Pomegranate & Ink

The royal apartments were quiet when the last servant departed. Candlelight flickered across the stone walls, casting a warm golden glow over the chamber. For the first time all day, there were no crowds, no musicians, and no nobles watching your every movement.

Only you and Baelor.

You stood near the bed, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment. Perhaps sensing your nervousness, Baelor approached slowly and took your hands in his own.

"You need not fear anything tonight," he murmured, his voice as gentle as ever.

"There is no rush," he continued. "If you are uncomfortable, all you need to do is tell me." The sincerity in his expression nearly made you abandon your plans. Oh, you handsome fool! You thought to yourself, suppressing a giggle.

Instead, you allowed him to help you out of your wedding finery. Layer after layer of fabric disappeared. At one point, he looked personally offended by the construction of noble gowns. "Who designed this?", he asked from behind you.

You bit your lip. "A very cruel woman, I imagine." Your answer earned a genuine laugh from him.

He continued to whisper sweet assurances that sounded almost melodic to your ears. "You're so beautiful." Followed with, "I don't think I deserve you, my lady."

He seemed determined to ensure you felt safe, cherished, and entirely at ease. Watching him shed some of his usual princely dignity was unexpectedly fascinating. It almost made you reconsider your plan, but the little devil perched on your shoulder won in the end. You would have an eternity to make it up to him. Just one foolish prank would not hurt. Or two, or three.

Eventually, he guided you toward the edge of the bed before stepping back. He reached for the ties of his tunic and removed it, followed shortly by the undershirt beneath. His royal clothing now pooled on the floor. Even the Hand of the King brooch was abandoned somewhere.

Before you knew it, you found yourself staring at Baelor's well-sculpted form. Years spent training in the yard and fighting in wars had left their mark upon him. His tanned skin bore old scars and faded traces of battles long past. You almost cursed yourself for openly admiring the man who was now your husband.

He returned to your side and gently guided you onto the bed. You still wore your inner gown, while he remained partially dressed. Hovering above you, he looked almost relieved at the prospect of finally being alone with you.

“Relax for me, my lady,” Baelor said, glancing down at you, affection shining plainly in his eyes. He slipped his right arm beneath your neck for support while caressing your arm with his left, gently squeezing.

As he leaned down to kiss you, your amusement nearly slipped away altogether. His lips brushed yours before trailing to your jaw and neck, drawing soft sighs from you despite your determination to remain focused. His large hand moved from your arm to your waist, and you swore it could cover half your body with his long, thick fingers - yet there was tenderness in every touch. Everything Baelor touched was gentle and full of care.

"Tell me if it's too much," he said.

"N- no. You're good," you breathed, fingers tightening slightly against him.

Receiving the signal from you, his hand began to roam over your body, caressing and tracing the flesh just under your breast. When his thumb drew a soft rub on your nipple, you felt as if you were floating in the clouds. Is this what being touched by a prince felt like.

He nipped lightly at the skin where your neck met your shoulder and asked, “This good, too?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded.

He smiled, then eased back onto his knees. His warmth left your skin at an instant. Your fingers ached to pull him back down, but you stayed still as his gaze drifted over you, lingering with admiration. Your eyes snapped at the growing bulge underneath.

Months of restraint unraveled into surrender, his careful control slipping now that you were here like this - alone, sprawled across his bed. It creates a painful desire for more. He caught your eyes wandering, and the corner of his mouth curved into a knowing smile. Gradually, he started to loosen the laces of his pants but paused just after the last one.

As he bent down to press his hips against yours, a soft whine escaped your throat before you could stop it. Even with the fabric still separating you, the feeling of his erection was unmistakable... and it felt... huge. Sevens. You couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper meaning behind his nickname, 'The Hammer'. That thought alone was enough to scatter your mind.

You raise your hips gently to feel more of him, and he responds with a gentle grind. Sparks flew through you, and your hands found his dark hair, lightly tugging it to deepen the kiss.

This time, the kiss was more intense than it had been previously. He cupped your face in his hands and slid his wet tongue inside and you followed the rhythm of his desperate kiss. The sounds of moans clashing between you two, until the thought returned to interrupt your mind. Shit.

Waiting until one of his hands moved down between your thighs, you regained all the composure you had left and quickly broke the kiss. "Uh- Baelor?"

He pulled back instantly. “Yes?” he asked, his voice rough with heavy breathing. The affection in his eyes shifted to concern as he searched your face for any sign of discomfort.

You fiddled with your fingers for a moment before speaking. "Actually... I don't think I'm ready." You offered him your most innocent smile.

The silence that followed was magnificent. For a brief moment, Baelor simply stared at you as though his mind had failed to process the words. The poor man looked like someone had just struck him with a chair.

You cleared your throat and continued. "Do you mind waiting until I'm fully ready?"

His eyes still pierced directly into yours as he began to shift slightly to his right. You could still feel his burgeoning manhood ghosting above your cervix. Then, because he was Prince Baelor and seemingly incapable of being anything but considerate, he nodded slowly.

"Of course," he said at once. He sounded slightly dazed. "If you would rather wait, we can wait. I merely thought—"

"Wonderful!" You flashed him a bright grin.

Before he could say anything else, you slipped beneath the blankets, rolled onto your side, and settled comfortably against the pillows.

"Goodnight, husband," you called over your shoulder. Biting the inside of your cheek to suppress your laughter, you squeezed your eyes shut and pretended to be asleep.

Behind you, the mattress dipped as Baelor sat heavily on the edge of the bed, no doubt trying to determine whether his bride had truly abandoned him on their wedding night or if this was some elaborate joke at his expense. There was a long silence that stretched on, and you felt your bare skin exposed to his watchful eyes.

Then came a shift behind you, followed by a long sigh that suggested he had finally reached the correct conclusion. “Goodnight, wife,” his voice calm, though with a touch of amusement.

Was he smiling too? He sounded like he was. Oh maybe he's enjoying this. That only made you even more giddy.

A moment later, the candles were extinguished one by one, plunging the chamber into darkness.

You were to return briefly to your homeland as the wedding preparations continued. By coincidence, Baelor announced that he too, would be returning to King’s Landing that same morning to resume his duties. And so, both parties departed together.

The roads were long and unbearably hot beneath the summer sun. By sunset, the travelling company stopped at a nearby inn to rest. You were exhausted from hours trapped inside the carriage, your body aching from the journey.

That was when the maester approached you. He presented a small vial of crimson liquid, assuring you it would ease the soreness in your limbs and help you sleep. Trusting him, you drank it without a question.

Later that same night, Baelor overheard mention of the tonic. Plagued by one of his relentless headaches and worn thin by the suffocating summer heat, he asked the maester for the same remedy. And by a terrible, terrible mistake, the maester handed him the love potion meant for Daeron.

At first, nothing seemed amiss. The night carried on as any other. Supper was served, conversations dwindled, and one by one, the weary travellers retired to their chambers.

But as the night deepened and the world fell quiet, fate had already begun weaving the first threads of ruin.

It all started during the hour of the wolf. When you were supposed to be asleep, an unsettling feeling stirred within you. Your heart beat strangely against your chest, restless and anxious. Something you could not put into words. Unable to bear the suffocating feeling any longer, you wandered quietly to the back of the inn, seeking a moment of solitude away.

