning down to press a kiss to his eldest’s temple. “You worked hard. You worked together. You waited for me. That matters more to me than anything.”

Matarys, who has jumped off his perch on the counter, wiggles his way between his father and brother, never one to be ignored. “Valarr said you’d like whatever we give you, even if it’s just a rock.”

Valarr flushes a deep red, looking aghast at his younger brother. “Matty!”

Matarys ignores him, flashing a toothy, triumphant grin.

Baelor laughs, the sound rich and unfettered, his affection full. He pulls them both into a tight hug, silently thanking the gods for such kind, wonderful, and sweet children. For a heartbeat, he feels a pang of longing– how he wishes Jena was still here to see this. She would have been so proud. 

He lets go, keeping one hand on each boy’s shoulder. “Thank you. Both of you.” He feels the rigid tension in Valarr’s loosening while Matarys’ vibrates with exuberance. “This is the best gift I’ve ever had.”

Valarr looks at him with a smile, his eyes lit with understanding. His eldest knows what he means to say. 

That they are, and have, and will always be the best gift he has ever and will ever have.

“How about this?” He bends slightly and whispers conspiratorially, “I am actually quite famished. I don’t think I ate much on the flight back.”

Valarr reaches for the plate, “Let me heat it for you, Father.”

Baelor intercepts him, shaking his head fondly at Valarr’s eagerness, “I have a better idea,” he says, rolling up his sleeves, “How about we make a new one?”

“Can I help?” Matarys exclaims excitedly, earning him a quick hair tussle from his father.

Valarr blinks, "Now? But it’s half past one in the morning."

"It’s my birthday," Baelor notes casually, eyes flashing with mischief. His fatigue is all but forgotten. “Or, at least, it was. Either way, it won’t take too long, and I think I’m entitled to enjoy a late dinner with my sons.” He winks drawing a giggle from Matarys and a growing grin from Valarr. “We can reheat the steak with some butter and herbs, but the pasta…well, we’ll have to start from scratch, and I’ll show you how to do it properly.” 

“Wait!” Matarys suddenly exclaims, scrambling towards the refrigerator, nearly slipping on a stray piece of pasta before flinging the door open. “We almost forgot the cake!” 

Baelor stares at the exquisitely decorated chocolate cake sitting on the middle shelf, quite disbelieving. He looks at the flour-dusted kitchen, then back to the cake with the most intricate frosting. Because. There is absolutely no way his sons made that.

As if sensing his father’s thoughts, “Ser Donnel bought it for us,” Valarr admits sheepishly, a hand rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, “After…uh, after our third attempt. He said he didn’t want the fire department to be the one welcoming you home.”

Baelor huffs out a laugh. “There’s a story there, I’m sure. But Ser Donnel is a very smart man.”

“Uncle Maekar said the same thing,” Valarr sighs, carefully placing the cake on the counter with his brother’s help.

“Maekar was here?” Baelor raises a brow. Well, that answers the cryptic message his brother sent earlier.

“Mmhmm. He left quickly though, when we asked him to help.” Matarys adds, sounding somewhat put out by their uncle’s abandonment.

Baelor barks out another laugh. He doesn’t remember how long it has been since he’s laughed this much. But for a few brief moments like this, he allows himself the reprieve from the constant weight of his duties, letting the stress of the Crown be swept away like the desert winds. Tonight he is not the Crown Prince, the Hand, or Heir to the Iron throne. He is merely Baelor– father to Valarr and Matarys. 

“That was for the best, I believe. Your Uncle Maekar is many things, but he is certainly not known for his finesse in the kitchen.” He offers them both a wink, “Now, shall we? I believe we have a birthday to celebrate properly. And while we’re waiting for the water to boil, you two can tell me exactly how my kitchen came to be in need of such thorough cleaning.” 

I. The Hammer and the Anvil

He stands in front of the mirror, looking at his reflection with meticulous attention. His focus is unwavering as he examines every detail, ensuring everything is in place. Each button is fastened perfectly, every seam lies flat, and the medals on his chest are aligned with military precision. The silver hand-shaped pin glistens under the light, a symbol of his duty and heritage. 

He takes a deep breath and adjusts the collar slightly, ensuring it sits just right against his neck. Outside, he can hear the sounds of the bustling preparations, the steady cadence of marching feet keeping time with the beat of the drums, as crowds start to gather, eager to witness the grand spectacle.

