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Summary: After the death of your husband and Daeron's ascension to the Iron Throne, you are summoned to King's Landing to discuss your future.
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x F!Reader (past Ormund Hightower x F!Reader)
Word Count: 3.3.K
Warning: Eventually 18+ only. This chapter includes brief references to past physical and emotional abuse (Ormund is a warning himself, okay?). Some spoilers for Fire and Blood.
A/N: No use of Y/N. Reader's house is not named and there is no physical descriptions of her given. Thank you so much to @exxotiic and @romeliann for beta reading and @starlitflora and @aninhatatu for listening to me yell about Gwayne and this fic.
Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Part 1
For the first time in years you sleep deeply.
There is nothing extraordinary about the bed or the quiet night air, although both are comforting. This is a strange place, far from the halls you have known all your life, yet some part of you settles here.
It surprises you.
When Ormund died and the relief you expected never came, you feared it never would. Perhaps you were destined to carry that dread beneath your skin forever. But when you wake the next morning in King’s Landing, something feels different. You feel lighter. Not whole, but lighter.
As you begin to dress for the day, a servant arrives to request you join the King to break your fast. Margery helps prepare you, dressing in another black mourning gown, though this time you leave the veil behind. You slip your ring on your finger, readying yourself for the day.
Without thinking, your hand reaches toward one of the many small glass vials on your vanity. You uncork it, your body remembering the motion before your mind catches up. Lavender blooms in the air. And you freeze.
The Red Keep fades around you, replaced by another room, another morning. The memory comes not as a thought, but as a sensation. The ache in your body, the grip of his hands, the sharp edge of his voice filling the silence.
Your fingers tighten around the glass. For a long moment you don’t move. Then, with shaking hands, you set it back among the others.
"Please," you begin, your voice catching and you force it steady. "Please see that these are removed."
"Of course, my lady," Margery says gently. "Would you like new scented waters?"
You shake your head.
"No. And see to it there is no more lavender in my baths. Or rose.”
Margery dips her head. "Yes, my lady."
At the door you take a moment to steady yourself, pushing down the feelings lingering in your body. Only once you feel calm do you lift your chin and follow the waiting Kingsguard.
It is a short walk to the royal chambers, and when you enter, you find Daeron and Gwayne seated at a small table, joined by another woman.
Even if you had never seen the small portrait Daeron kept in his room, you would have recognized Alicent. The resemblance between Daeron and her is unmistakable, from the soft shape of their faces to the familiar curve of their nose and mouth.
Both men rise when you enter, though it is Daeron who crosses the room first, his reserve falling away entirely this time. You smile as he takes your hands in his.
“Come,” he insists. “You must meet my mother and sister.”
It is only then that you notice the woman seated on the floor behind the table, her long silver-gold hair falling around her face as she leans over the small child in her lap. The little girl grips a wooden block in her tiny fingers, carefully fitting it into the growing tower. Neither seem to notice your presence.
Alicent rises as you approach. You dip into a short curtsy and then rise. “Your Grace.”
“Daeron has shared much about you,” she says by way of greeting.
Something in her words catches you off guard, a faint coolness carefully concealed beneath her courtesy. For a fleeting moment she looks toward her son before returning to you.
“He has been very eager for you to arrive,” she continues.
“I am pleased to be here,” you reply.
“Please, join us,” Gwayne offers.
He pulls out the chair between himself and Daeron, waiting until you have taken your seat before gently pushing it closer to the table. Only then does he return to his own place beside you as the others settle in.
The table is filled with so much food, it’s nearly overwhelming. You hesitate, unsure where to begin until a small pile of pale, golden pastries at the center catches your eye.
Lemon cakes.
You have not had them in years. Ormund hated the scent of citrus and vanilla. He said they were too cloying.
Eagerly, you pick one up, the sticky glaze clinging to your fingertips. The first bite brings a sweetness you had almost forgotten, a rich buttery taste brightened by the sharpness of the lemon.
You make a small, pleased sound before you can help yourself.
“My uncle said you would like them,” Daeron reveals.
You look to Gwayne, surprised.
He holds your gaze for only a heartbeat and then his eyes drop to the table. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his thumb tracing once along the rim of his cup.
“They were served at your father’s hall,” Gwayne says after a moment. “I remember them being brought out after supper.”
“They were my favorite,” you reply.
Gwayne looks back at you, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.
“I have never seen you eat them before,” Daeron says, breaking the silence.
You glance back toward him. “My lord husband was not fond of them,” you say simply, reaching for another.
Daeron’s smile fades slightly, and you immediately regret the admission. You open your mouth, searching for something lighter to say.
“Helaena, darling,” Alicent calls sweetly. “Come eat. The food is getting cold.”
Her daughter does not answer, continuing to speak softly to the little girl in her lap. Alicent’s mouth presses into a thin line, but she does not call for her again. Instead, she turns back to the table, smoothing her expression into something more pleasant.
“Things will be better once we are in Oldtown,” she says quietly, almost as if reminding herself.
Immediately you look to Daeron, confused, only to find the young King staring intently at his plate. You touch his arm and his mouth tighthens. You know that expression. The way he goes still and tucks whatever he is feeling somewhere out of sight.
“There are difficult memories here for Helaena,” Daeron says finally.
“We will stay until the coronation,” Alicent adds, reaching for his hand with a gentle smile. “After that, I shall return to Oldtown with Helaena.”
The flash of anger you feel at her words catches you off guard. Alicent’s tender expression, the way she reaches to comfort him as though no time has passed between them, only makes the feeling harder to ignore. She has only just found him again. To leave him again seems unimaginable.
When you look across the table you find Gwayne watching Daeron as well, a slight wrinkle of concern between his brow. Perhaps better than anyone, he understands what his nephew has lost.
Absently, your thumb brushes over Daeron's forearm. You are not his mother, nor could you ever take her place. But for years, while she was gone, you did what you could. During the long journey to King’s Landing, you prepared yourself to step aside. To return Daeron to the mother he had spent so many years longing for. You had been glad for it.
Yet now, hearing she means to leave, you are startled by the small, shameful flicker of relief buried beneath your concern. Everything else in your life has been swept away. You are not ready to lose him too.
“The great houses have already begun to arrive,” Gwayne says with a weary sigh, breaking the quiet. “Soon, we will be overrun.”
“So the war is truly over?” you ask.
Daeron lets out a quiet breath.
“It is an uneasy peace,” he admits. “Cregan took his wolves back north, but…” He trails off, staring down into his cup. “If Aegon had not already been poisoned, I do not know if there would have been any words that could have stopped him.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
Across the table, Alicent turns away from the conversation, her attention shifting to Helaena. She watches her daughter quietly, almost as though she has chosen not to hear what is being said.
“Perhaps the realm was spared a final battle because of it,” Gwayne says gently, lowering his head to meet his nephew’s eyes.
You squeeze Daeron’s arm, wishing you could offer him more comfort. After a moment, he covers your hand with his.
“We should speak of happier things,” he announces.
“You will wear green again soon,” Helaena says suddenly.
Everyone turns toward her. You’re shocked to find her looking right at you. Then, as if nothing unusual has happened, she turns back to the blocks, carefully placing another atop the small tower in her daughter’s lap.
Alicent is the first to recover, offering a small, polite smile.
“Ah, yes,” she says. “You will need a new wardrobe for the coronation and for what comes next. Black has its place, but it cannot be worn forever..”
“No. Of course, you are right,” you say, suddenly finding you no longer have any appetite for the lemon cakes on your plate.
The mention of a new wardrobe is an unwelcome reminder of the conversation you had only yesterday. Another sign that your future is already beginning to unravel, slipping from your grasp.
Daeron clears his throat.
“I had thought to go riding after we are finished with our meal,” he says, his voice lighter than before. “Tessarion has been restless, and I fear she will take offense if I keep her waiting much longer.”
You smile. “A dragon’s patience is not easily tested.”
“And what of you? Have you decided what you will do today?” His gaze drifts briefly toward Gwayne.
You hesitate. “I think I would like to visit the sept.”
“You should not go alone,” Daeron says immediately. “Perhaps my uncle could accompany you.”
Gwayne lets out the faintest breath through his nose, brow lifting slightly as he stares at his nephew. Daeron only returns his look with a small smile.
“If my lady would welcome the company,” he says, inclining his head, “I would be honored to escort you.”
When you meet his eyes there is no expectation in them. Only patience.
“I would like that,” you admit softly. “If you truly do not mind.”
A quiet warmth settles over Gwayne's features. “Not at all.”
–
The path to the sept is not a long one, but Gwayne still offers you his arm. This close, you find yourself aware of the warmth of him beside you and the faint scent of leather and clean linen, mingled with something distinctly his. He keeps his pace slow, his stride measured to match yours.
You walk in companionable silence, passing surprisingly few servants. Those you do encounter greet Gwayne warmly, their expressions easy and unguarded.
“I must apologize,” he says suddenly.
You look toward him, but he keeps his gaze ahead, his expression thoughtful.
“I never had the chance to offer my condolences for your loss.” He pauses. “Not only for Ormund, but for everything that has changed since.”
Your fingers flex against his arm and you feel the subtle movement of muscle beneath the fabric.
“You have been brought here, your future discussed before you have had time to settle into the present. I imagine that cannot be easy.”
For a moment, you do not know what to say. To have someone acknowledge your situation so plainly is both a balm and a wound. You know you should offer a polite thank you and allow the conversation to move on, as you have done so many times before. But, instead, the truth slips free.
“No. It has not been easy.”
He looks toward you, pale blue eyes steady and gentle . “Perhaps the sept might give you a moment away from all of it.”
“Is that why you go?” you ask.
“Perhaps,” he says after a moment.
“And you find it helps?”
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Sometimes.”
“Then perhaps we should ask the Crone for more guidance.”
His eyes shift toward you, amused. “For me?”
“For both of us,” you admit.
Gwayne slows as the corridors open onto the small courtyard of the royal sept. The space is surprisingly quiet, filled only with birdsong and the soft rustle of the breeze. Inside the air is cool, and sunlight filters through colored glass, painting the stone floor in shades of green, gold, and white.
Together, you make your way toward the Crone and kneel upon the thick, cushioned pad laid before her. There is barely enough room for the two of you, leaving you closer to Gwayne than you expected. Your shoulder nearly brushes his.
You take a slender candle from the tray and hold it to the flame of the taper already burning in front of the statue. The wick catches, and you set it among the others. Beside you, Gwayne does the same.
You do not know exactly what to ask for. Courage perhaps. Or simply the strength to accept whatever comes next. As you ponder, your attention drifts toward Gwayne. You find yourself wondering what he might be asking of the Seven. His head is bowed, strands of golden-red hair falling across half his face, his lips moving quietly as he murmurs the words beneath his breath.
He looks beautiful.
The thought comes quickly and without permission. You draw a quiet breath and curl your fingers into the folds of your dress, embarrassed. You turn your attention back to the Crone and close your eyes, even as heat burns across your cheeks, a sudden warmth spreading through your chest.
It takes a moment to settle your thoughts, but thankfully the prayers come easily once you do. They are the same comforting words you learned as a girl, repeated so many times that you no longer need to think of them. Coupled with the warm, earthy fragrance of incense curling through the sept, they gradually ease the tension from your mind and body, wrapping you in a rare sense of stillness.
You remain suspended in that quiet until the final words fade from your mind. For a moment, you do not move, drawing in a cleansing breath through your nose before slowly exhaling through parted lips.
When you finally open your eyes, you find Gwayne already watching you. His eyes linger over your face as though he has forgotten himself for a moment. Your breath catches, and the sound seems to break whatever spell has held him. A muscle in his jaw jumps, a faint flush in his cheeks. He clears his throat and he rises.
“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I did not mean to disturb your prayer.”
“I am finished,” you assure him.
He offers you his hand, palm open, and you place yours in it. His calloused fingers close gently around yours as he draws you to your feet. His brow creases, and he seems about to say something when the door creaks open.
Gwayne immediately steps back, releasing your hand. The older septon who enters smiles when he sees him, though his attention briefly jumps to you.
“You are later than usual, my lord,” he remarks. “You are rarely accompanied.”
“Lady Hightower wished to pray,” he explains, gesturing toward you.
The septon inclines his head. “Then the Seven welcome you both.”
Gwayne gives a quiet nod, then extends his elbow toward you without meeting your eyes. You place your hand against his arm, and together you make your way toward the doors. He remains unusually quiet as you leave the sept, his posture still rigid, his attention fixed ahead. You find yourself wondering at the change. Only moments ago, there had been a warmth in his expression that is now carefully hidden behind a familiar reserve.
You have spent enough years learning to read a man's temper, but this feels different. There is no fear tightening your chest, no instinct warning you to choose your words carefully. Only a quiet desire to ease whatever has put him so firmly behind his guard.
The impulse surprises you.