And there, too, coming from another direction, was Prince Baelor himself. As though some invisible string had been tied between you, pulling the two of you toward the same place.

Surprised by the sight of you, he paused. “What are you doing here at this hour, my lady?” his eyes studying you carefully. He looked anxious too.

“I- I needed some air,” you said. You had never been this close to the prince before. Never close enough to notice how striking he truly was beneath the dim glow of night - all sharp features, tanned skin, and quiet intensity. Your heart began to beat even harder than before.

"and you... what are you doing at this hour, your Grace?," you asked softly, voice beginning to tremble as the two of you drew closer.

“I might ask you the same question,” he murmured, shaking his head faintly. “But truthfully… I needed air as well.” He let out a quiet breath, chewing at his bottom lip trying to steady himself for what he would say next.

Then Baelor glanced toward the old wooden bench under the lantern glow before looking back at you once more. "...w- would you sit with me... for a while?”

You should have said no. What would people say if they found the future wife of Daeron sitting at such an hour with his uncle - the prince of the realm - with no one else in sight?

But before your mind could form the refusal, your heart had already answered for you. “Yes, of course,” you had said.

And so there you sat beneath a sky strewn with stars - talking longer than either of you ever had before, lingering closer than you should have, a strange flutter rising in your chest every time your eyes met. Shoulders brushed unintentionally. Knees kept bumping every time he leaned closer to whisper something in your ears. His hands would grazed yours. Sounds of giggles filled the open space. Something unspoken had begun to bloom between you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

One thing lead to another and then another and then another. The slow, dangerous unraveling of restraint beneath the lantern glow and summer night air. You could not remember how the night ended. But you knew with certainty that Baelor’s face had been the last thing you saw before sleep finally claimed you. The result of a formidable potion.

When sunrise came, you opened your eyes to find yourself tucked under Baelor's arm, still in the same spot as last night. Hurried voices carried in from the distance.

"Where is she?!" A familiar voice, one of your ladies-in-waiting, wavered through the air.

"Prince Baelor is not in his room! Find him!" A rough command barked from one of the Kingsguard, and the neigh and thump of hooves began to fade toward the grounds.

When you lifted your head to look at Baelor, he had already been looking at you. He swallowed, eyes pleading for something - like he was screaming for something he did not dare say out loud. So you said it instead.

"I don't want to marry Daeron..." you whispered, begging him to see your pain. "Please, Baelor..." Tears began to pool behind your eyes.

He leaned forward and pressed your foreheads together, sending unspoken promises in a language only the two of you understood. "Then I will burn this kingdom," he said, eyes closing like a vow, "if it means making you mine instead."

It did not matter if it was passionate lovemaking, sleepy sex, morning sex, quickie afternoon sex, i-missed-you-my-wife sex, jealousy sex, i-need-you-now sex, and even during nights when he hammered you senseless leaving you breathless and knees weak - eye contact was non negotiable.

Most times, after he finished savouring your wet fold, he would crawl on top of you, teasing at your entrance, and you would shut your eyes to enjoy the pressure. But he would not move until he had what he wanted.

"Eyes, my beautiful wife. I need to see them." He would command.

When you opened yours to meet his, only then would he enter you. He would roll his hips, rock into you, shift his pace until it sent you over the edge, and every time the feeling would pull your eyes shut without permission, he would not allow it.

"No, my love! Look at me, please." He would whimper. Desperate, even.

Even as you approached your own climax - twitching, turning, rolling your own hips to match his rhythm - your eyes had to stay locked on his. Only then would he finish, spilling himself inside you.

On the nights jealousy had gotten its teeth into him, or you had done something deliberate to bait him past patience, he would bend you over his desk and drill you from behind.

He would take you roughly and whisper filthy things in your ear. The sound of skin slapping, your moans and his groans filling the room until your eyes grew wet with it. Even then he would cup your jaw and turn it slightly, desperate to see your eyes.

Oh, how he loved to see those perfect eyes of yours, wet with pain and pleasure, pouty lips and flushed skin... all because of him. Beautiful and ruined, and still looking back at him. Still entirely his.

When movements became too intense, you would close your eyes again, trying to swallow whatever remained of that feeling pooling in your stomach. It would only last a second before Baelor snapped.

"Eyes! Fuck- Open!"

You would nod eagerly. No voice would come but your eyes, carrying a million emotions at once, did the talking for you. Once he was satisfied with what he had seen, he would smirk, and strings of hot liquid would follow, spilling inside you while you clenched your walls tightly, squeezing what remains of him.

Afterward he would kiss the tears from your face. When both your breathing had evened, he would look into your eyes one last time, searching for something familiar. Certain you were alright, he would pull you closer.

"There she is. My beautiful wife."

Your eyes would grow too heavy to keep open and he would tell you to sleep, that you were safe in his arms. Long after you had drifted under, he would bring his lips down and kiss both of your lids softly.

Baelor owned many rings. There was the heavy gold wedding band he never removed, worn smooth with time. A dark silver ring crowned with black stone sat often upon his index finger, severe and princely. Another bore the shape of a dragon curling around itself, its ruby eyes catching candlelight whenever he moved his hand.

Others came and went depending on the occasion. Plain bands, signets, rings etched with Valyrian patterns.

Most men would never care for such things. But Baelor did. Or rather, he cared because you did.

It was you who chose which rings to adorned his hands each morning, standing beside him while he dressed for court. He would simply watch you with quiet amusement as you decided which metals suited his doublet best.

And perhaps because he allowed you such freedoms so easily, your boldness had grown with time. Sometimes you would slip one ring from his finger and wear it yourself for an hour or two before returning it without a word. Sometimes longer.

He had been the one to encourage it during the periods when duty kept him away from you.

“Have something to remind you of me,” he had said, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. And, of course, you happily obliged.

Until one morning, just after breakfast, you reached for his hand out of pure instinct and found his fingers bare.

Your eyes lifted immediately to the ring box atop his dresser. The velvet grooves held nothing but the faint impressions of where his collection usually rested.

You turned to him. “Where are your rings, husband?”

“I sent them to be cleaned,” he answered, glancing up briefly before returning to the cuff of his doublet with suspicious concentration.

“Sent them away?” you repeated, brows knitting together. Something uncomfortable twisted inside your chest. “B-but, Baelor, I usually cleaned them.”

He glanced up again. “I know. It will only take a few days.” He crossed to the mirror, smoothing the front of his clothes in silence, with no apparent intention of explaining himself further.

“And why did you not inform me?” you pressed. “What possessed you to do such a thing?”. Madness had begun to stir unpleasantly beneath your skin, and it was barely morning.

“My love, trust me.” He walked back toward you. “They are safe. I will have them returned within a few days, I promise.” With that, he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead and disappeared into the endless duties of his day, before you could ask anything more.

A few days. The words turned endlessly in your mind long after he had gone.

Why would he send them away? Had you annoyed him somehow? Had he finally grown tired of your constant fiddling with his hands and rings? Had he simply endured the habit until he no longer could?

You tried to bury the thoughts before they could take root. You failed.

The first day passed, so did the second. By the third day, the absence had begun to feel physical.