He should probably leave now, but he stays and takes a moment to savour the calm. In this small room, there are no expectations, no demands, free from the watchful eyes that constantly measure his worth. The quiet offers a rare moment of introspection, a chance to gather his thoughts before stepping into the world where his every action carries the weight of duty and responsibility.

He knows that once he steps beyond this room, he will no longer belong solely to himself. He will cease to be just Baelor and become a symbol of the kingdom, a figure meant to inspire and lead. It is a duty he embraces, albeit with a sense of wistful longing for the freedom he once had.

And suddenly, the stillness shatters abruptly as Maekar storms into the room, his expression a characteristic blend of frustration and impatience. “Fuck me, why do I have to be part of this godsdamned parade?”

Baelor closes his eyes momentarily and lets out a weary sigh that conveys both a deep-seated fondness and a hint of exasperation. “You know why, brother.” He understands Maekar's fiery temperament well, having grown accustomed to his brother's outbursts over the years.

Maekar grunts. “That makes it worse,” he retorts in a low growl. “Paraded in front of everyone like a fucking prized stallion,” he mutters, disdain almost palpable in his voice, “I am no puppet to be strung along for the amusement of others.”

His gaze meets Maekar’s, a silent exchange that speaks volumes. There was no need for elaborate explanations between them; Maekar understands the importance of his presence, despite his many protests. Even if he refuses to admit it outright, Maekar knows his duty just as well as Baelor does his. 

But Maekar is Maekar. And it isn't Maekar without his grumblings.

“We all play our parts, brother,” Baelor replies, his tone gentle yet firm, tinged with amusement. “Some willingly, some grudgingly.”

Maekar gives him a stare, his expression somewhere between incredulous and disdain, “Unbelievable,” he declares, stalking to the table to pour himself a drink, muttering about  “perfect fucking brothers”, yet his voice betrays reluctant admiration.

Baelor laughs and beckons Maekar closer, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Come here.”

“What?” Maekar grumbles but obeys without question, which Baelor finds, somewhat, endearing. 

“A medal’s crooked.” He reaches out to fix a stray medal that had come loose, an action he’s done numerous times before, when they were younger.

Maekar rolls his eyes, but he doesn't pull away, “Stop being so bloody perfect, will you?” Maekar gripes, but a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It's exhausting for the rest of us.”

Baelor smiles, “I'll try to miss a step or two.”

The room fills with a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft clinking of glass as Maekar pours another drink and hands it to his brother. Despite their differences, there has always been an unspoken understanding between them, a deep-rooted camaraderie forged through years of shared experiences, an unshakeable bond, and an unwavering and enduring loyalty to one another.

He approaches the window and watches the vibrant activity below. The easy and calm atmosphere is now gone. His heart now heavy with the weight of responsibility pressing upon him, immense and unrelenting.

This year, for the first time, their father will not be attending the full ceremonies. A health scare a month prior has left him weak and frail, and though he is recuperating well, the doctors deem it unwise for him to take part in the lengthy festivities for fear of a relapse.

He has stood in for their father on numerous occasions, yet this time it is markedly different. It is no longer merely another duty to fulfil, nor a ceremonial presence he is required to uphold, but a pivotal moment in the kingdom’s narrative. The king’s health is a matter of state, and now, more than ever, as heir to the throne, Baelor is at the centre of it all. The eyes of the kingdom will be upon him, seeking assurance, strength and hope. And he is determined to provide it.

Turning away from the window, Baelor finds his brother standing nearby. Maekar, the ever-loyal brother, is steady in his presence, an anvil to Baelor's hammer, a reminder that he was not alone in this daunting endeavour. 

“I need you there, Maekar,” he confides, his voice soft, steady but earnest. At this moment, more than ever, he needs the support of someone he can trust implicitly. He knows he can rely on Maekar, and that knowledge brings him a measure of comfort.

No words are needed. Maekar simply nods and places a hand on his shoulder. A single, reassuring firm squeeze, a quiet affirmation of solidarity.

But not one for sentiment, Maekar quips with his usual bluntness, “But must everything be so…ostentatious?”

Baelor laughs, the sound bright and genuine, grateful for his brother’s presence. He claps Maekar on the back and gestures towards the door. 

“Come, brother. Westeros awaits.”