“Do you always pray to the Crone?” Gwayne asks, pulling you from your thoughts.
“No. Not always, though she often hears my prayers.”
“Which of the Seven do you favor, then?”
You hesitate, all too aware of what most would expect you to say. The Mother or the Maiden. Both you prayed to as a girl, but since becoming a Hightower, you have found yourself lighting candles before someone altogether different.
“The Smith,” you admit.
You expect surprise, but Gwayne only regards you for a moment, his expression thoughtful, as though the answer has given him something to consider.
After a moment, he says quietly, “He endures.”
“Yes,” you agree.
The simple word settles between you, carrying more weight than you intended. Your fingers drift to the ring on your hand and turn it absently around your finger. There is something unsettling about how easily he seems to understand. Not unpleasant, exactly. Only unfamiliar.
You clear your throat, eager to shift the conversation.
“And whose altar do you often light a candle at, my Lord? The Warrior?”
The corner of Gwayne’s mouth twitches. “Once upon a time.”
You glance up at him. “But not anymore?”
He shakes his head.
“Oh?” The question slips out before you can stop it.
“The Maiden.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Does that surprise you?”
“A little,” you confess.
“Why?”
You look meaningful to the sword at his hip, and a quiet laugh escapes him, low and brief.
“Perhaps I pray to her because, after all this time, I still like to believe there is something gentle in this world.”
His words catch you off guard, as does the sincerity behind them. For a man who has spent so much of his life surrounded by swords and war, there is something unexpectedly tender in the hope he carries.
“Daeron chose well in making you his Hand,” you remark. “He will make a good King but he needs the right kind of guidance.”
“Your faith in me is touching,” Gwayne says, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his expression softens. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”
The teasing takes you by surprise, and you grin despite yourself. “I meant it sincerely.”
“I know,” he assures you. “And I think having you here will do him good as well. He has lost much,” he continues, his tone serious once more. “For all his strength, he is still young. He needs people around him who remember that he is more than the crown he wears.”
“I shall remain here as long as my…” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “Situation allows.”
Something passes across Gwayne’s face at that, gone almost before you can read it. “I hope it allows for some time yet,” he says.
The words are quiet, almost casual, but there is a weight behind them that makes your step falter. You nearly stumble before catching yourself, your fingers tightening around his arm.
“For Daeron’s sake, of course,” he adds, shifting his gaze ahead.
“Yes,” you agree. “For Daeron.”
You and Gwayne walk on in silence, but it is no longer the same easy quiet that had accompanied you to the sept. By the time you reach the end of the corridor, your thoughts have become tangled once more, that small knot in your chest tightening as you think of what lies ahead.
The man beside you is Daeron’s choice. Your father may have his own wishes, if you were to ask. And the lords of the realm, with all their competing interests, would no doubt put themselves or their sons forward.
Everyone seems to have an opinion about what your future should be. Yet when you turn the question inward, you find only uncertainty. You cannot even begin to imagine how you are supposed to choose when you have spent so long having the choice made for you.
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Chapter Summary:
Love comes easily in the quiet moments you spend with Baelor, but building a life together proves far more complicated.
Content: slow burn, canon divergence, Baelor lives, mutual pining, crossdressing, master & servant, fear of discovery, identity reveal, injury recovery, devotion, violence, protectiveness, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader apart from hair length
Notes: I have been feeling very unwell for several weeks now, and my fatigue has been even worse than usual. Because of this, it has been difficult to write, and I worry that the quality is not up to scratch.
If it reads clunkily, or there are mistakes, I am very sorry.
I have considered taking a break, but I worry that I will lose momentum if I do that. Also, if I'm being entirely honest, this fic is all I've got going for me at the moment, so I don't want to stop.
You wake slowly, your mind still wrapped in a pleasant haze as, for a few moments, you cannot remember where you are. Then you feel the warmth of an arm draped across your waist and hear the soft, steady breathing behind you, and a sleepy smile finds your lips.
You remain where you are for a little while, simply enjoying the unfamiliar joy of waking in Baelor's arms.
As much as you wish to stay, you know you cannot. You still have duties.
Carefully, you ease yourself from the bed, gently lifting Baelor's arm from your waist before crossing to the window. Still bare from the night before, you look out at the pale morning sky. Down below, the castle will already be stirring. The kitchens will be busy, servants preparing for the day, and before long, you will be expected amongst them.
You retrieve your chemise from where it lies at the foot of the bed and pull it over your head.
A quiet groan comes from behind you.
You glance back to find Baelor stirring, his eyes only half-open. He blinks a few times, looking momentarily lost before propping himself up on his elbows.
"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice thick with sleep.
"To fetch your breakfast." You smile as you step into your kirtle.
"Let someone else fetch it," he murmurs, reaching out a hand towards you.
You cross back to the bed and slip your hand into his.
"No one will know to bring it."
He sighs softly.
"Besides," you continue, "I shouldn't be here when Arnol arrives."
He gives a reluctant hum of agreement.
"You're right. Though I dislike it."
He sits up fully, pushing the blankets aside before settling on the edge of the bed. Gesturing for you to join him, he waits until you sit beside him.
For a moment, he simply looks at you. Then he reaches up and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You close your eyes, leaning instinctively into his touch.
"I love you."
Your eyes open immediately.
The words scarcely seem real. How many times had you wondered whether he felt as deeply as you did? Whether everything you saw in his eyes truly meant what you hoped it meant? And now, hearing the words spoken so simply, so earnestly…
Your vision blurs. A small, disbelieving laugh escapes you as tears gather in your eyes.
You take his hand in both of yours and guide it to your chest, pressing his palm against the frantic beat of your heart.
"I love you too," you whisper.
Speaking the words aloud feels almost as extraordinary as hearing them. They have lived quietly within your heart for so long.
Joy swells inside you until another laugh escapes, bright and utterly unrestrained.
His mismatched eyes remain fixed on yours, impossibly soft, filled with such quiet affection that the sight steals away what little composure you have left.
You throw your arms around him. He lets out the faintest breath – almost a laugh of relief – as he gathers you against him. His arms circle your waist, drawing you close while he lowers his forehead to your shoulder before burying his face in the curve of your neck.
Neither of you speaks for a long while. You simply hold one another, letting the silence say everything your hearts have carried for so long.
"I love you," you whisper again.
His embrace tightens, and you feel his smile against your skin.
At last, though every part of you wishes otherwise, you draw back, your hand lingering against his cheek.
"Now, I must go downstairs," you say apologetically.
"Will you take breakfast with me?"
A warm smile spreads across your face.
"I would love to."
-
Morning light streams through the long windows of the king's chambers, casting bands of gold across the stone floor.
King Daeron stands at the foot of his bed as his attendant fastens a heavy gold chain around his shoulders, when a soft knock sounds at the outer door.
"Come," the king calls.
The door opens and Queen Myriah steps inside.
"Good morning, darling." She says with a smile.
"Good morning, my dear wife." The king smiles.
The queen settles into one of the chairs by the table as the attendant carefully places the crown upon the king's head. Now ready for the day, King Daeron crosses the room and sits opposite her.
"Shall I have breakfast brought for you?" he asks.
"I have already eaten."
His cupbearer sets a meal before him and fills his goblet while the attendant gathers the laundry and bows before quietly withdrawing.
Daeron takes a sip from his goblet, then reaches for his cutlery.
"It was unkind how you dismissed Baelor's cupbearer last night." Myriah says.
His hands still.
"How so?" he asks, looking up at his wife. "I merely said my own cupbearers would attend us. There was no need for three."
"It was the manner in which you did it."
Myriah's expression leaves little doubt that she has come with purpose.
"You may leave us," Daeron says to his cupbearer.
The young man sets the wine pitcher upon the table, bows, and quietly departs. The king turns back to his wife.
"My dear, I cannot think how it might have been done in a way that was any less… offensive."
"You know what she means to Baelor. Did you not see the look on his face when you sent her away?"
Daeron sighs, setting down his cutlery, his breakfast untouched.
"As I have already told Baelor, I will hear no more of this matter."
"You would show so little regard for the woman who nursed your son back to health – not once, but twice?"
"I shall thank her personally, if it would please you."
"This is not about what would please me,” She lays a gentle hand upon his forearm. "This is about Baelor. He loves her."
"Be that as it may, a servant cannot receive special treatment simply because a prince has become… attached."
"I am not asking you to show her special treatment."
"What, then?"
"I am asking you to reconsider Baelor's request."
Daeron studies her for a long moment.
"And if I do as he asks – raise her family, found an entirely new house – and in time he loses interest in the woman?"
Myriah gives him a sharp look, her disappointment evident.
"If you truly believe Baelor capable of such a thing, then you do not know our son at all."
Regret flickers across Daeron's face at the queen’s words.
"I do know Baelor," he says quietly. "But what of the woman he loves?"
"I know what worries you." Myriah's voice softens. "You fear she seeks advantage, that she has encouraged his affection. But I promise you that is not the case. When I asked what she hoped for with Baelor, do you know what she said?"
He slowly shakes his head.
"She said her greatest wish was for him to be happy."
Silence settles between them. Daeron's fingers rest lightly around the stem of his goblet as his gaze drifts to the tabletop.
"And you believe she meant it?"
"With all my heart." Myriah smiles gently. "There is no ambition in her. Only love."
Before Daeron can reply, another knock sounds at the door.
"Come."
The door opens and Prince Maekar steps inside.
"Good morning, Father." His eyes move to the queen. "Mother."
He inclines his head.
"Since Baelor is recovered, I intend to leave for Summerhall on the morrow."
"Of course,” The king says. “You will have much awaiting you there."
"Though we shall miss you," Myriah adds warmly.
Maekar smiles faintly.
"The children have begun growing restless. We will depart in the morning."
"We shall see you off," says the king.
Maekar bows and turns to leave.
"Maekar."
He pauses, turning back to his father.
"Since you are here…" Daeron says. "Tell me – what do you make of this business with Baelor's cupbearer?"
Maekar's brows rise slightly.
"I presume you mean the… relationship between them?"
The king nods.
"I believe she is a good woman," Maekar says, taking a small step forward. "And Baelor is happy. That much is plain."
"Are you aware that Baelor asked me to raise her family so that he might marry her?"
"He told me. He was deeply disappointed that he could not have her honourably."
"Did you not think it an unusual request?"
"I was surprised." Maekar nods. "Not so much by what he asked… but by the fact that he asked at all."
"What do you mean, darling?" Myriah asks.
"I cannot recall Baelor ever asking for anything that served only his own happiness."
The room falls quiet.
"I was fortunate. I loved Dyanna." Maekar continues after a moment. "Baelor cared for Jena. He honoured her, and he was a good husband to her. But they never had what Dyanna and I shared."
He speaks matter-of-factly.
"If this woman gives him the chance to know that kind of happiness," He looks at his father. "I cannot begrudge him that."
Silence settles once more. Daeron's gaze remains fixed upon his untouched breakfast.
At length, he exhales.
"You have both given me much to consider."
Maekar senses the conversation has reached its end. He bows respectfully before quietly leaving the king’s chambers.
-
You bring breakfast upstairs after washing, changing, and fixing your hair.
You carry the tray, laden with two meals and two goblets, into Baelor's chambers just as Arnol steps out from the solar. He nods in greeting before his gaze drops to the tray in your hands, clearly prepared for more than one. An almost imperceptible expression flickers across his face before he inclines his head and crosses the room to the outer door.
You set the meals upon the table, and Baelor steps through the solar to join you, already dressed for the day. He smiles as he pulls out his chair and takes his seat.
"I will be returning to council after breakfast," he says as you sit down.
"Already?" You glance up as you reach for your goblet. "Is it not too soon?"
"Valarr will be there to assist me. He has managed affairs admirably while I recovered and knows every matter that has arisen in my absence."
"He seems a responsible young man," you say with a smile.
"He is." Pride softens his expression. "Do not fret. I have no intention of shouldering everything at once."
"I'm glad." You rest a hand lightly upon his forearm. "Do you intend to make Valarr your Hand when you are king?"
A faint smile touches his lips. "I hope that will not be for many years yet."
"Of course." Heat rises to your cheeks. "That was thoughtless of me."
"It is quite alright." His smile is reassuring. "And to answer your question – no. I have always intended for Maekar to be my Hand."
You nod thoughtfully.
"I think he would serve you most faithfully."
~
Once breakfast is finished, you clear the dishes and carry them downstairs, leaving them in the kitchens before making your way to the cellar to fill two pitchers with wine for the council chamber.
Several councillors are already seated when you enter. The Grand Maester occupies his usual place at the far end of the table, while at the opposite end, Prince Valarr sits beside his father, who, unlike the previous council meetings you have attended, is not seated at the head of the table. That place is occupied by King Daeron himself.
You lower into a curtsy as soon as you notice him before moving to fill his goblet, followed by Baelor's. He gives you a brief look of thanks before returning his attention to the documents Valarr has laid before him, whose cup you fill next, followed by the Grand Maester's.