You sat beside Baelor in the small council chamber while lords and ladies rambled through endless matters of court. Out of habit, your hand reached toward his beneath the table, only to find bare skin where cool metal should have been.

Your looked down to study rings that sat on your fingers instead - your wedding band, your house's sigil, and a slender ruby ring Baelor had gifted you during your courtship - all precious, all beloved. Yet none settled against your hands the way his rings did.

Something sore and foolish gathered quietly beneath your ribs.

And in the silence of the following nights, your thoughts returned again and again to the same possibility: Perhaps he had simply grown tired of indulging you. Tired of watching you steal his rings onto your own fingers. Tired of your constant touching. Tired enough to remove the temptation entirely rather than tell you outright.

It was a small thought, a cruel one. But once it lodged itself inside you, it refused to leave. And you said nothing to him, because you did not know how to ask without sounding like someone who had already decided the answer.

On the fifth day, he found you at mid-day and said he had something to show you in the garden. So you followed him.

The afternoon was pale and breezy as he led you down familiar stone paths lined with trimmed hedges. He stopped beside the bench where the two of you often sat together in the evenings and turned toward you quietly.

Then he reached into his doublet and took out a small cloth pouch. He pulled it open with eassness and held out a neat row of rings. Silver and dark metals glimmered beneath the sunlight - some plain, others engraved with familiar patterns.

Your breath caught. They were his rings. But only smaller?

You stared at them in confusion before looking back at him. “Baelor…?”

Did he have them resized? Why?

Your expression must have betrayed your bewilderment, because his mouth curved slightly as he reached for your hand.

Gently, he slid the first ring onto your finger. Then another. And another. He worked in silence, fitting each piece carefully into place while you sat there stunned beneath the drifting garden breeze. When he finished, he turned your hand over in both of his, admiring the collection now adorning your fingers.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket again and withdrew a second pouch. His own rings. Oh. One by one, he slid them back onto his large fingers before lifting his hand beside yours.

“See?” he said. His fingers threaded through yours, metal clinking softly together. “Now we match.”

You looked down at your joined hands. The same silver, same craftsmanship, same weight. Mirrored perfectly across both pairs of hands, as though they had always belonged that way.

“I know how much you love mine, so I had matching ones made for you," he said softly. "That way, you may carry a part of me wherever you go,” he continued.

Sunlight caught against the silver bands, turning his eyes molten with warmth. Before you could open your mouth to respond, he spoke again - words that would leave a permanent mark upon your chest.

“I want the whole realm to know you are my equal. My queen.” He gave your hand a light squeeze. The sunlight glimmered against the silver once more, and his love sat plainly within his gaze, without hesitation or restraint.

And suddenly, everything inside you gave way at once. All the foolishness. Every miserable hour spent convincing yourself he had taken the rings away because he no longer wanted your affection.

You should have known better. Baelor had never been a man careless with silence. He moved through the world quietly, gathering his intentions close until the moment came to place them gently into your hands all at once.

Your vision blurred. You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him hard enough to draw a startled laugh from his chest. Tears burned behind your eyes as the rings continue to glittered between your intertwined fingers beneath the afternoon sun.

You reached for the nearest document before he could recover enough to protest, unfolding the parchment with exaggerated seriousness and holding it up toward the light from the window.

“Grain inventories from Maidenpool?” You let it drop with theatrical disappointment. “Seven hells, no wonder you look miserable.”

“My love.” His voice was already roughening at the edges. “I truly must finish this, if you please.” Yet his chest remained a solid press against your back, making no effort to shift you anywhere.

You smiled to yourself and leaned forward to reach another stack near the edge of the desk. The movement was idle enough on the surface, except that it forced your back into a slow arch and dragged your weight across his lap in one long pull.

The sound he made was low and involuntary. Those large hands spread wider against your hips, no longer steadying but properly holding. Against your back, his exhale came out longer than it went in, the warmth of it pressing through the silk at your shoulder.

“Who is Lord Melcolm?” you continued pleasantly, inspecting a new letter with the grave attention of someone reading a royal decree. “He writes as though someone is actively chasing him through the halls.”

“My dear wife.” His voice dropped low. “If anyone finds us in this position again—”

“Oh, this seal is lovely.” You cut him off without turning, already reaching for a letter in dark green wax and waving it carelessly over your shoulder. The arc of your arm rolled your hips against him, and his fingers pressed into you hard enough that heat flickered low in your stomach.

“Whose house uses a heron? I cannot place it.”

A beat of silence followed, and when you glanced back at him, his jaw was set and his gaze had moved entirely away from the desk.

You shifted a bit to your left, feeling the answering hardness beneath his breeches grow more insistent with every passing moment. The fabric pulled taut in a way that made your thoughts briefly and inconveniently blank.

The movement ground your weight against him, and whatever sound he had been holding back came out quieter, pressed thin through his teeth.

Those big, veiny hands started to move their way to the curve of your hip, firm enough to leave a memory in the skin. His thumb drawing one slow stroke against the silk there before stilling. But he did not move it away. A wise instinct.

You could have turned around and devoured him. The want of it was embarrassingly persistent, pulsing low and inconvenient, and you had been sitting with it for some time. Instead you kept rummaging through the scatter of his desk, tilting one letter after another.

“Mm.” You frowned at the letter, tilting it one way and then the other. “I cannot make sense of this one at all. What does it say, my love?”

Under the guise of needing his assistance, you twisted slightly in his lap to face him, letting one knee rest atop his growing bulge. The motion felt far too deliberate to be accidental.

A silence stretched whilst he gathered whatever remained of himself. He reached to take the letter from your fingers and turned it once. His mismatched eyes settled on your face.

“That,” he said quietly, “is because you are holding it upside down.”

The mask had worn thin now. A flush had crept along the strong line of his throat, high colour against tanned skin, vivid enough that you wanted to press your mouth to it.

“Oh!” A soft, guileless giggle escaped you, and you watched the muscle jump in his jaw at the sound of it. “How foolish of me, husband.”

You set the letter aside and reached for a completely blank sheet instead. “Ah! What about this one?”

You held it up, eyes squinted, pretending to read at obviously nothing.

“It says,” you murmured, “an invitation requesting the Heir to the Iron Throne join his wife in bed, as she has grown terribly cold and increasingly impatient.”

You leaned over and pushed the page beneath his nose, close enough for your breast to press against his doublet. You tapped the blank paper like a mother teaching her son to read. “See? It says right here.”

The distance between your bodies had reduced to almost nothing now, every slow breath shifting heat between you. His eyes had gone very dark. The weight of them settling on your face with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

His mismatched gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then to your chest, lingering a beat too long before he dragged it back up to meet yours. A small, unguarded thing he clearly had not intended to give you.

"I believe it would be terribly unwise for the Crown Prince to deny such an urgent summons," you said, just above a whisper.

He said nothing, but the silence that followed was not empty. It sat between you thick and airless, his eyes not leaving yours for even a moment. His expression holding an answer he had no intention of saying out loud, so you gave him one in return.

You let the knee resting against him begin to move. A long, slow stroke directly against the hardness straining at his breeches. The heat of him consumed you even through all the layers in between. You felt him tense, the strong lines of his body drawing tight all at once like a bowstring pulled to its limit.

Whatever he had been holding back finally slipped through. The sound that escaped him was small and brief. His hand at your hip flexed and tightened in its wake. Then, slowly, something else moved across his face. Amusement creeping in, mixing with hunger. Like he could not quite decide whether to laugh or pull you closer. Knowing him, he would do both.

With nothing left to pretend, he set the blank parchment very carefully on the desk, smoothed it flat with one broad palm, and reached for you instead.

One strong arm closed around your waist, the solid breadth of his chest leaving very little room for pretending you had not wanted exactly this from the moment you walked through the door. The other hand curved around the back of your neck, fingers reaching into your hair, drawing you closer until your lips hovered at the edge of his.

He took your mouth at once, pressing hard at first before softening into something slower and wetter, his tongue sliding against yours until a moan slipped out before you could catch it.

Without loosening his grip, he began to grind his hardened, clothed cock against your hips. You shifted instinctively until his bulge pressed firm between your thighs. You moaned deeper into his mouth, fingers tightening in his collar, and felt him exhale hard against your lips.

The last of whatever restraint he had been clinging to all evening finally burning through. He broke the kiss to catch his breath, still holding you close, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Baelor…” you breathed, your teeth grazing his lower lip, yearning for more.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dropping to drink you in. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“…and if young Lord Peake believes I shall simply overlook missing accounts because he smiles pleasantly, or if he ever thinks I have forgiven and forgotten which side his father took during the rebellion…”

His voice continued to fill the chamber with the affairs of the realm, but all you could think was how, at court, singers praised his strength, the princely solemnity of him. Ladies whispered over the broadness of his shoulders as though they were girls discussing tourney champions. Fools. None of them knew the true self of Prince Baelor Targaryen. It was this, the quiet intimacy of him after dark. With you.

You studied him carefully. The sight of him never failed to send shivers up your spine… and between your thighs. “Mhm,” you murmured.

“Darling,” Baelor said carefully, “are you listening to me?”

“Of course,” you said, trying to sound confident, but your eyes did not meet his. They wandered over the silver beginning to appear at his temples, making him look less like a storybook prince and more like a man carved from something old and steady and safe.

“You appear very occupied.” His hand stroked your left thigh loosely. “Are you tired?”

“No, no. I’m listening. Yes, the fool young Lord Peake. Continue…” you said, starting to run your fingers through his beard. The silver had become your favourite part, though he often complained it made him look older than you, his younger, beautiful wife. You had shushed him numerous times, assuring him his beauty was no different.

Baelor shifted slightly against the pillows, and the collar of his sleeping tunic loosened further. “…which is why I told him if he wished to continue insulting the crown’s judgement, he might do so from a dungeon cell instead...”

Your gaze drifted down his body. The texture of his beard fascinated you, yes, but the sculpted strength of his chest, this was different. A glimpse of skin appeared beneath the linen. Warm bronze touched with gold by candlelight, dusted with dark hair across his chest. You found yourself distracted once again by the sight of him. So your hand slipped lower, fingertips tracing idle circles through the soft hair at the centre of his chest.

Baelor faltered for the briefest moment, but he continued speaking, “…the Master of Coin insists the matter may yet be settled peacefully, though I suspect he would call a wildfire blaze an unfortunate warmth...”

Without realising it, you smiled faintly against him. The realm’s beloved prince. Your husband. Older than you, yes. Wiser, certainly. Worn thin by duty and councils and the endless burdens placed upon noble shoulders. And yet here he was, warm beneath your fingertips. Safe in your arms. Entirely yours. A frighteningly smug feeling settled inside your chest.

There was something deeply satisfying about touching him like this while listening to him speak. Perhaps because the rest of the realm treated him as though he belonged upon a pedestal somewhere. His honey-like voice filled your ears like music, serenading the space. He was always so composed and thoughtful, except for a few nights when he took you to bed and let his stress out of his system - where he could be cruel and torturous - but you knew the real man behind your beloved husband.

His voice vibrated pleasantly. “…and if the crown permits one lord to evade taxes, every lesser bannerman shall soon attempt the same...”

You liked his voice so much that sometimes you would linger in the council chambers, listening to him discuss matters that were not entirely important to you, but the sound of his voice somehow brought you calm.

You studied his features again. He was so handsome you almost found it irritating. The silver in his beard, the scar near his shoulder from some ancient tourney injury, the strength beneath softened fabric. Even the lines at the corners of his eyes suited him unfairly well. Ageing had not stolen his beauty.

After a while, you realised he had stopped talking.

“…darling.” Baelor looked down at you now, one dark brow slightly raised. “I am certain you are not listening to me at all.”

“Of course I am,” you tried to bite back laughter, your fingers continuing to comb absently through the hair upon his chest.

His hand caught your wrist, stopping your wandering touch. “Then tell me what I was speaking of.”

“The lord,” you shrugged.

“The lord,” he repeated.

You tilted your chin upward just enough to smile at him. “The deeply troublesome lord. You will send him to the dungeon if he dares question the crown’s taxes.”

Baelor stared for another moment before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Right,” he agreed, a mischievous look followed behind his eyes.

You returned to tracing patterns against his chest while he resumed speaking, his voice now had softened with amusement. Something about shipments, or ports, or perhaps prisons. Truthfully, you tried listening for nearly a full minute.

You could not stand it any longer. “You are very handsome,” you announced abruptly.

Baelor stopped mid-sentence. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are handsome,” you repeated, looking up, voice sounded entirely serious now. “Distractingly so.”

For a moment, the Prince of Dragonstone looked completely defenseless. Colour rose slowly across his cheeks. He blinked, then a smile followed, softening, unravelling, the one reserved only for you, his wife.

“I know you weren’t even listening, my heart. Does this old man really bore you with his lore?” he teased.

“You are not old, Baelor. How many times do I have to say that? And you are very handsome. It pains me,” your eyes found his mismatched eyes. The danger in those eyes could change depending on the mood he carried at times.

Baelor exhaled through his nose, dragging his hands further up your thighs, somewhere between amusement and surrender. “You have retained nothing from the past quarter hour.”

You brought a palm to cup his cheek, stroking it lightly. “I retained handsome.”

“That was not part of the discussion,” he said, turning his face to press a kiss into your palm. The gesture always sent butterflies through your belly.

“It should have been,” you said softly. Your hand found his where it rested against your thigh, large, warm, steady. Your gaze moved over him slowly; studying the colours of his eyes, his well-sculpted nose, his delicate lips, his strong jaw, his broad chest, even the full breadth of his body built by years of court training and rebellion.

And when you looked up at him again, the fondness in his gaze struck you with such force you nearly forgot your own teasing. That gentle tenderness of his made women write songs, men swear oaths, and kingdoms place impossible hopes upon his shoulders. Gosh, how handsome.

And as though he could read the thoughts behind your eyes, he drew you closer and pressed a long, unhurried kiss to your lips. Slow and certain, as if reminding you that he had always been yours.

“What would the court think,” you murmured against him, “if they knew the future king melts beneath his wife’s touch?”

He smiled into the kiss, “Then it is fortunate,” he said softly, meant only for your ears, “that they never will.”

"He is shoring up his small council," you said.