The remaining councillors arrive shortly thereafter, and once every goblet has been filled, you take your place against the wall as the meeting begins.
Several councillors express their pleasure at seeing Baelor returned to health before turning their attention to harvests, repairs required along the Kingsroad, and disputes between neighbouring lords.
Baelor listens attentively, asking measured questions before offering his judgement. He seems entirely in his element, and had you not known of his recent illness, you would never have guessed he had only just recovered.
As the meeting progresses, you move quietly around the table, keeping a discreet watch on the goblets. Lord Penrose's is nearly empty, so you step forward to refill it. As you straighten, your eyes lifting only briefly, you find the king watching you. Your heart gives an uncomfortable lurch, and you lower your gaze at once before continuing around the table.
The discussion carries on as letters and reports are passed from hand to hand. Prince Valarr reaches for one of the documents stacked between himself and Baelor, but a letter slips free from the pile and drifts to the floor. You quietly step forward to retrieve it, offering it back to the prince, who accepts it with a grateful nod before returning to the matter under discussion.
As you step back, you become aware of the king's gaze upon you again. It lingers only for a moment, yet a quiet unease settles in your chest.
A little while later, you notice Baelor's goblet is running low and move to refill it. Again, you feel that unmistakable sensation of being watched, and despite yourself, you glance up. The king's eyes are upon you once more. Your stomach tightens, and from that moment onward you become acutely conscious of every movement you make.
By the time the meeting finally draws to a close, relief washes over you. You keep your head lowered as you gather the goblets and empty pitchers before carrying them back downstairs.
~
You bring Baelor's midday meal upstairs to his chambers, where he is already waiting, seated at the dining table.
"You did not bring something for yourself?" he asks as you place the single plate from the tray before him.
"Oh… I already ate downstairs." You offer an apologetic smile. "Habit, I suppose."
"We shall have to break that habit." He smiles, gesturing to the chair beside him.
You take your seat with a small sigh. He watches you for a moment, and his smile gradually fades.
"Is something the matter?"
He reaches out a hand, stopping you as you move to fill his goblet. You glance up before carefully setting the pitcher back upon the table.
"During the council meeting," you begin hesitantly. "I noticed the king watching me."
"Watching you?" Baelor frowns.
"It seemed that nearly every time I looked up, he was looking at me."
Baelor falls quiet, considering your words.
"I confess I did not notice," he says after a moment. "Though I was rather occupied with the business of the council."
"I couldn't help wondering if he disapproved of me being there," you admit. "Or perhaps… of me altogether."
Baelor reaches across the table and takes your hand in his.
"If my father objected to your presence, he would simply have sent you away."
"I suppose so…" You trace your thumb absentmindedly across the back of his hand. "But what do you think he meant by it? By watching me so?"
"Perhaps he was simply trying to get the measure of you," Baelor says. "He knows how much you mean to me."
You tilt your head.
"A council meeting seems an odd place to do that."
A faint smile returns to his face.
"In his defence," he says, "there are not many opportunities for him to observe us together."
~
You bring two plates to Baelor's chambers that evening, and the two of you sit down together to take supper.
"I have started looking into vacant houses near the Red Keep that would be suitable for you," he says once you've finished eating, taking a sip of wine. "Tomorrow I intend to look at one that sounds promising. If it is suitable, you needn't remain a servant any longer. You will have a place nearby to call your own."
You lower your eyes to your plate, falling silent for a few moments.
"But what would I do? I would have nothing to occupy my time."
"You may do whatever you wish." He smiles.
"That is rather the problem." You return his smile faintly. "I have always worked. I wouldn’t know how to spend my days."
"Your days would be your own." He leans back slightly. "Is there anything you have always wished to do, but never had the opportunity?"
"I don't know…"
"I could come to you." His expression softens. "Whenever my duties allow, I would visit. And if you wished, you could come to the Keep to see me."
You hesitate. "Would Tom live with me there?"
"Of course."
"And he would return to your service still?"
"If he wished to, yes. Though he needn't."
You sit quietly, turning it over in your mind.
"Would that not be rather… awkward?" you ask at last. "You calling at the house while Tom is there? Or me coming to the Red Keep when I would have no reason to be here?"
"You would always have reason to be here." His smile is gentle. "You would be coming to see me."
You shake your head. "Everything would be different."
"How do you mean?"
"Now, I have a reason to be here. I work here, I live here, I belong here. If I cease being your cupbearer, then every visit becomes… noticeable."
"People already notice us," Baelor says. "That cannot be helped."
"Yes… but now I come to you because I am serving you. No one questions why I am in your chambers."
A thoughtful frown settles over his face.
"With each passing day, it feels more wrong that you remain my servant."
You reach across the table and lay your hand over his.
"It doesn’t feel wrong to me. It means I spend every day beside you. No one questions why I am here."
-
Your words settle over him.
When he had first suggested you leaving his service, the matter had seemed so simple. Find you a comfortable home. Ensure you wanted for nothing. Free you from a servant's life. He had imagined it as a kindness. Instead, with every concern you raise, the picture he had painted in his mind becomes a little less convincing.
You would spend much of your day alone. The Red Keep would no longer feel like your home. The easy rhythm the two of you had fallen into – the shared meals, quiet conversations, the simple comfort of seeing one another throughout the day – would all but disappear.
He had thought he was offering you freedom. Instead, he was asking you to give up the life you knew. So intent had he been on giving you what he believed you deserved that he had forgotten to ask what you wanted.
"I see," he says quietly, his gaze fixed upon the table.
"I'll take these away." You rise, gathering the dishes. "Be back soon."
He nods absently as you step from the chambers.
Baelor has spent years untangling disputes between quarrelling lords, settling matters of law, and finding compromise where none seemed possible. Yet the question of how to build a life with the woman he loves is proving far more difficult than any matter ever brought before the small council.
-
You descend from the Tower, scarcely noticing the familiar route as you turn over every word of yours and Baelor’s conversation.
He had spoken with such warmth about the house, about the future he imagined for you. It was clear he had given the matter a great deal of thought. He was trying to build a life with you, to make you happy. And what had you done? Shut him down at every turn.
By the time you reach the kitchens, your stomach is uncomfortably tight. You cannot shake the memory of the way his expression had changed, how thoughtful and quiet he had become.
After dropping off the dishes, you make your way to your little bedchamber, your chest growing heavier with every step. Guilt settles over you, yet beneath it remains the stubborn truth that none of what you said had been false. You love him with all your heart, but the life he described would ask you to surrender so much of the one you already know. You only wish you had found gentler words.
You wash your face at the washstand, smooth a few loose strands of hair back into place, then make your way to the cellar to fill a fresh pitcher of wine before returning upstairs.
When you step into Baelor's chambers, you carry the pitcher to the dining table, where the two goblets from supper still stand waiting. Baelor is nowhere to be seen. You glance into the solar, then through the archway beyond it, where you find him standing alone in the courtyard, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he gazes into the evening.
You step outside to join him.
"I brought some more wine," you say quietly to announce yourself.
He turns at the sound of your voice.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
"Baelor." You move closer, your fingers brushing lightly against his arm. "I'm sorry if I sounded ungrateful."
His brows lift slightly.
"When you spoke about the house," you continue. "You were trying to do something kind for me, and… I seemed only to find fault with every part of it." You lower your eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I would rather you speak your mind than pretend to be pleased when you are not," he replies gently.
You look back up at him. "Are you disappointed?"
His expression softens almost immediately.
"Only in myself." A small, rueful smile touches his lips. "I thought I had found a way to make everything easier for you. Instead, I discovered I had only looked at the matter from my own side."
He raises a hand, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek.
"Next time, I shall ask your thoughts before attempting to plan your future."
You smile, leaning into the warmth of his touch.
"I was worried I'd upset you," you admit quietly.
"I promise, you have not."
His hand slips from your cheek to your shoulder before gently drawing you towards him. You go willingly, resting your head against him as his arms encircle you.
Relief washes through you, easing the knot that had sat in your chest ever since leaving him.
~
You sit together in the courtyard for a while, watching the evening sky slowly change colour until, at last, the final traces of sunlight fade beyond the horizon, giving way to the darkness of night.
You return inside, Baelor taking his place behind the desk while you fetch a chair and sit beside him as he sorts through the day's letters.
"You have no embroidery with you?" he asks after finishing the first letter, glancing towards your empty lap.
"I have nothing to work on at the moment," you reply. "I finished your handkerchief, and now I find I don't know what to make next."
Baelor considers this for a moment. "Perhaps something for yourself?"
"I have enough handkerchiefs." You tap a thoughtful finger against your chin.
"You are always welcome to borrow one of my books." He gestures towards the tall bookcase lining the wall behind the desk. "Or, if you prefer, you could choose something from the library. I can write a note for the septon there, so he'll know you're permitted to borrow whatever you like."
"Thank you." You smile. "Perhaps I'll begin with something here."
You rise and wander over to the shelves, your fingertips trailing lightly across the spines.
"Though I wouldn't know where to start."
"What topic would interest you?" Baelor asks, rising from his chair to join you.
"There isn't so much a particular subject…" You glance along the shelves before looking back at him. "I've heard there are books with beautiful painted borders and intricate illustrations. Do you have any like that?"
A smile touches his lips as he reaches for a thick volume from one of the lower shelves.
"This is one of Matarys' favourites."
He carries it back to the desk and opens it to a random page. Elegant script fills the centre, framed by vivid painted borders of flowers, birds and curling vines, while touches of gold leaf catch the candlelight, shimmering with every movement.
"How beautiful!" you breathe, pulling your chair closer before settling beside him.
"Matarys and I spent many afternoons with this book while he was learning his letters."
"I must continue the story of King Abelar with him soon." You glance up at Baelor with a smile.
"Ah, so he does become king after all?"
"Of course he does." You laugh softly. "He pulled the sword from the stone."
"True enough." Baelor smiles. "Though you are yet to tell us of his coronation, so I was not entirely certain."
He closes one letter and reaches for the next.
"Matarys begins his training tomorrow. He's reached the age where he should start learning as a squire. Valarr has agreed to take him on, and I thought I would oversee his first lesson."
Your face brightens. "How exciting! Would it be improper for me to watch?"
"Not at all."
He gives you one of those warm, gentle smiles that never fails to soften your heart.
The solar falls into a comfortable silence after that. Baelor works steadily through his correspondence while you lose yourself amongst the illuminated pages, pausing every so often to admire another painted border or miniature. The only sounds are the scratch of his quill, the occasional rustle of parchment, and the quiet turning of pages.
Eventually, he sets the last letter aside with a sigh.
"Finished for the night?" you ask, looking up from the book.
"Yes." He leans back in his chair, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. "It seems my first day back at council has taken rather more out of me than I expected."
"It will simply take a little time." You close the book gently. "You'll feel like yourself again soon."
"I hope so." He turns towards you. "You may stay again tonight, if you wish."
"You've just said how tired you are." You give him a mock stern look.
"I mean only to sleep."
A smile tugs at your lips.
"Ah. In that case, I shall stay."
Together you make your way into the bedchamber.
Baelor settles onto the edge of the bed and begins removing his boots while you loosen the lacing of your kirtle. You slip out of it, carefully fold it, and lay it atop the chest at the foot of the bed before removing your petticoat and placing it neatly beside it.
After slipping off your shoes, you cross to the washstand wearing only your chemise and stockings. Catching your reflection in the mirror, you reach for the carved bone comb.
"May I borrow this?" you ask, holding it up.
"Of course."
You work the comb slowly through your hair until it falls smoothly, then set it carefully where you found it. When you turn around, you discover Baelor watching you, a small, contented smile resting on his face.
"What?" you ask, smiling despite yourself.
"I was only thinking how much I enjoy having you here."
"I enjoy being here." You walk around to your side of the bed and pull back the covers. "Your bed is exceedingly comfortable."
You climb beneath the blankets, drawing them over your legs.
"I see." Baelor slips beneath the covers opposite you. "So if I were to replace the mattress in your own room with one like this, you would no longer have any reason to stay here."
You laugh softly.
"Quite untrue. My own room would still be missing something rather important."
Leaning across the space between you, you press a gentle kiss to his lips. When you pull away, you notice how heavy his eyelids have become.
"Enough talking." You cup his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly across his beard. "You need your rest."
He smiles and settles back against his pillow before opening one arm in silent invitation. You move willingly into it, resting your head against his chest as your arm slips around his waist.
For several quiet moments neither of you speaks. You simply lay together, content in the warmth of one another's embrace, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
At length, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
"Goodnight, my love."
Reaching towards the bedside table, he pinches out the candle.
Warmth blossoms through your chest at the endearment. Darkness settles over the room, wrapping you both in silence. You remain nestled against him, listening to the slow, familiar beat of his heart, and within only a few minutes, his breathing deepens into the peaceful rhythm of sleep.