"He is." Your father looked at you. "He needs men he can trust with gold as much as with swords. Men whose loyalty is not merely sworn but secured." Another pause. "He has offered me the position of Master of Coin." 

The room went very still. Darrick set his cup down with the careful precision of someone thinking very fast. "And what exactly are we getting out of this, father?"

"That," your lord father said, "depends entirely on what we decide we want." You and your brother looked at each other. A seat on the small council was not nothing. But the Lannisters did not ride south and open their coffers for a seat on a small council. There would need to be something more. A tie. The kind that could not be easily undone.

"Nothing has been decided," your father said, reading both of you with the ease of long practice. "I have not accepted. I am considering it." 

"Of course," Darrick said pleasantly. "Of course," you agreed.

The sun had found your skin the moment you stepped out of the Red Keep, heading toward the open tourney grounds where the noise of the crowd showed no sign of thinning. It was the kind of morning that made the capital look almost beautiful, if you did not think too hard about what lay beneath it. 

"Why the long face?" Darrick fell into step beside you, easy and unhurried. "Father has not accepted anything. Nothing has been decided. It is not as though you are being wed tomorrow." 

"I know that." You took his arm, drawing him close enough that your words would not carry. "It is not a matter of what. It is a matter of whom." 

Darrick made a sound, he was about to say something he already knew you would not like. "Does it have to be a problem? Who it is should be the least of your concerns. You and father get access to the Iron Throne either way." 

You said nothing. Which was not the same as being reassured. "Besides..." His mouth curved. "There are worse fates than a Targaryen match." 

You stopped walking. "Do not." 

He turned to face you, leaning against the stone wall, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Think of it practically. Father needs a tie, something that cannot be undone. A marriage is the oldest tie there is." He tilted his head. "Prince Daeron seems manageable enough. If you gave him sufficient reason, I imagine he could be persuaded to give up drinking."

"Manageable," you repeated. 

"Is that not what you want? Someone you can manage?" 

The thought of Daeron, technically the closest to your age, for whatever that was worth, sat unpleasantly in your stomach. "I want someone who will not bore me within the year." 

Your brother looked at you. He had already worked it out, you could tell. "Prince Valarr, then. Heir presumptive after Baelor. Pleasant and handsome. Valarr would not bore you," he said carefully. "You would run rings around him inside a fortnight and you know it. The sweet ones always are."

"Darrick." 

"And if he does not satisfy in other respects," he continued, with the breezy ease of a man saying something deeply inappropriate, "there are always arrangements to be made. Wed one, bed another. You need only find someone with dark hair who knows how to keep quiet about it." 

"That is disgusting!” you said, sharp enough to cut.

That drew a laugh from him. "I am only giving suggestions." He started to pull on the glove he had tucked in his belt, his eyes finding yours, serious beneath the jest.

"But at the end of the day, what you want is what you will get. So, what is it that you want, sweet sister?"

Your brother did not wait for an answer. He walked on toward the line of tents where the jousters were making ready, and left you standing with the question. Your mind turned on the possibility of being wed to the crown. 

An opportunity, certainly. But at what cost.

· · ─────── ·. 𖥸 Baelor 𖥸 ·. ─────── · ·

The small council chamber was cooler than the rest of the Red Keep, which was one of the few things Baelor appreciated about it. The thick stone walls kept the summer heat at bay, and the narrow windows let in just enough light to read by without inviting the noise of the yard below. A room built for serious work, and serious work was what it got.

"Bloodraven's report arrived this morning," Baelor said, setting the letter flat on the table where the assembled lords could see it. "The whispers out of the Riverlands have grown louder. Daemon's son is not content to remain a rumour."

The room was quiet. King Daeron sat at the head of the table, hands folded, face unreadable. He had already made up his mind. The council meetings were merely the formality of letting everyone else catch up.

To his left, Lord Tully sat with jaw tight, running numbers in his head. Lord Rosby had gone slightly pale. Lord Lolliston was writing something down, whether notes or prayers Baelor could not tell. 

Lord Tyrell cleared his throat. "Daemon the Second is a boy playing at his father's legacy."

"Daemon the First was also considered a boy once," Baelor said, without particular heat. "Lord Butterwell is not a boy. And Lord Butterwell has been hosting rather a lot of quiet suppers lately, if Bloodraven's sources are to be believed."

"Are they to be believed?" Lord Tyrell asked.

"They have been thus far," Baelor said.

Another silence. Everyone was thinking the same thing but nobody wanted to say it first. Which meant Baelor would have to. That was, in the end, what being Hand of the King meant.

"We must reinforce," he said. "But we do this quietly. We do not want to give Daemon's supporters the satisfaction of knowing they have rattled us." He studied the lords present.

"Most of you have fought bravely when the first rebellion broke. The crown appreciates it. But we must do better in securing our alliances. We remind the lords who matter that their lands, their titles, their futures, all of it sits safer under the crown than under a pretender's promise." He looked around the table. "Loyalty that is assumed is loyalty that is lost. Loyalty that is tended does not waver."

King Daeron nodded slowly. He unfolded his hands and reached for his cup. The formal portion of the discussion was concluded. "Which brings me to a related matter." 

The room waited.

"Three of my grandsons remain unwed," the king said, with the mild tone of a man remarking on the weather. "Baelor's son Valarr is of age, second in line. Young Daeron, and Aerion likewise. It occurs to me that a tourney is rather a convenient occasion to consider such things. If any of you lords have daughters or wards of suitable standing..." He let it sit there, open and unhurried.

Lord Tully's expression shifted into something calculating. Lord Tyrell smiled, unsurprised, as though he had been thinking along similar lines all evening. Lord Rosby looked as though he was doing sums. Lord Lannister, quiet until now, set down his quill.

"I have a daughter here with me. Though I will say she would require some considerable convincing. She has particular opinions about most things." It was said almost as a warning. Or perhaps as an advertisement. With Martyn Lannister, Baelor suspected, it was both simultaneously. 

The name that followed after was hers.

Baelor felt something inside him spiral into something else. The name landed differently than it should have. Oh, Mothers, he whispered in his head.

And whatever Lord Lannister had come to say next, Baelor did not hear it. The Blackfyre threat, Lord Butterwell's quiet suppers, none of it mattered anymore.

Baelor kept his expression still. He had not known her first name until now, and hearing her father say it for the first time sent a shiver down his spine. He repeated it again in his head, wanting to taste it, ever since he had left her at the kitchen door last night. 

He turned his rings around his finger. Her father was here about the Master of Coin position which meant a marriage pact could be made. Not with him of course. With Valarr, perhaps. Valarr was the obvious choice, heir presumptive, closer to her age, a match that made sense on paper and would make sense to everyone in this room. Or Daeron. Daeron needed a steadying hand and a Lannister match would provide just that. 

Lord Tully was saying something about the Riverlands. Baelor nodded, hoping it passed for engaged attention. But his eyes drifted more than once to where Lord Lannister sat. If the Lord of Casterly Rock knew what his daughter had done to him last night, would he draw his sword at him, crown prince or not? He pressed two fingers briefly to the table. Stop.

He was the Hand of the King, sitting in a council chamber discussing a potential rebellion and the security of the realm, thinking about a woman he had spoken to twice, in a garden and on a staircase. A woman whose every word had a second meaning and who watched him find it with those steady, unreadable eyes.

She would not want an old man, he told himself, in the tone he used for things he considered settled. She would not want a widower with grown sons. She is a Lannister girl at her first court and the world is available to her and she would not… 

He could still hear her words in that hall. Though I cannot blame him for it entirely. He is half dragon, half Dornish after all. He remembered how easily it had settled under his skin. He readjusted himself in the wooden chair.

Lord Rosby asked a question about grain stores. "We maintain current levels," Baelor said, with complete authority, and absolutely no idea what question had been asked. He looked back at the letter from Bloodraven.

Stop making a fool of yourself, he thought. The council continued. He was very professional about it for the rest of the hour.

Mostly.

· · ───────── ·. 𖥸 ·. ───────── · ·

The afternoon's matches had drawn half the capital to the yard. You sat with your ladies in the shade of the noble benches, a small distance from the more boisterous of the lordly retinues, close enough to see the field clearly. 

Prince Valarr Targaryen rode beautifully. There was no denying it. Controlled and precise, the kind of rider formed by years of proper instruction. His brown hair threaded with silver caught the afternoon light from across the yard, and his face was pleasant and open in the manner that the ladies around you seemed to find enormously appealing. You watched him put his first opponent in the dirt with clean, efficient grace and felt nothing in particular.

Aerion was harder to ignore. He rode the way he did everything, with an aggression that was almost theatrical, like he wanted you to know exactly how little he feared any of this. Half the crowd was terrified, the other half transfixed. He caught a lady's favour from three rows back without breaking stride and you watched him tuck it away with a grin that made at least four noble daughters forget themselves entirely. Dangerous, you thought. Exciting, certainly. But the kind of excitement that ended badly for everyone involved.

Your gaze moved on.

Young Lord Tyrell sat in the stands rather than the field today, which gave you a better look at him than you had managed thus far. He was handsome in the broad, sunlit way of Reach lords, all easy charm and good manners and the particular confidence of a man who had never wanted for anything. A Lannister and Tyrell match would not be the worst thing anyone had ever suggested. Two of the wealthiest houses in the realm, gold and grain, lion and rose. Your grandmother would have called it sensible. But your grandmother had also told you to aim for the top.

Always aim for the top, she had said, her voice settling over you now like a familiar cloak.

You thought about what your brother had said. Valarr would be a fine match. Safe. Agreeable. Easy. But a safe prince and an easy man would not keep you on your toes for long. A lioness always hungers for more. 

You turned the thought carefully from every angle. If a marriage was going to be the price of the arrangement, then why should it be decided without your input? Why should anyone settle on Valarr or Daeron when there was a better option sitting ten feet away on the same bench? 

Your eyes moved, almost without meaning to. Prince Maekar was deep in conversation with Prince Rhaegel beside him, neither of them paying much attention to the field. King Daeron himself was absent, still meeting with lords somewhere in the castle, building the ties he needed. 

And then there was him. Prince Baelor.

He was not watching the joust. He was reading something, a letter or a document, one hand braced on his knee, brow slightly furrowed. A Kingsguard leaned close to say something in his ear. The afternoon light caught the dark of his hair, the line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the dark fabric of his doublet.

He was not a young man. You could see the years in the lines of his face, the quiet weight he carried behind his eyes. But gods, he was handsome. Not the careless beauty of youth, but something steadier, something earned. The kind of handsome that came from the way he held himself, unhurried and self possessed, like a man who had long since stopped needing anyone’s approval and had never truly wanted it to begin with. It did something to your chest you were not entirely prepared for.

You had made him blush in the garden once, with very little effort. And on that staircase last night, he had proven he could play the game too, which was either very promising or very dangerous. You had not yet decided which.

What if, you thought. What if. 

The crowd roared as another rider was unhorsed. Your ladies were still talking, passing commentary on young lords they seemed to find suitable. Everything continued exactly as it had been. But something within you had shifted, quiet and certain, like a key turning in a lock. 

Give the family the best of satisfactory, your grandmother had said once in the solar at Casterly Rock with the sea glittering beyond the window. Anyone can aim for good enough. A Lannister aims for everything. 

You twisted the lion locket at your throat. Everything, you thought. And let your gaze drift, just once more, back to the high bench. 

I know what I want.

· · ─────── ·. 𖥸 Baelor 𖥸 ·. ─────── · ·

He had told himself he would only stay for the first few matches before returning to the Tower of the Hand. But the absence of the crown prince during the tourney would draw suspicion from the crowd. He set aside the document he had been pretending to read and folded it. Enough. Enjoy the tourney like a normal man for a moment.

Valarr was riding again, and riding well, and the stands knew it. He could hear the pitch of the crowd that meant women were involved, the way it swelled when his son made something look effortless. He watched Valarr accept a favour from a girl in the third row with that easy charming smile he had inherited from his mother's side and thought, not for the first time, that his son would have no difficulty finding a wife. The difficulty would be narrowing it down.

Further down the field, Aerion was doing what Aerion always did, making everything look slightly dangerous even when it was not. The crowd loved him for it, with a kind of breathless collective hope that nothing would go wrong. A lord's daughter near the front had pressed both hands to her mouth.

He let his eyes move across the stands. And like fate… he found her.

She was not looking at him. She was looking at the field, sharp and focused, somewhere far away behind those eyes. Her ladies were talking around her and she was present enough to seem engaged and elsewhere enough that he suspected she had not heard a word in some time.

Her hand was at her throat, turning something there. A locket, small and gold.

He had learned her name this morning in the council chamber, from her father's mouth. It had done something unfortunate to his attention for the rest of the meeting.

And now he had a name to go with everything else she had left behind. The garden. The staircase. The half dragon half Dornish line that had followed him to his chambers last night and was still there when he woke. He had lain in the dark and stared at the ceiling and thought about it for considerably longer than was reasonable.

She turned the locket once. Twice. Her eyes were still on the field, still moving. He wanted to know what she was thinking. That was the thing that surprised him most. Not the pull of her, he was a man and she was beautiful and that part was straightforward enough even if the intensity of it was not.

But the wanting to know what was happening behind those eyes, the specific curiosity of it. He had met a great many people in his life. He could count on one hand the ones who made him feel that within two days.

Valarr unhorsed his opponent to a roar from the crowd. Her ladies reacted, leaning forward and clapping. She smiled politely. And went back to whatever she was actually thinking about.

He looked back at the field. A woman he had spoken to twice. That was all it had taken.

Her eyes moved again across the stands. For just a moment, they drifted toward the high bench, almost to him. He looked down immediately at the document in his hands, afraid they might find him.

Pathetic, Baelor thought.

· · ───────── ·. 𖥸 ·. ───────── · ·

You found your brother exactly where you expected to find him that evening. His tent was lit from within, the warm glow of it visible from across the yard, and you could hear laughter before you even reached the entrance. You lifted the flap and found precisely what you had suspected. 

The girl was pretty. Copper-haired, bright-eyed, wearing considerably less than she had probably started the evening with. She scrambled upright the moment she saw you, colour draining from her face with impressive speed. "My lady, I—"

"No need for that." You waved off the curtsy she was already attempting. "Could you give me and my brother a moment?"