~
The bedchamber is still cloaked in darkness when you awaken, and for a few moments you remain nestled against Baelor’s warmth, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
A faint grey light filters through the window. Dawn has not yet properly broken.
The discomfort of a full bladder soon makes it impossible to settle again. Careful not to wake him, you ease yourself from his embrace and slip quietly from the bedchamber to visit the garderobe.
-
Baelor wakes with a deep breath, the familiar outlines of his bedchamber slowly emerging in the dim morning light.
He reaches across the mattress, only to find the place beside him empty, though the sheets are still warm. A flicker of disappointment settles over him. He had hoped for at least a few quiet moments together before the day claimed you both once more.
Soft footsteps sound beyond the bedchamber door. He turns just as it opens and you step inside. Your eyes find his immediately, your smile gentle in the early light, and relief spreads warmly through his chest.
"You're awake," you say softly as you slip back beneath the covers and settle beside him.
He smiles in return, unable to hide how pleased he is to find you still there.
"I feared you'd left already," he admits, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Not for a while yet," you reply. "It's still early."
-
He slips an arm around your waist, turning onto his side and drawing your back against his chest while his other arm comes to rest beneath your head. Gently, he brushes a loose lock of hair behind your ear before pressing a feather-light kiss to the curve of your neck. A pleasant shiver runs through you.
His hand roams your body, sliding up the curve of your hip to your waist, slipping around to your stomach, then trailing up to your chest, his hand gently cupping once of your breasts.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, his breath hot against your neck.
“You’re not.”
You nudge back with your rear against his length, which you had felt hardening against you.
He chuckles softly. “I am afraid I cannot control the effect you have on me.”
You turn your head and clumsily find his mouth with yours. One kiss becomes two, then three.
You flip your body over so you’re facing him, and kiss him deeper, one hand reaching beneath the sheets and finding the hem of his nightshirt, pulling it up and wrapping your fingers around his hard length. You stroke him slowly, feeling every throb and twitch as he thickens further in your grasp.
An overwhelming urge takes hold of you. You throw back the covers and shift down the bed. First you lick a long, slow stripe from base to tip, tasting the faint salt of his skin. Then you swirl your tongue around the head before taking him into your mouth. Baelor’s breath catches sharply. You work him with careful eagerness – lips sliding, tongue pressing and swirling – for a minute or two. The wet sounds and his ragged breaths make your core throb with need, growing slick and aching between your thighs.
You sit up and look at him in the dim light.
“Do you want me?” You ask.
“Without question,” he answers, voice rough with desire.
You lean down once more, taking him deep, letting your tongue glide along the underside. Then you pull back deliberately, letting a thick strand of spit drip from your lips onto his cock, watching it glisten.
You swing one leg over him and straddle his hips. Taking his cock in your hand, you rub the slick head between your folds, sliding it up and down so it catches against your pearl several times, the friction sending sparks through you. When you finally line him up with your entrance and slowly sink down, the stretch of him filling you draws a soft, breathy moan from your throat.
You sit there for a long moment, simply savouring the fullness, the way your bodies are joined so intimately. Then you begin to move – rolling your hips in a slow, sensual rhythm. The slide of him inside you is exquisite.
Baelor’s hands graze up your sides, gathering the hem of your chemise, and helping you pull the thin linen up and over your head. You lift your arms to assist him, and the garment is tossed aside, leaving you completely bare above him.
-
His gaze darkens with hunger as he takes in the sight of you – breasts swaying gently with your movements, skin flushed with arousal. His hands return to your body immediately, roaming with open reverence, sliding up your stomach, cupping the soft weight of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples.
You are breathtaking like this – straddling him, taking him so willingly. After months of stolen glances, careful words, and the constant weight of duty and disapproval, you are finally his. The sight of you like this, flushed and trusting, fills him with a fierce wave of love and awe. You have chosen him despite everything – the danger, the difference in station, his father’s cold stares. And now you are giving yourself to him so openly. He feels almost unworthy of it, yet profoundly grateful. He will spend every day proving he is worthy of your trust.
-
He pulls you down closer so your bare chests press together. His arms wrap around your back as he thrusts up into you, your mouths sharing heated, open-mouthed breaths. You reach up and grip the headboard for leverage, rolling your hips more confidently, the dimness of the bedchamber making you feel bold.
-
Every roll of your hips, every soft sound you make, every flutter of your walls around him feels like a gift. In this quiet morning light, with you moving above him so beautifully, all the complications of the world outside these walls feel distant. You are his. He is yours. And for these stolen moments, that is enough.
His hands move to your breasts, squeezing and caressing the soft weight as he takes one nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking until you whimper. One of his hands slides down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and stroking firm, perfect circles in time with your movements.
-
The pleasure is almost too much. Every roll of your hips, every stroke of his thumb, every pull of his mouth on your breast sends sparks racing through you. After so many months of longing and careful restraint, having him like this – deep inside you, touching you with such hunger and care – feels like a dream you never want to wake from.
Your pleasure climbs steadily, hot and overwhelming. His thrusts grow more desperate, hips snapping up harder to meet you. You grip the headboard tighter, rolling your hips with increasing urgency as the coil inside you winds tighter and tighter until it snaps.
You cry out as the climax crashes through you, hips jerking and grinding down against him. You pulse around his cock in powerful, rhythmic waves, squeezing him tightly with every tremor. The intense flutter of your walls pulls a deep, strained groan from Baelor.
He holds you through it, hands firm on your hips, letting you ride out every last pulse. Only when your trembling begins to ease does he wrap his arms tightly around you and flip you onto your back, staying sheathed deep inside you the whole time. In the new position he drives into you with deep, purposeful strokes.
Your breaths remain broken and needy as the aftershocks of your orgasm mix with the fresh pleasure of his continued thrusts. He moves with growing urgency, chasing his own release while you cling to him, still fluttering around him.
Moments later he pulls out with a low, strained groan and spills across your breasts and stomach in hot, thick pulses. He lingers for a few heartbeats, drinking in the sight of his spend glistening on your heaving chest in the dim light.
Then he reaches for a handkerchief and gently cleans you. The moment he’s done, you pull him down into a deep, passionate kiss. You stay like that for a long while afterward, tangled together in each other’s arms, hearts gradually slowing.
Lying here with him, skin to skin, you feel a profound sense of peace. Whatever the future holds with his father and the court, you have this – you have him. And for now, that is enough.
You remain together beneath the blankets as the light beyond the window shifts from dim grey to pale blue. Dawn has finally broken.
Curled against Baelor's shoulder, one arm draped across his chest, you feel his hand resting lightly at your waist. His fingertips move in slow, absent-minded strokes up and down the centre of your back.
"That feels nice," you murmur.
He smiles against your hair and presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head without interrupting the soothing motion.
Morning in the Tower of the Hand is far quieter than the bustle below. Here there are no hurried footsteps, no clatter of breakfast trays, no cooks calling instructions across the kitchens. Only the soft birdsong drifting in through the open window.
Baelor lets out a quiet sigh.
"I had almost forgotten…"
You lift your head, propping yourself up on one hand so you can look at him.
"What is it?"
"Maekar is leaving this morning – returning to Summerhall. I meant to see him off before he departs."
"Would he have left already?"
"No, not yet." He hesitates, an uncomfortable look crossing his face. "Would you… be able to bring breakfast a little earlier this morning?"
"Of course."
His smile is faint, tinged with guilt.
"I dislike asking such things of you. After all we have become to one another, asking you to wait upon me feels…"
You reach up to stroke his cheek with your thumb.
"I know."
Leaning forward, you steal a brief kiss before settling back again.
"But I do not feel it as you do," you assure him. "Bringing your breakfast means I am one of the first to see you each morning."
His expression softens. Taking your hand, he brushes a kiss across your knuckles before leaning in to find your lips once more. You linger there, foreheads resting together for a quiet moment, before you finally sit up.
"I should get going."
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you glance back at him.
"Should I ask Arnol to come a little earlier as well?"
"That would be good of you."
Reluctantly, you climb from the bed and retrieve your chemise from where it had been discarded, slipping it over your head before crossing to the chest at the foot of the bed. Your clothes lie neatly folded where you had left them. You step into your petticoat, drawing it up and tying it securely about your waist.
Behind you, the mattress creaks softly. You glance over your shoulder to find Baelor watching you with quiet contentment.
"You are… remarkably lovely."
A soft laugh escapes you, though his words send warmth blooming through your chest.
"That is generous praise indeed, especially considering I have not yet combed my hair."
You run your fingers through it as though checking it is not too unruly, drawing an amused smile from him.
After fastening your kirtle, you tighten the lacing and knot it neatly before crossing to the washstand. A few careful strokes of the comb are enough to smooth your hair. When you set it down again, Baelor is still watching you.
"See you soon," you say with a smile before slipping quietly from his chambers.
You spot Arnol eating breakfast when you step into the servants' hall.
"Good morning," you say as you approach.
He looks up from his meal.
"Morning."
"Prince Baelor asks if you might come to dress him a little earlier today. Prince Maekar is leaving for Summerhall this morning, and he wishes to see him before he departs."
"Of course."
You smile your thanks and turn to leave, but Arnol speaks again.
"I take it you've already seen his grace this morning, then?"
"I…"
Your heart skips. You had not considered how it might sound – you relaying Baelor's request before you had even broken your own fast. Your mouth remains slightly open as you search frantically for some innocent explanation.
Then, to your immense relief, Arnol lets out a quiet chuckle.
"I've suspected something for a while now."
"You have?"
He nods, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Heat floods your cheeks. Before your embarrassment can deepen any further, he mercifully continues.
"I'll finish my breakfast and head straight up."
"Right… good."
You offer him an awkward smile before making a hasty retreat to your bedchamber.
There, you wash, arrange your hair, and change into a fresh chemise before returning to the servants' hall to eat a few hurried mouthfuls of your own breakfast. Once you've finished, you collect Baelor's tray and make your way back to the Tower of the Hand.
Arnol is still helping him dress when you arrive. You quietly lay out the breakfast while you wait, and a few minutes later Arnol emerges from the bedchamber. As he passes, he gives you a small, knowing look that immediately brings the warmth back to your face before taking his leave.
Moments later, Baelor follows, dressed for the day. He smiles as he joins you at the table.
"You did not bring something for yourself?"
"I was worried about time," you reply as you take the seat beside him. "I ate downstairs."
He nods, accepting the explanation, and begins his meal.
Little is said between you. He eats with quiet purpose, clearly determined not to miss Maekar's departure.
Once he has finished, he rises while you gather the dishes back onto the tray.
"Please give Prince Maekar my regards."
"I will," he says with a warm smile before taking his leave.
~
Once you've dropped off the dishes, you make your way outside to the Keep's main gate.
From the ramparts, you look down into the yard, where Maekar and his children have gathered. Stableboys wait nearby with hands on the reins of their readied horses while the prince speaks quietly with Egg, resting a firm yet affectionate hand upon his son's shoulder.
A moment later, two more figures emerge into the yard. You recognise them at once as the king and queen. They speak with Maekar for a few moments before Queen Myriah embraces her son and kisses his cheek. Beside her, King Daeron clasps Maekar's forearm and gives his shoulder a hearty pat, as men often do.
Then Baelor steps forward. After exchanging a few words with his brother, Maekar guides him a little apart from the others, saying something too quiet for you to hear. Whatever it is earns a small smile from Baelor before Maekar clasps his shoulder warmly.
The farewells finished, Maekar helps his daughters into their saddles while his eldest son mounts his own horse. At last, Maekar swings easily into the saddle himself, raises a hand in one final farewell, and leads his family through the gates.
You turn back into the Keep and have scarcely gone far along the corridor before footsteps fall into rhythm beside your own.
"I am meeting Valarr and Matarys in the training yard now," Baelor says. "Would you like to walk there together?"
You glance up at him in mild surprise.
"Together?"
A gentle smile touches his lips.
"If you would like to."
Your eyes drift briefly along the corridor. Guards stand quietly at their posts while the occasional servant passes by, each intent on their own duties. It feels strange to walk beside Baelor without a tray or pitcher in your hands, nothing to mark your presence as part of your service.
But then… what purpose is there in pretending anymore? Everyone who matters to Baelor already knows of your relationship, and the servants have been whispering for weeks.
"Yes," you say, smiling back. "I'd like that."
You set off together, your clasped hands betraying the nervousness you do not voice. Baelor, however, seems perfectly at ease, speaking lightly of the fine weather and the journey Maekar and his children now face on the road back to Summerhall. His easy conversation soon steadies your own nerves, and before long your hands separate naturally, both of you walking comfortably side by side.
The training yard comes into view, where the young princes are already waiting. Matarys looks up as his father approaches, his face immediately brightening.
"Father!"
Though his smile is warm, it carries a hint of nervous anticipation. You incline your head respectfully to both princes before taking a seat on a nearby bench.
"Good morrow, Matarys," Baelor says, giving the boy's shoulder an affectionate squeeze before turning to his eldest son. "Valarr."
He looks back to Matarys.
"Are you ready to begin your training? To become Valarr's squire?"
Matarys nods, though his lips remain pressed into a thin line.
"He is a little nervous," Valarr says with an understanding smile.
"What worries you, Matarys?" Baelor asks gently.
"That I won't remember everything."
A fond smile crosses Baelor's face.
"I do not think there is a single knight alive who could truthfully say he never forgot something as a squire."
"I told him the same," Valarr says. "Tassets were my weakness. I forgot them several times."
Baelor chuckles.
"You see, Matarys? No one expects you to know everything at once. We are here to practice, not to be perfect."
The reassurance seems to settle the boy's nerves. His shoulders straighten, determination replacing much of his earlier uncertainty.
Together, they move to a neatly arranged collection of armour laid out upon a nearby bench. Valarr begins naming each piece and explaining its purpose while Baelor occasionally adds a detail, though he is content to let his eldest son lead the lesson.
Watching from your bench, you cannot help but smile. There is unmistakable pride written across Baelor's face as he watches his sons together.
In time, Valarr stands fully armoured while Matarys recites the name of every piece. Then comes the task of removing it all again.
Once Valarr is stripped back to his gambeson, Matarys wanders over to where you sit.
"You've done very well today, my prince," you say warmly.
"Thank you." He smiles bashfully before shifting from one foot to the other. "I wondered, if you have time… whether you might tell me more about Abelar?"
A soft laugh escapes you.
"I certainly can. But I think you ought to help your brother pack everything away first."
You nod towards the bench, where Valarr is already gathering the armour.
"I will!"
The boy hurries back at once, eagerly asking his brother how he can help.
Only a few minutes later he returns and settles beside you, looking up expectantly.
"So," you begin, "where were we?"
"Abelar pulling the sword from the stone!"
"That's right," you say with a smile.
-
King Daeron takes the longer route to the throne room, welcoming a few quiet moments to himself before the morning's petitions begin. Hearing the grievances of his subjects is rarely enjoyable – often tedious, sometimes exhausting – but it is the duty of a king.
As he walks along the Keep's ramparts, his gaze drifts out across King's Landing, the city already stirring beneath the morning sun. Then a familiar voice reaches him.
He steps to the battlements and looks down into the training yard. Baelor stands below with both of his sons. The youngest, Matarys, listens with complete concentration as his father and elder brother instruct him, his expression so earnest that a faint smile finds its way onto the king's face.
It does not seem so very long ago that Baelor himself stood where Matarys stands now, hanging upon every word of his own instructors, determined to learn.
Curious, Daeron lingers. It soon becomes clear that Matarys is beginning his training as Valarr's squire. The king finds himself wishing he had more opportunities to witness such moments. His grandsons seem to grow more quickly with every passing year.
He watches as Matarys helps fit each piece of armour upon his elder brother, carefully naming every part before removing it all again under Valarr's patient guidance.
When the lesson ends, the younger prince crosses the yard towards one of the benches set against the wall, where a young woman sits waiting. Baelor's cupbearer. Daeron recognises you immediately.
He watches as the pair of you exchange a few words. You smile and gesture back towards Valarr, and Matarys obediently glances over his shoulder. Whatever you say prompts an eager nod, and the boy hurries back to help his brother pack away the armour before returning only a few minutes later.
This time, he settles beside you without hesitation, giving you his complete attention as you begin telling him some story, your hands moving animatedly as you speak.
A little while later, Baelor wanders over. He does not interrupt. Instead, he leans comfortably against the wall nearby, content simply to watch the exchange between the woman he loves and his youngest son.
There is a smile upon his face. Not the courteous smile of a prince, nor the measured smile of a statesman, but a genuine one, warm and affectionate.
His wife's words return to him.
She said her greatest wish was for him to be happy.
Daeron's gaze shifts from his son to his grandson.
Jena died bringing Matarys into the world. The poor boy has never known a mother's love. Watching the easy warmth between the child and Baelor's cupbearer, he cannot help but wonder whether such an absence might yet be filled.
He remains at the battlements for another minute, his own reflections occupying him more than the figures below. Then, after one final glance towards the little group gathered in the yard, he turns and continues on to the throne room.
~-~
You take the midday meal with Baelor the following day after he has spent the morning in meetings.
Once you've finished eating, you spend some time in the courtyard, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the gentle breeze before returning inside to the solar. There, you settle back into the book of stories Baelor showed you while he turns his attention to a stack of letters awaiting his attention.
Nearly an hour passes in companionable silence before a knock sounds at the outer door.
You instinctively begin to rise, but Baelor lifts a hand to stop you.
"There is no need to pretend every time someone comes to the door," he says with a reassuring smile. "I may receive whomever I wish."
He turns his attention towards the entrance.
"Come."
The door opens, and a young servant steps inside. He bows respectfully to Baelor before speaking.
"Your Grace," he says. "The king requests your presence."
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i love the phrase 'i dont go here but...' like you're so in awe of my work you have decided to trespass into a fandom you dont belong to just to appreciate it. i love everyone who doesn't go here
This is an ongoing Jack Abbot x reader / Jack Abbot x you fanfiction. So new chapters will be added as we go.
I can't add any more links to this post (apparently there's a link limit and I had no idea). So this is part 1 of my series master list - you'll find part 2 at the bottom.
If you ever have ideas, thoughts or something you'd love to see, feel free to drop me a message or an ask. I can't promise anything, but I'll definitely see what I can do.
Content warnings: some angst, some fluff, unplanned pregnancy and relationship trouble - because we like to suffer a little before things get better
Summary: When you went grocery shopping you didn't expect to come home with the number of a very handsome ED doctor
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Part 1: You stole my cart
When you went grocery shopping you didn't expect to come home with the number of a very handsome ED doctor
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Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
You finally kiss him. Later you google his name... and understands he's carrying far more than you'd expected.
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Part 3: "Wanna come over?"
What starts as a flirty dinner invitation becomes a night of honesty and careful firsts.
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Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Your first morning together. One cheeky comment from you. And suddenly - another first.
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Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
All you wanted was clarity. Instead it became an inside-joke - and the start of your favourite little game.
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Part 6: And you are...?
You just came to pick your boyfriend up for breakfast after his shift. Instead you accidentally became the main attraction of the entire emergency department.
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Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
A shower, a bedside drawer and a discovery you never expected - and suddenly you're in your first real fight.
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Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Two days of fever, no voice and ignored messages. (Un)fortunately for you, Jack Abbot notices.
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Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
A cozy lake house getaway. No bodies to bury. Just some fluff.
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Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by this
You were always the one preaching honesty and open communication. And now you're the one keeping a secret.
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Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
When Jack thinks you're sick because you drank too much, the real reason turns out to be far more sobering - for both of you.
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Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
The night isn't over yet and neither is the conversation
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Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess
Some nights are harder than others. Good thing you're not facing them alone anymore.
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Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer
You can take the doctor ouf of the hospital but you can't take the hospital out of him.
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Interlude I
The next three chapters will be a little different in style. I wanted to show a bit of Jack’s side of the story, and there’s probably no better way to do that than through his therapy sessions.
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)
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Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?
What happens when you're finally released from the hospital? Apparently: snow, Christmas plans, Jack being overprotective… and a whole lot of fluff.
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Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?
Christmas Party at Robbys place. That's it. That's the plot. Enjoy!
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Part 17: You can't say that anymore
Apparently the thought of fatherhood changes a few things about Jack. Unfortunately, one of those realizations happens in the bedroom.
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Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway
Christmas decorations appear where Jack definitely didn’t leave them, gifts are exchanged, and pregnancy hormones make New Year's Eve a little different than planned.
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Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money
You never liked talking about money. Unfortunately sometimes life forces the conversation. Luckily Jack doesn't mind taking care of things.
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Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes.
You are telling a funny story. And Jack... listens.
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Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move
Moving day, creepy neighbour and a jealous Jack. Happy ending guaranteed.
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Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer
Jack was never the most romantic guy. And then Valentine's Day happened. The morning brings a surprise neither of you ever wanted.
A/N: This chapter contains some angst, including bleeding during pregnancy, mentions of blood and a miscarriage scare
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Part 23: I've been thinking about something...
Jack has been thinking about you again. It's lucky he's a brilliant physician because communication clearly isn't his strongest skill.
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Part 24: Hard to predict what I'll do in the haze after night shift
Jack likes to be prepared. Unfortunately for you that now includes preparing for the baby like it's a medical emergency.
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Part 25: I'm not your punching bag
Pregnancy hormones, old wounds and the difficult art of actually talking to each other.
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Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs
Sometimes all a man needs is brunch with his best friend.
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Part 27: That's not enough time
Sometimes honest conversations take time… and it seems like the time has finally come.
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Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot
Waiting is the worst part - especially when nerves take over. And especially when your boyfriend is a highly trained physician who’s used to being in control… until he’s not.
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Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl
A quick trip to your old apartment turns into a lesson in boundaries - Jack style.
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Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime
You had one simple plan: in, out, no drama. Well. The plan did not survive.
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Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared
You're home alone, very pregnant and suddenly your body starts doing something it definitely did not do before...
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Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die
When Robby asks you to pick up your boyfriend you expect him to be drunk. Not… whatever this is.
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Bonus chapter: Did you actually think this through?
Jack gets hurt on a SWAT call and calls the one person he trusts most - unfortunately, this person has opinions.
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Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal.
Jacks an emergency medicine specialist. If you have a problem he will find a way to handle it. Apparently he’s also an expert in any kind of emergencies.
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Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late
It starts with “This is probably nothing” and ends with “Oh god, this is happening.” And the only question is: where is Jack?
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Interlude II: And she called you?!
Let's answer the very important question before moving on: Where the hell was Jack? (A very short interlude)
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Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly, kiddo
He made it. And now there’s no turning back.
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Part 36: She deserves to become her own person
The first quiet moment alone with your daughter and your boyfriend. You are happy - but the guilt hasn’t quite let go yet.
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Part 37: I think we made a mistake
Robby is the first visitor. He did not plan on getting emotional about it.
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Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?
Jack introduces his newborn daughter to the ED. Featuring proud dad energy, Robby being the worlds most intense godfather and a team that is absolutely losing it over baby Lizzie.
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Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything
The first days with a newboarn aren't easy... but you're not doing it alone.
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Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something
Jack is excited for his sisters visit. You try to be too. But something about her just doesn't feel quite... right.
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Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal
Some comments linger. Some truths explode. And not everything said can be taken back.
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Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy
Bad timing, family drama and a man who is absolutely done being polite.
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Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again
You try to make an effort. He makes it very clear you don’t have to.
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Part 44: You had it coming
Family is complicated. Especially when the truth finally shows up.
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Bonus Chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be
Some conversations aren’t about winning. They’re about being heard.
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Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there
Daycare hunting hits like a competetive sport you didn't know you'd already lost
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Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?
Jack and Robby try to figure out childcare. It's not their ... most productive conversation.
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Part 46: You wanna tell me something?
What should've been a quiet brunch turns into a fight about something that means very different things to both of them - and suddenly thirty years of friendship feel shaky.
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Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you
First baby group, first mom friends - and Jack who’s somehow more nervous about all of it than you are
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Part 48: That face needs to populate a whole bloodline
What starts with a new member in the baby group turns into jealousy - and ends in an insufferable ego boost.
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Part 49: I know exactly who to call
Lizzie needs her first shots. Jack thinks he can handle it. Spoiler: he cannot.
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Part 50: I think I'm more comfortable falling apart in my own apartment
A sleepless night, a screaming baby and the overwhelming fear of failing.
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Part 51: It's just a rough patch. Okay?
You are one breakdown away from walking out. Jack has seen worse - and he's not letting you fall apart.
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Part 52: If you think I'm helicoptering - he's next level
You hit your limit last night. Today you pick yourself back up- with help, of course.
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Part 53: She's totally judging you
A quiet afternoon, a gentle conversation... and Lizzie having opinions
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Part 54: I don't need an audience
An intimate moment gets unexpectedly interrupted.
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Part 55: Good call, labeling your boss the department slut
Lizzie is already a few months old but that doesn't stop the Pitt crew from throwing a party.
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Part 56: I think that's a bad idea, girl
When the nights get too overwhelming, you find yourself reaching out for help. But some things are easier to hide than to explain.
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Part 57: I thought things were going well
Too many things left unsaid, one moment too far - and suddenly the damage is real. (Aka Jack fucks up tremendously.)
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Interlude II:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
Jack's in therapy. It gets uncomfortable fast.
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Part 58: Please tell me she insulted you
Brunch again. Jack has a conversation with Robby that's uncomfortable - for at least one of them.
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Part 59: Must be a world record with only one-and-a-half legs
Sometimes tough conversations really are just a walk in the park. (With Robby of all people.)