She nodded and went out quickly. The tent flap had not finished settling before Darrick turned to you, somewhere between annoyed and resigned. "I was busy," he said.

"You were. I will not take long" You crossed the tent and sat yourself down in the chair across from him. "I know who I want." You held his gaze and let the silence sit for a moment. 

"I want Baelor," you said, barely above a whisper. The tent went very quiet. Only the sound of you and your brother's breathing. 

"Baelor," he repeated.

"Baelor. The Hand of the King. Heir to the Iron Throne. Yes."

"I heard you the first time, I just..." He sat up suddenly, the easy recline gone, replaced by something sharper. "How exactly are you planning to..."

He looked at you with genuine uncertainty, which was rare enough to note. "Are you certain he would even want another wife? He lost Jena not so long ago. He is not the type to..."

"He is also not the type to remain a widower forever," you said, keeping your voice low. "He has sons but no queen. The court knows it. Father knows it. And the King knows it most of all."

Darrick was quiet for a moment. Then he sat back down, and said, "Right. Listen carefully."

He told you first about patience. Men like Baelor, he said, did not respond to the obvious. He had seen too much of it. Pretty girls at court had been making eyes at the crown prince since he was old enough to be worth making eyes at, and he had developed, through sheer necessity, an immunity to it. You could not simply walk into a room and be beautiful at him. That would get you nowhere.

"You have to make him think," Darrick said. "Give him something to turn over. Something he cannot quite solve." 

"I can do that."

"I know you can. I am telling you to do it deliberately." He held up a finger. "Second. Never let him see you try. The moment he thinks you are working for his attention it is over. Men like Baelor do not want to be hunted. They want to believe they chose." 

This was nothing like what your grandmother had taught you. It was more interesting.

"Third, and this is the important one." He pointed at you. "Do not be available. Not obviously unavailable, that is transparent. But do not make it easy for him to find you. Let him notice your absence as much as your presence."

"So I make him think he is choosing."

"While choosing everything for him, yes." Darrick beamed. "This should come naturally to you." 

"It does." You paused. "What else?" 

He thought for a moment. "Talk to him like he is a person." 

You blinked. "That’s your advice?"

"Half the women at court talk to him like he is a title. Your Grace this, my prince that, all performance and no substance. He finds it exhausting, I guarantee it. Talk to him like you are genuinely interested in what he thinks." He paused. "Are you?" 

You considered the question more honestly than you expected to. "Possibly," you said.

Darrick's grin returned. "Good. Use it." He leaned forward, voice dropping slightly. "And last. Make him laugh. Not perform for him, not charm him, not dazzle him. Make him actually laugh. A man who laughs with you will follow you anywhere." 

You let out a half laugh at that. I already did, you thought, at the garden and the staircase. "Any other wisdom?"

"Yes." He reached for his cup again. "Do not get caught plotting. Mother of all rules. Whatever you do, however you do it, it has to look like it simply happened." He held your gaze steadily. Then he waved you toward the tent flap. "Go. Go and get yourself a crown prince. And try not to enjoy it too much." 

"No promises," you said, already moving. 

"And send my pretty lady back in. The night is far from over." You walked back out into the warm dark of King's Landing with your brother's laughter at your back and the very beginning of a plan taking shape in your chest, quiet and certain, like the first light before dawn.

· · ───────── ·. 𖥸 ·. ───────── · ·

That night, the great hall had been dressed for the feast the way King's Landing dressed for everything, abundantly and without restraint. Candles by the hundred, long tables draped in cloth, the smell of roasted meat and spiced wine thick in the warm air. Music somewhere near the far end of the hall, lively enough to fill the space without drowning conversation.

You had dressed carefully. A deep Lannister gold tonight, it complements your hair, the kind that caught candlelight and held it. A single piece of jewellery at your throat. Nothing more.

You made your way to introduce yourself to Lady Caswell and her youngest son with your warmest smile and within fifteen minutes had learned that Lord and Lady Caswell's son had a talent for impressions that he was very shy about, and that Lady Caswell had strong opinions about the current state of the Reach's grain supply. The conversation was genuinely fascinating. And so warmly that they had offered you a seat at their place, away from your father's.

By the time the second course arrived your table was the loudest in the non-royal half of the hall. Not loudest in the way of men deep in their cups, but loudest in the way of people who were actually enjoying themselves, laughing and talking over each other with the easy energy of a conversation that had found its rhythm. 

You were mid-explanation to Lady Caswell about the tidal patterns off Lannisport when you felt it. Someone was watching you.

Not the slow appreciative observation of men who noticed a well-dressed woman across a room. Something more focused. More deliberate. You let the conversation flow, reached for your cup, and let your eyes drift, casual and unhurried, across the hall toward the royal table. The dais sat at the far end, bathed in candlelight.

And Baelor was looking at you. 

Steady and direct and entirely unbothered by the fact that you had caught him doing it. You held it. One breath. Two. 

Then you smiled, the private smile of someone who has just remembered something pleasant, and looked back at Lady Caswell and said, "Now you have to tell me about the time your husband lost the horse." 

"How did you know about the horse?" 

"I did not until just now. Tell me."

She told you the story and you laughed again and did not look back at the royal table for the rest of the course. But you felt it the whole time. That steady, deliberate attention from the far end of the hall, like a hand resting warm at the back of your neck.

· · ─────── ·. 𖥸 Baelor 𖥸 ·. ─────── · ·

Lord Tully had been explaining something for the better part of twenty minutes. Baelor had nodded three times. He could not have said what about.

Daemon. Harrenhal. Livestock. Those were the only words his ears had managed to hold. The rest had slipped past him entirely, because across the hall, seated beside Lady Caswell at a table that had no particular claim on his attention, a young woman was laughing. She had laughed several times now. Each time, it became somewhat harder to follow whatever point Lord Tully was making.

He excused himself with the courtesies a polite prince owed and made his way across the hall. 

"My lady." He greeted Lady Caswell first, then let his gaze settle on the woman beside her. The one who had apparently decided, without asking his permission, to occupy his attention for the entirety of the first course. "Lady Lannister. You are well?"

"Your Grace." Both women rose in curtsy. Lady Caswell's cheeks had gone faintly pink, flustered at being addressed by a crown prince.

"Very well, Your Grace, thank you." Her voice. He had not forgotten it. "We were just discussing the grain supply. Lady Caswell has some genuinely interesting thoughts on the distribution problem in the Reach." A pause, brief and perfectly measured.

"I imagine you have encountered the same problem from the other side of it, Your Grace." 

There she is, Baelor thought, failing to hide a smile. "Have I?" 

"The Reach sends grain north and west but the return flow of coin never quite matches the volume. Someone is absorbing the difference." She tilted her head and bared her long soft neck, as though calling him to wrap his hands around it– no, he shook the thought. What in the Sevens are you thinking? 

"I suspect you already know where this problem lies, Your Grace," she said, and smiled.

She is testing me, Baelor thought, with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. She was playing a game. He knew that. He had been at court long enough to recognise when someone was playing a game, and she was very good at it. But the alarming part was not that she was playing. The alarming part was that he did not mind.

He quickly drew his eyes to Lady Caswell instead. "Rest assured my lady, I am doing everything I can to look into the matter. This question has been flagged to the King himself as well."