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Interlude III:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
Therapy again. That's the plot.
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Part 60: We're okay. So let's be... okay
A small breakdown, a quiet reset - and the work begins.
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Interlude IV:
Let's talk about it (The Couple Sessions - Part I)
Jack takes his therapist's advice… and you end up in couples therapy.
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Part 61: And sorry I'm not a woman you could hit on
When you and Jack plan your first baby-free night out, you find a babysitter. It's not Robby - and he takes it personally.
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Part 62: Maybe they think we're having an affair
No baby. No chaos. Just them, wine, bad joked - and a piece of Jacks past that no one was supposed to know.
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Part 63: That was the funniest thing you ever said
You were just going to do some laundry. Instead you find something Jack’s been hiding - cue a misunderstanding, a minor crisis and Jack trying (very badly) to be responsible.
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Part 64: Don't do that, girl. Some of us had a rough shift
Lizzies first Thanksgiving: an extra guest, a questionable amount of food, a brief deep dive into systemic issues and a resident performing turkey surgery. Karaoke may or may not be involved.
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Bonus chapter: robbby forced me. 0/10 expeirence. miss you.
Karaoke.
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Part 65: I feel like we missed a memo
Plan: sexy breakfast for boyfriend. Reality: boyfriend brings coworkers.
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Part 66: So, we are negotiating with terrorists now?
Jack Abbot, experienced medical professional, outsmarted and emotionally manipulated by a baby with strong opinions and excellent grip strength.
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Part 67: I think I could use your help too
Jack runs into his therapist in public and is forced to watch Robby hit on her in real time.
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Part 68: I'm working nights over Christmas, by the way
Jack reveals he's working over Christmas turning a simple holiday plan into a quiet but painful argument.
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Interlude V:
Tell Me About It (The Jack Sessions - Part VI)
Jack is in serious need of therapy today
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Part 69: I just need a break
Jack tells you the real reason he chose to work Christmas. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
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Part 70: That's not a win. That's a warning
Jack has a therapist. And then he has Robby. Reality checks included. Coffee optional.
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Bonus chapter: A knee to the balls would probably fix that dick-swinging behavior
What happens after you walk out on Jack - and before you go back to face him? Well… the answer’s simple: A much-needed girl talk. (And wine.)
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Part 71: That is emotional bullshit with fake snow
Christmas arrives. You expect the worst - and get something better anyway
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Part 72: I'm a big girl, you know?
Jack is late. And this time you don’t wait.
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Part 73: Not now, Lizzie. Daddy needs his hands free to sort that guy out
In the weird limbo after Christmas, you decide to throw a New Year’s Eve party - complete with too many guests, a little harmless flirting and the ongoing challenge of keeping Robby away from Mara.
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Part 74: She's doing coke with some guy in the bathroom
“It's just a few days.” Turns out a few days is more than enough for Jack to realize what he actually wants - and what he might be losing.
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Interlude VI:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
It's day five of your absence and Jack has another therapy session - one that’s very much needed and emotionally charged.
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Bonus chapter: Tell me again - why didn't you bring Jack?
You were looking forward to some alone time with your mom - until she called you out.
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Part 75: You're really not making this easy for me, huh?
You come home. Nothing is fully fixed - but it's a start.
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Part 76: Can I ask you something?
Coffee, communication and the quiet realization that you're actually going to make this work.
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Interlude VII:
What the hell are you working on?
Jack at the gym. A very short interlude.
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Part 77: But boy, I guess he’s a disaster on the inside
A much mneeded girls night and an unexpected visitor. Tumbler included.
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Interlude VIII:
:)
Some texts between Robby and you.
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Interlude IX:
Inter-Interlude: Your best friend is completely unhinged
Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen x reader (female!reader, mother!reader)
The story of the births of your three children: Valarr, Matarys and Helena.
My AKOT7K Masterlist Baelor's Masterlist
Fics are in a chronological order despite being posted in a different one.
Each chapter has specific warnings.
The Second Son
Warnings: childbirth, pain, unconciousness/coma, almost dying from childbirth, kinda broken!Baelor, family fluff, happy ending, female!reader
The birth of Matarys does not go well, and it leaves you unconcious, clinging to life. Baelor is distraught, desperately wishing you back to health.
Before the Princess
Warnings: miscommunication, fear and assumed betrayal, talk of taking a second wife, assumptions are made, female!reader, reader insert
Baelor is shaken by the way he almost lost you to the birth of his second son, and pulls away in fear. You suspect he might want a younger wife, the rumors around the kingdom flying wild. Luckily, Maekar decides there is space for only one emotionally stunted person in the kingdom (him) and has the two of you talk things out.
Birth of a Princess
Warnings: pregnancy, birth, and the birthing process, and the pain that comes with it. Fear for mother's and baby's lives, mentions of unconscious babies, but no death
You are not happy that your husband chooses to leave your side when your pregnancy is nearing it's end. When the babe decides to arrive when their father is in the middle of the fight, your eldest has to step up.
Fandom: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Pairing/Characters: Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen x reader
Word count: ~2100
Includes: Female!reader, mother!reader, Baelor is a royal idiot (still),
Warnings: miscommunication, fear and assumed betrayal, talk of taking a second wife, assumptions are made
Other: Prequel to Birth of a Princess!
Baelor is shaken by the way he almost lost you to the birth of his second son, and pulls away in fear. You suspect he might want a younger wife, the rumors around the kingdom flying wild. Luckily, Maekar decides there is space for only one emotionally stunted person in the kingdom (him) and has the two of you talk things out.
My AKOT7K Masterlist Sons and Daughters Series Masterlist
Smiling, you watch as Matarys toddles around in the training yard, the guards, squires, knights, and soldiers alike standing aside, chased away by your glare. The young prince is spoiled rotten by the servants, you know this, they sneak him treats when they can. But he is just a sweet young boy, always happy and smiling, his giggles ringing in the halls as he runs around.
Your smile dims as Matarys trips over his feet, tumbling to the ground. You hear him sniffle as he stares at his hands. At your approach, he looks up, his eyes filled with tears, and you coo softly.
“You are alright, my brave little knight.” Brushing his hands gently to see there are no cuts, you lift him to his feet, brushing the sand off his clothes.
“Shall we go and find your father? He said he has a surprise for you.” The boy perks up instantly, nodding enthusiastically as he begins tugging you by your arm towards the castle. Not big with words, his eyes plead you to follow as the training yard returns to its normal hustle and bustle, with the prince now gone.
Baelor had returned from a diplomatic mission late last night, and your sons were in deep sleep when the party arrived. He’d been tired and almost fallen straight to bed when you’d assisted him out of his clothing, but first making sure to wrap you into his embrace. You’d been slightly confused. Usually, he’d waste no time in reuniting with you in a more … physical way. But he’d been tired even before he’d left, the difficult birth of Matarys had weighed on him for a long time after the birth and up to your full recovery, which took time, too*.
****
As the winter slowly turns into spring, the cold moving aside and bringing out the sun and warmth, you still feel detached from your husband. Baelor is his usual charming self, kissing your cheek with every opportunity, escorting you on his arm everywhere, but something is missing. You cannot quite find a way to describe it, but it feels as if he is pulling away even if he is right beside you.
It is only when you hear the ladies of the court start whispering about the diplomatic mission and the Lord who offered his daughter’s hand to him, quite brazenly, as he knew Baelor was married, that you start to worry. Could he be growing bored with you? You are not a young maiden anymore, your body shaped by two sons. But he’s assured you that you are beautiful to him, especially after bearing him his sons. Had that all been verbiage, pretty words to keep you satisfied? Could he be considering the offer, weighing the opportunity for a younger wife?
As the doubt sets in your mind, you start looking and seeing proof of his boredom with you everywhere. The way he looks at you after greeting the women in town. The way he pulls his hand out of your hold when he greets the lords of the court. And you begin to pull into yourself, spending more and more time with your sons in their rooms, dodging his invitations to meetings and events, even private walks, with lame excuses. The whole court can see the change, seemingly holding their breath as the formerly loving couple turns to stone when they are close to each other.
Baelor misses you so much that he feels physical pain. He misses your touch, your love, your hand in his. But he cannot chase the images of you, pale in the bed, face ashen, and the maesters unsure whether you would wake again. Matarys is healthy and happy by then, even after being lifeless in birth, now energized and kicking his legs. Loud giggles ring in the chambers as Baelor sits by your bedside, unable to sleep at or drink, holding his infant son*.
He cannot be the reason you are brought to the brink of death again if something goes wrong again. He’d love another child with you, as many as you’d give him, but the thought of losing you to the child bed terrifies him to his core.
****
Maekar sees the way you shrink into yourself as Baelor approaches the other ladies of the court. Your eyes watch the exchange with intensity, studying every move, every gesture, as if it would give you the opportunity to solve all the hunger in the kingdom. He sees you flinch when Baelor smiles at one of them, stance polite with his posture stiff. Your shoulders fall, still, and you excuse yourself quickly, returning to your rooms with tears in your eyes. Whatever you have convinced yourself is full horse shit, Maekar knowing that Baelor loves you more than anything, unsure of why his brother is acting so. But there is a change in Baelor, too. He seems dull, emotionless as he serves his duties, attends and leads meetings, takes care of this and that around the kingdom. But it seems as if he has lost something in him, like some pieces are missing.
Maekar seeks his brother out, hunched over a towel of papers, scrawling signatures with an impassive expression.
“Why the fuck are you acting like this?” He doesn’t knock, doesn’t announce himself, but goes straight to the issue.
“I do not know what you mean.” Baelor’s head doesn’t rise, his tone even.
“You’ve been prowling around the kingdom for weeks now, snapping at everyone. And when your lady wife graces us with her presence, you turn to stone.” His brother doesn’t respond now, just scratches another signature.
Sighing, Maekar runs his hand over his face. How is it that he has to be the voice of reason?
“Talk to your wife, she has convinced herself that you do not love her anymore. She spends so much of her time with the children, the people are starting to gossip.” Maekar stares down his older brother, but he has long stopped listening to what he has to say.
“You do not have the power to tell me what to do.” Baelor barks, and Maekar blinks in surprise. He’s never heard him use such a tone before, but his brother returns to his papers and gestures to him to leave before he can say anything else. From experience, he knows it is no use in trying to get more out of him, and Maekar takes his leave, but he is not finished with him yet.
If that is how Baelor wants to play this, Maekar will go to the person who has the power to make Baelor do as said. Their father, the King.
*****
You fiddle with your fingers, nervous as you approach the small meeting hall. You’d received a letter from the king himself, requiring your presence urgently. Leaving your children with their mentors, you’d hurried across the halls, your steps echoing in the halls.
You enter, and to your surprise, it is not your father-in-law, whose face you meet, but your husbands. His mismatched eyes meet yours, his brow rising as you peer into the room, not seeing the king anywhere. You stand there, silent for a moment. Unsure what is happening, why you have been called here, but your head keeps coming up with terrible scenarios. Horrible injuries in the family, a rebellion breaking out, the people's crop gone in a fire. But mostly, it concerns your husband and his want for a new wife.
The more you try and push those thoughts away, like you’ve been doing for the past weeks, the more you are forced to think about the matters as they invade your head. The official request of the king, Baelor’s rigid posture, the way he cannot seem to be able to look at you, avoiding your gaze as he has been doing. The rumors of the castle, the ladies whispering that stills as you enter.
The reality of life without him begins to solidify in your mind, your heart breaking at the thought of not being able to hold him whenever you can. His warmth on the cold winter days, his love on the days you need it the most, his laugh as he plays with your sons.
The simple thought of not being his tears you apart inside. You try to stop the tears from falling, but the fear you have been trying to control all morning mounts, and tears spill from your eyes. You try to keep quiet, head downcast, gently wiping them away with a handkerchief, but the first sniffle alerts him.
Baelor steps closer, reaching to take your hand into his, and you are still as his warm palms wrap around yours. His heart clenches as he sees your tears, a spark of anger lighting inside of him, too. Had someone hurt you?
“What is the matter, my love?” You shake your head, tears falling, still not looking at him, turning away as he tries to brush the tears off your cheek.
“Has someone hurt you?” He demands, and your eyes rise to stare at him, for a moment. He has not seen such a look in your eyes before, and his brow furrows.
“I do not know.”
“You do not know if someone has hurt you?” He is incredulous and confused, trying to get a better sense of what you are feeling.
“Have you hurt me?” Your question almost knocks him back, horror flooding him.
Baelor does not remember hurting you, always holding you with the utmost gentleness, always making sure not to pull you too harshly when dancing, making sure that you do not even graze walls when he escorts you, assuring you that-
“Have you been thinking of taking a second wife?” His frantic thoughts grind to a halt.
“W-What?”
“I know Lord Lannister offered you the hand of his eldest. I am growing older, and I have given you two sons, my body is not what it used to be. Are you growing bored of me? I must know, I will leave on my own accord, I cannot bear you taking another wife, you disrespecting me in such a way.” Your chest heaves as you finish, and he stares at you, horrified. How could you think of such things? His tone is even as he stares deeply into your eyes.
“My love,” he sees you flinch, and tries to hide it. The gesture pains his heart more than any punch or slap you could have dealt.
“I would never take another wife. I would never disrespect you so.” He vows, one knee on the ground as he kneels in front of you, your hands in his.
You see the earnestness in his gaze, and the doubts in your mind crack as you study his face, the promise in it.
“Then why…?“ So much is packed into that simple statement that trails off, questioning his behavior of the days past.
“I was afraid, after Matarys’ birth. Seeing your almost lifeless body terrified me. I cannot bear to think of losing you. Of being the reason for your death. So I forced myself to be away, to give you the chance to live, even if it hurt. I didn’t realize how it would hurt you, too. I am a fool.” His voice is low, only barely above a whisper, love pouring out with every word, held back for too long. His arms pull you into a tight embrace.
Relief floods you so your body feels warm, and you laugh, beside yourself.
“My honorable fool of a husband.” You coo, hand rising to his jaw. His eyes slip closed at your touch, and he feels his knees buckle as your thumb brushes his cheek.
“I am alright. Matarys is healthy and happy, and I do not intend to die with our next child.” His eyes flash with surprise as they snap open.
“N-Next?”
“Of course.” You breathe, laughter surfacing again.
“I think the gods would not give me such a handsome husband if they didn’t intend for us to have plenty of children.” Your fingers trail on his arms as you peer at him from under your lashes, smiling softly. He returns the gesture, pulling you closer, allowing himself to relax fully for the first time in a while. The warmth of your body against him, the smell of your perfume wafts over him, chasing away the dreaded images that threaten to surface.
*****
*Interest in a oneshot about Matarys’ birth and the aftermath? Aka broken!Baelor is at his wife’s bedside with a newborn and Valarr to take care of.
I’ve written quite a lot about it in passing in other fics, but I am kind of tickled to write a full, kinda angsty, piece, too.
***
All AKOT7K characters taglist: @baelorandmaekarinparis @qardasngan @jtrstp
To join all characters' Taglists, leave a comment here!
Baelor Targaryen taglist: @flyinglama @kelssssxd @qardasngan @thorins-queen-of-erebor @f-wrtr
To join the Baelor Targaryen taglist, leave a comment on the masterlist!
Warnings: Mild language, shy!Reader, descriptions of anxiety and self-doubt/imposter syndrome (please let me know if I missed anything)
A/N: Ahhhhh!!! First of all, please excuse the title. I know it's ass, but I couldn't come up with anything better, okay? Moving on, I’m so happy that anon requested this! Thank you so much for helping me get back into a creative space. You don’t know how thankful I am. Truly. Anyway, here is my first John Logan fic! It kind of got a little deeper than I expected, but I hope that you all like it. And, anon, if this reaches you, I hope that I did your request justice and that you absolutely love it. I feel like my writing is a little rusty, so I apologize if this is not my best work. Please be kind in the comments, and just know that any and all interactions with this story are greatly appreciated. I do have two other Logan requests that I will be posting within the next coming weeks. So, in the mean time, please enjoy this one and feel free to hop in my inbox or asks. Also, I hate that I have to say this, but I DO NOT GIVE ANYONE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WORK OR TRANSLATE IT WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION!!
*Readers, please know that you are enough, beautiful, and amazing, no matter what your head may sometimes tell you. I’m always sending you all love and good vibes.*
§
“Goodies” by Ciara shakes the walls of the Hockey House as I walk in and do my best not to bump into anyone. It’s a Saturday evening after the boys beat a rival school, so it’s almost expected that they throw a party. If someone had asked me a year ago if I would have known that information, I would have laughed and said “Absolutely not!” for several reasons. Yet here I am, shimmying through a crowd of my sweaty peers, working my way to the kitchen, where my friends are inevitably gathered.
Parties aren’t usually my thing. In fact, I used to actively avoid them because being in large crowds surrounded by people who don’t know me makes my skin itch. But, when I met John Tucker, my life significantly changed. In our public speaking class a year ago, the college gods decided that it would be a good idea to pair us together to make a speech in front of our class. In retrospect, it was a good thing because instead of judging my more introverted nature and fear of public speaking, Tucker made me feel comfortable and seen. He took the reins on the assignment and even walked me through the actual presentation. It was only after that assignment that Tucker discovered he and I were both business administration majors and made the collective decision that we absolutely had to be study buddies for the rest of our degree programs.
“We’re practically besties now,” he had reasoned. “I need you just as much as you need me, and it’s a rule that you can’t bail on your boys.”
He was partially correct. Not about him needing me because it’s pretty obvious that wasn’t the case. But about me needing a buddy and our newfound friendship? Absolutely. So, with very little persuading, I fell into a completely unpredictable yet rewarding friendship with John Tucker, the Briar U Hawks’ notorious forward. And after becoming friends, he wasted no time introducing me to his teammates and their girlfriends, who all warmly welcomed me into their friend group. Up until that point, I was sure I made the right decision agreeing to hang out with Tucker. He was understanding, kind, and most of all, practically carried me through each semester. But on a cool November evening, when I finally met those aforementioned teammates of his, I knew I fucked up. Garrett was nice, Dean was too funny for his own good, Hannah was probably the bubbliest person I had ever met, and Allie was even more extroverted than Tucker. But Logan. Oh Logan. It was like the world paused when I met him. I felt like I was in a 2000s rom-com and was waiting for Six Pence None the Richer to start serenading us in the background. None of the others fully acknowledged me. They were excited to meet me, sure, but they fell back into easy conversation after exchanging pleasantries. But not Logan. He held my gaze and gave me his undivided attention, and when a lazy smile spread across his face as he fully faced me to introduce himself, I knew I was done for.
It didn’t take long after that first encounter for me to start falling head over heels for Logan. He was sweet and funny and always made a point to simply listen to me. When I would trail off while talking after noticing the others stopped listening, Logan would gently nudge me and with an easy grin say, “Go ahead. I’m listening. I want to hear your story,” making my talked-over and often ignored heart swell. He made me feel special and, best of all, heard. But, despite my budding feelings wrapping around my heart like untamed vines, I was too afraid to tell anyone. I didn’t want to tell Tucker that I was crushing on one of his best friends because I didn’t want it to get weird between us. Although it didn’t take long for him to realize that I was completely enamored by Logan. I didn’t tell Allie and Hannah either, too nervous to come on too strong by trying to insert myself into their already established friendship by asking for “girl help.” The last thing I wanted to do was push my only friends away by being too much—something that has haunted me my entire life. And, least of all, I didn’t want to divulge to Logan that I was falling harder and harder for him with every casual wink and slow smile he sent me because I was afraid he didn’t share the same feelings and that he would never like a girl like me. Logan is loud, outgoing, and carefree. I’m quiet, shy, and probably care a little too much what people think of me. I don’t stand a chance against the girls the boys normally surround themselves with. So, I swallow my feelings to keep Logan in my life as a friend, even if it physically pains me.
Tucker sees me first when I finally emerge from the crowd.
“There she is!” He shouts, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into a hug. “Took you long enough. I thought you were going to bail.”
He doesn’t need to ask to know that I did in fact contemplate bailing. The thought crosses my mind every time the boys throw a party. I shrug as Tucker leans his head a little closer.
“Your boy’s been staring at the door every like 35 seconds. I think he might’ve burned a hole through it,” he says in a quiet voice.
My eyes widen, and I cough at the horror crawling up my throat.
“Tucker!” I say through gritted teeth, elbowing him in the side and whipping my head around in panic. I know my very obvious pining hadn’t gone unnoticed by Tucker, and it certainly wasn’t the first time he made a sly remark about it. But still, I can’t help the way my stomach rolls at the mere thought of Logan finding out about my true feelings.
“Calm down.” Tucker nudges me with his hip and a chuckle. “He and Beau are in the middle of a serious beer pong match.”
My shoulders relax a sliver as I follow Tucker’s gaze just in time to see Logan’s head fall back with laughter. A smile spread across his face, making him glow. God, he really is perfection personified. I let out a breath that speaks volumes over the cacophony of the party and garner Tucker’s attention again. I can feel Tucker’s eyes boring into the side of her face, but I don’t want to look at him. I already know what he’s going to say, and I hate it.
“Would it really be so bad if he knew?” He whispers, and my heart clenches. He really has no idea.
“It doesn’t matter,” I answer, watching Logan send the beat-up ping pong ball soaring over the table and straight into a Red Solo Cup. “He’d never like me like that, Tuck.”
Tucker removes his arm from my shoulders and fully faces me. Dad Tucker activated, I think, as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“How do you know that, though?”
“I just do,” I mutter, dropping my head with a shake. “I just do, Tuck. Now, can we drop it and enjoy the party? I’m really not in the mood for a lecture tonight.”
Tucker stares at me for another beat, and I give him my best exaggerated pout. I can tell that he really doesn’t want to leave the conversation on that note, but he just rolls his eyes and says, “Fine. But if either of you start giving puppy dog eyes from across the room at any point, I can’t promise I won’t say something.”
“Yeah, okay,” I grumble. “Shut up before I dump your ass for a new study buddy.”
Tucker gives a dramatic, horrified gasp.
“You would never.”
“I might,” I tease, my lips ticking upward as I give Garrett and Dean side hugs. “If you don’t keep your mouth shut, you’re gonna force my hand.”
Tucker puts a hand over his heart in mock offense.
“You wound me!”
“It’s all out of love,” I say, shoving him with a light laugh before shifting to place a kiss on Allie and Hannah’s cheeks. When I pull back, my eyes meet Logan’s. Even from across the room, his gaze crashes into me, making me audibly gasp. That lazy grin that makes my knees feel like they might give out melts across his face, sending me into a tailspin. I feel like I’m breathing through a straw, and I’m not sure if the rhythm in my chest is from my rapidly beating heart or the bass from the EDM song blasting from the speakers. Logan reaches for the nearest bystander, handing him the ping pong ball with a shoulder pat, and in one swift movement, extracts himself from the game. Beau’s protests float over the music, and I know Logan can hear them but he doesn’t turn around. Instead, he keeps his stare glued on mine as he saunters through the crowd until he is standing in front of me.
"Hi," he says, the tenor of his voice sending a zing down my spine.
“Hi,” I reply. Garrett and Dean are hollering at him over the music, trying to get his attention, but he doesn’t break my stare.
“Yeah, give me a minute, guys,” he shouts back before dropping his voice again. “I was, uh, starting to get nervous that you weren’t going to come.”
Little does he know, he’s literally the only reason I did come. His fingertips barely brush against mine, and I feel my knees wobble. Oh, god, I think, I might melt. I want to reach out and feel the way his hand would feel in mine, but I swallow down the impulsive urge.
“I would never miss celebrating a Hawks win. Especially not when a certain someone made the winning goal.”
Logan’s eyes widen a bit, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.
“Is that so? Duly noted. I’ll make sure we never lose another game this season then.”
My stomach flips at his words, nearly knocking me over. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, and the way his eyes watch that small movement makes me clench my thighs together. Oh, for fuck’s sake, Y/N, now is not the time to get all hot and bothered, my brain scolds. But I can’t help myself because when his eyes finally snap back to mine, they look two shades darker, and I can feel my neck and cheeks warm beneath his gaze. I take a deep breath through my nose, hoping that he can’t see how nervous he makes me, but judging by the playful smirk that pulls at his lips, I am failing miserably. This is what everyone means, my inner demons shout. You’re literally too much. You come on too strong and now look at yourself? Completely mute and practically drooling over this man at a party. You can’t even handle yourself. I let out an anxious laugh, doing my best to ignore my thoughts and open my mouth to try and save myself from any further embarrassment. But, before I can get any words out, Beau all but barrels into Logan, shattering the little bubble the two of us were in.
“Dude, you coming back or what?” He asks Logan, and when his eyes land on me, he gives me a bro nod. “Oh, hey, Y/N, what’s up? Mind if I steal my boy back? I gotta continue kicking his ass.”
My lips slide into a tight line, and I nod.
“Please,” I gesture toward the pong table, “by all means. Don’t, uh, don’t let me hold you guys up.”
“Perrrrfect.” Beau purrs, “Let's go, man.” He goes to lead Logan away, but Logan dodges him and looks back at me.
“Were you going to say something?”
My heart swells at his attentiveness. Even after a year of spending time with him, it still baffles me that he can somehow make me feel fully seen while being surrounded by so many people. I shake my head.
“No, no. Go ahead.”
He takes a step closer, and his fingertips tangle with mine for the briefest of moments, electrifying my whole body.
“You sure?” He asks in a hushed voice, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on my insides.