The conversation continued and he became aware of how Lady Caswell was a woman who loved to exaggerate a context. He was also aware, with a clarity that was becoming difficult to manage, of exactly how many times her arm had brushed his in the course of the last quarter hour.

Twice during the discussion of eastern holdings. Once when she leaned toward Lady Caswell. A fourth time that he was fairly certain had not been accidental, though he could not have explained precisely why, only that he was. Four times he had counted.

She smelled of something warm and faintly citrus. And when something struck her as funny she laughed with her whole face, and every time it happened something in his chest did something he did not have a useful name for.

He was a grown man, a widower, the heir to the Iron Throne, a man who had sat across war councils and held the realm together through worse than this. He had no sensible business being distracted by a Lannister girl young enough, very nearly, to have been paired with his eldest son. And yet…

Lady Caswell finished her explanation. Baelor made a sound of agreement that seemed to satisfy her. He needed to move. To greet another lord, find somewhere else to be, put some sensible distance between himself. Before he did something considerably less sensible than counting.

· · ───────── ·. 𖥸 ·. ───────── · ·

The candles had burned lower by the time the exhaustion crept in, slow and certain at the edges of everything. The music was still going, the hall still warm and full, but you had reached the point of the evening where the noise had stopped being festive and started being simply loud.

You found Darrick near the pillar where you had left him an hour ago with some other young lords. "I'm withdrawing to my chamber," you said quietly, appearing at his elbow. 

His hand caught yours before you had finished the sentence. "The night is not over, sister." 

"I'm tired.” 

"I know. Look." He said it without moving his head, the practiced casualness of someone who had learned young how to observe without appearing to. "But do not make it obvious." You followed his eyeline.

Your father stood near the far edge of the hall, away from the main press of the crowd, in the quieter space by the window where the serious conversations happened. He was deep in discussion with someone, gesturing once with the measured restraint that meant he was making a point he considered important. The someone was Baelor. 

"Go on then," your brother murmured, with the smile of a man watching something he had been anticipating all evening.

"I was going to bed."

He glanced at you sideways. "You were. And now you are going to walk over there and tell father you are retiring, as any dutiful daughter would, and whatever happens after that is entirely out of your hands."

You huff but smooth the front of your gown, take one even breath, and agree.

· · ───────── ·. 𖥸 ·. ───────── · ·

You crossed the hall at an unhurried pace. When your lord father saw you coming, something shifted in his expression. Satisfied. His evening had gone well. "Ah," he said. "There she is."

Baelor turned.

"Forgive the interruption," you said, with a small apologetic smile directed at both of them equally. "I only wanted to say goodnight, father. It has been a long day." 

"Of course." Your father's hand came briefly to your arm in the rare gesture of warmth he reserved for public moments when it served a purpose. "I was just telling Prince Baelor about your work at Casterly Rock." 

You kept your expression perfectly pleasant. "Were you." 

"The work with the women and children," your father continued smoothly, as though he had been waiting for exactly this. "The gatherings you host. Listening to their concerns, the food contributions, the support you have organised for the families of men lost in service. The prince was asking about the character of our house." You did not look at your father for too long, you turned to Baelor instead.

His eyes found yours and held, steady and unrelenting, which made the air between you feel smaller than it was. "It is a small thing," you said. "The women who come to those gatherings carry more knowledge about what a household needs than any lord's steward I have ever met. Listening seemed the obvious response."

"It is not as common as it ought to be," Baelor said. Something warm crossed his face then, unguarded, genuine, stripped of all the careful composure he wore everywhere else. He smiled. "The work you describe would do considerable good here in the capital. There is no shortage of need."

"So I have observed," you said. "King's Landing is a city of extraordinary contrasts." 

"It is." He paused. "I find myself looking forward to hearing more about what you have built at Casterly Rock. And what you might build elsewhere, given the opportunity." 

"I heard my father has been offered a rather significant position," you said, light as anything, as though the thought had only just occurred to you. "If the Sevens are willing, Your Grace, I imagine you will be seeing rather more of me.” 

With that, you curtsied, said your goodnights to both with measured warmth, and walked away across the hall toward the doors without looking back. Darrick was waiting near the pillar, cup raised in a small silent toast as you passed him. You did not stop. But you smiled, wide and private and entirely your own, and kept walking.

Behind you, you heard nothing. But you felt it. That steady, deliberate attention following you all the way to the door. Goodnight, Your Grace, you thought. Sleep well.

· · ─────── ·. 𖥸 Baelor 𖥸 ·. ─────── · ·

He watched her go. Her lord father was still speaking. Something about the western trade routes, which under normal circumstances would have had Baelor's complete attention because he had thoughts about the western trade routes and had been wanting to discuss them with someone who understood them for months. But tonight he heard approximately none of it.

If the Sevens are willing, Your Grace, I imagine you will be seeing rather more of me.

She was already at the door by the time he had fully processed it. The gold of her gown catching the last of the candlelight before she slipped through and were gone.

Of course I will see more of you, Baelor thought, with a certainty that had arrived fully formed and showed no interest in being argued with. I will see considerably more of you. And if that requires me to find my King of a father tonight and explain to him why appointing your father as Master of Coin is not merely politically advantageous but an urgent matter of state that cannot wait until morning, then that I will certainly do so.

He became aware that Lord Lannister had asked him a question. "Forgive me," Baelor said. "You were saying?"

Martyn Lannister looked at him. He had noticed the distraction. "The quarterly assessments," he said mildly. "Though perhaps we might continue this tomorrow. It has been a long evening."

"Yes," Baelor said. "It has."

He looked once more at the door she had walked through. "Lord Lannister," Baelor said, before the man could leave. "My father has spoken highly of your counsel. I hope the discussions have been productive."

"Very," Martyn said.

Bringing flowers at every date? He does it. 

Pick up the tab every time you go out to eat? He always does. (Except when you pressed him occasionally that you want to treat him, then only he says yes. That took 10 rounds of convincing him.) 

Offer to pick you up after work because he doesn't believe in letting his woman commute alone back home, always wanting to learn about the TV shows you have watched even though he doesn't understand all the terms and memes the internet are saying. 

Baelor will always believe that chivalry is what would win people's hearts over. Baelor never understands how men at this age would use pretty girls like you as a disposable bag. That's what he had told Valarr, too.

"Treat your woman right." 

"A real gentleman does not simply date pretty girls." 

"Show up at their door. Shake her father's hand and look him in the eye." 

"Sit at her mother's dinner table and compliment the food and answer every difficult question thrown at them without flinching."

So if your parents disapprove, he will listen. He will be patient. He will sit across that table for as long as it takes and win them over the same way he wins everything else. Quietly, thoroughly. Without leaving much room for argument. 

Baelor will step out of every comfort zone if it means doing this the right way. Because you deserve the right way. As far as he is concerned you have always deserved the right way.

He tells you this and you almost laugh because of course he has a plan. He always has a plan.

So when you agree to bring Baelor to meet your parents, within the first 30 minutes he has already won them over. He discusses the economy with your father, talks about hobbies with your mother, and blends in so naturally with your siblings that you almost forget you were ever worried at all.

You stand in the kitchen doorway watching him laugh at something your father said and think to yourself.