My throat seizes up, and the words I once knew die on my tongue. My heart has taken off in a sprint and taken all of my reasoning with it. So, I nod with an “Mmhmm,” that sounds two octaves too high, instead of forming an actual sentence. He gives me a weak smile and a quiet, "Okay," before allowing Beau to tug him away and back to the pong game.
I turn back to the rest of the group and grab a drink as I try to situate myself between Hannah and Allie, who are both nestled in their boyfriend’s sides.
“Oh my gosh, that is such bullshit,” Dean hollers over the music. “I did not try to hit on Professor Masden.”
“Bro,” Garrett says after taking a sip of his beer, “you totally did.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Dean, you literally told her that if she was ever in the mood for a little fun, you could recommend a really fun amusement park.”
“And I can!”
I laugh and say, “So, that’s what we’re calling it now?” But it goes unacknowledged as the two boys continue their playful bickering. I try to tamp down the self-conscious feeling bubbling in my gut with a swig of my drink.
“Well, what about you, G? Like you haven’t hit on a professor before.” Dean shouts, waving his free arm for emphasis.
“I haven’t, and I pride myself on that.”
“There’s no way.” I state, again without any acknowledgement from the group. “Garrett, you've gotta be lying. I’m almost positive you’re lying.” I try to insert, but nobody hears over the group's laughter.
“What about your math professor freshman year?” Tucker asks. “I vaguely remember you mentioning something about slipping her your number and then almost immediately regretting it when her MMA fighter boyfriend called you and threatened to snap you in two.”
The whole group bursts into laughter as Garrett tries to do damage control.
“Okay, okay, that doesn’t count! She was like 22, and I didn’t know she was my professor.”
“You didn’t know the person teaching the class was your professor?” I ask through my cackles, but no one reacts to what I say. So, I wait for the laughter to calm a bit, then try again. “How did you not know that—”
I don’t get the chance to finish my sentence before Dean shouts, “Oh, shit, what about Professor Menendez!? I watched you wink at her one time in class. You almost sent that poor woman into cardiac arrest.”
“Garrett Graham! Not Professor Menend—”
I’m cut off again, this time by Allie saying something I don’t even register because my mind starts to betray me. They heard what you were saying; they just chose to ignore you. No one wants to talk to you because you always go too far. You’re too much. It’s best if you just stop talking before you say something to really embarrass yourself. If Logan’s friends don’t even truly like you, what makes you think he will?
My chest squeezes. Being nearly sandwiched between Allie and Hannah feels too close now. The music is too loud, and the house is too small. My lungs are like lead, and I instinctively turn to find Logan, but when I find him, he’s leaning against the wall with a very curvaceous brunette pressed against his left arm, laughing at something she said. I hate the way my stomach churns and the way my vision blurs. I stumble on my feet and turn back to my friends, but within those few moments I spent to find Logan, the area where I once stood is gone, swallowed by Hannah and Allie.
My hands shake, and my heart gallops in my chest. My hand tightens around my drink to ground myself, but I’m drowning in a sea of strangers. The current of bodies is too strong, and I’m being pulled further away from my shore. I stare at my friends talking and laughing without me, and, all at once, I come to a sickening realization—I don’t belong here.
I let the crowd of people carry me further from my friends until I’m by the back door, where no one even notices when I slink out of the house. A brisk breeze caresses my skin as I cross the backyard to the bench near the boys’ workout equipment. It’s quiet over here, the crickets and rustling of fall leaves replacing the throbbing bass and tittering of college students. I curl my legs underneath myself and throw my head back with a groan.
“You fucking coward,” I whisper to the moon before downing the rest of my drink and placing the empty cup next to me. My stomach protests, but I swallow down the objection and shake my head. Nothing is better than being so shy that you can’t insert yourself into your own friend group and you make yourself completely unavailable to the guy you’re crushing on. I look at the stars littering the night sky and let out a long breath, letting nature’s symphony sweep my mind clean. It’s peaceful until a familiar voice cuts through the backyard concerto.
“Not in the mood to party tonight?” Logan asks, making me lower my head until I'm looking at his handsome face.
I let out a breathy laugh and shrug. “Something like that.”
Logan ambles over to the bench, and by the time he sits next to me, his easy smile is replaced with a concerned furrow in his brow. He bumps my thigh with his hand. “Hey. You okay?”
I turn my head to fully face him and am struck by how beautiful he truly is. With the moonlight casting shadows over his face, the angles of his jaw are sharper, and the way the wind moves his hair makes his waves look like clouds floating in the darkness. The longer I look at him, paired with the way he progressively gets more and more concerned by my silence, makes me feel like I could scream. He is too perfect. It’s not fair that he is both outgoing and nurturing. He shouldn’t be allowed to be carefree and attentive at the same time. But he is, and my poor, dilapidated heart has to endure the fact that the only way I will get to experience him is platonically.
A part of me contemplates telling him how I truly feel, if only to relieve myself of the burden of carrying the secret. And the more his caring and unwavering gaze holds mine, the more I weigh the option. Tucker’s words echo in my head. Would it really be so bad if he knew? I try to convince myself that it wouldn't, but then my demons rear their ugly heads again. Of course it would be bad. Who do you even think you are? If you tell him you can just wave goodbye to your friendship because there’s no way he’d share the same feelings. Not for someone like you—too shy and too much at the same time. Embarrassing. I clear my throat and shake my head, looking down at my wringing hands.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m—it’s nothing. Really.”
Logan’s forefinger and thumb carefully pinch my chin and guide my stare to meet his. The spot where his fingers touch my skin sends waves of heat through my body, and I shiver when he drops his hand. He leans just a little closer to ensure I can’t look away and says, “It’s not nothing. If it’s important to you, then it’s important to me.”
Logan’s eyes dip to his lap for a brief moment before meeting mine again with conviction. “I care about what you have to say, Y/N.”
His words vibrate through my soul, and I know now is the time to tell him. I lower my gaze in an attempt to control the drumming in my chest and steady my shaky breathing. A part of me screams not to say anything, but when I look back up at Logan, his stare is unwavering, and his worry is so evident I can’t help myself from falling head first into the chasm.
"I—" I hum and let out another breath. “I don’t want to come off too strong. I’ve been told I can be... a little too much sometimes, and I think what I am about to say falls into both categories.”
Logan’s eyes flash something I can’t quite catch before his hand comes up and cups my cheek, anchoring me under his gaze.
“You are never too much, Y/N,” he says, his eyes wandering over every inch of my face before finally landing back on mine. “You’re perfect. Every part of you.”
My skin sizzles where his thumb rubs against my cheek, and my mouth goes dry. This time, he doesn’t immediately remove his hand, opting to slide his fingers against the hair at the nape of my neck instead. The air is thick, and it feels like there is a magnet pulling between us; the force is so strong it almost feels unnatural to resist the drag. Logan’s fingers press against the back of my neck, and my breathing shallows. His gaze matches my longing, and I know I can’t avoid my feelings any longer.
“Logan—”
“I like you,” he blurts, sending my heart into flight like a hummingbird’s wings.
“What?”
I want to smack myself because the second that one-syllable word leaves my lips, I know it was not the right thing to say. Logan’s throat bobs before he drops his head, and I swear I hear him whisper "Fuck" to himself. His fingers loosen as he starts to remove his hand. Panic curls in my gut, and without giving myself the chance to overthink my actions, my hand jerks up and grabs his wrist, keeping him in place. His eyes snap to mine.
“Say it again,” I breathe out.
Logan’s jaw clenches for a brief second, and his eyes fall to my lips before he looks back up with more confidence. “I like you.” He says. “Like a lot... and for a really long time. I’ve just been too scared to, you know,” he gestures between the two of us with his free hand, “ruin what we’ve got going on here. But, I…I can’t pretend anymore. And I think you should know because you make me happier than I ever expected, and when I’m with you, it’s like I’m floating, and I don’t think I ever want to come down.”
Silence blankets us, the only sounds coming from the crickets and cicadas singing our love song. The wind dances around us, cocooning us in place. My eyes dip to Logan’s chest, rising and falling, and the urge to touch him makes my fingers twitch. I wonder what his gray henley feels like. I want to sink my nails into the warmth I feel radiating from his body. I flick my eyes up to his face in time to watch his tongue glide over his bottom lip, and I lose all restraint. My free hand creeps up the length of his torso, feeling the plains and valleys of his abdomen. Logan’s grip on my face and neck tightens with every inch my hand takes. I follow the path my fingers trace, wishing that his very soft henley wasn’t between his bare skin and my touch. My hand slows to a stop right above his heart, and I press my palm flat against his chest. The flutter of his heart beating tells me he’s just as affected by our proximity as I am. I suck in a breath before peeling my gaze from his body and back to meet his stare, where I nearly melt from the heat blazing in his chestnut brown eyes.
"Logan," I begin, barely audible, “I’ve been falling for you since I met you.”
His face splits into a grin, and he lets out a breathy laugh before he brings his free hand up to cup the other side of my face and presses his forehead against mine.
“You mean to tell me we’ve wasted a whole year? Man, we’ve got a lot to make up for, huh?” he says, and I chuckle.
“I guess so.”
He pulls back enough to let his eyes dip to my lips, then back up to mine, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Can I start now?”
I bite my bottom lip in an attempt to contain the butterflies making my body tingle. I nod. “I was hoping you’d ask that.”
Logan doesn’t waste any time guiding me closer to him, and when our lips meet, my fist balls in his shirt. It’s soft and needy. His fingers grip my face tight, and I clutch onto his wrist, holding him close as our lips leisurely move against one another. I’m floating, no longer on this planet. I’m somewhere else entirely. A place where dreams come true until a chorus of whooping yanks me back to reality. I recognize the sounds, and it doesn’t register exactly who is clapping and catcalling until I hear Dean shout, "Fucking finally!"
I go to pull away, but Logan says, “Mm mm,” and tightens his hold on me. I feel him release one hand, and judging by the cackling and cheering, I imagine he used it to flip his boys the bird before bringing it back to rest on the back of my head. I laugh into the kiss and can feel the way his lips turn upward as he continues to press them against mine. The comfortable sounds of the backyard return, and I know now that I was wrong before. I do belong here, and I am good enough—for my friends, for Logan, and for myself. That realization, paired with the way Logan’s fingers brush against my skin, fills me with poised joy, allowing me to finally melt into the moment, inner demons be damned.
Like I said the last time I read a John Logan fic, I don't even go here...and this was amazing. I'm also not a huge fan of first person POV in fic, but this was perfect.
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synopsis: Robby needs comfort. Jack provides it. Or something.
warnings/notes: The 13th installment of Widow!Jack. As always @tanely aka @immortalserpent helped brainstorm. They are never beating the throuple allegations. This is chaos. As it should be.
wc: just short of 1.1k
Previous Series Masterlist
On what was supposed to be a relaxing day off, Robby called and begged for you to come into work around 2:00pm. It had been a shitshow of a day and they were short staffed. Jack was off playing cops and robbers so you dressed and headed in.
When you arrived, you could immediately see the fatigue weighing on your friend. “Michael?” you said softly as you came up beside him.
He turned to you with those sad eyes and immediately pulled you into his arms. “Thank you for coming in. It’s been…a day.”
“I gathered.” You wrapped your arms around him to return the hug. “You okay?”
“Better now.”
The two of you parted and he gave you a quick rundown of the patients and the situation in chairs. While you worked you made a habit of finding Robby whenever you could. Your fingers would find the hair at the nape of his neck and rub gently. It was a self soothing gesture he’d done since he was a kid. One you’d picked up on to help him when he was really stressed, you calming him better than he could ever do by himself.
Every time he closed his eyes and just let himself sink into the sensation for a moment. Neither of you thought much of it, having done the routine for years at this point.
Jack returned from his SWAT run expecting to find you still in bed or maybe curled up on the couch. Instead, he found a note stating you’d headed into work. He frowned then got ready to follow you. He wasn’t sitting around the house by himself.
His eyes scanned the ED taking in the chaos before falling on you standing behind Robby while he sat at one of the computers. Jack’s gaze narrowed at the sight of your fingers playing with the fringe of hair on Robby’s neck.
He walked over to the hub. “What are you two doing?” he asked, not sounding at all accusatory. (This is a lie. Though the tone didn’t affect you and Robby in the least.)
Instead of answering, you gave Jack a small, sad smile and looked pointedly at the man in front of you. Jack studied him for a moment then he realized what this was. You were comforting Robby.
“Oh no.” Jack’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Carry on,” he stated louder before heading to the locker room.
“Did I call him in? I don’t remember calling him.” Robby asked as his friend walked away.
No one answered him.
A couple of hours passed, the end of shift growing ever closer. Night shift started to trickle in. Jack was moving past the hub when his gaze fell on Robby sitting at the desk, palms pressed against his eyes.
Jack’s gaze frantically moved around the department searching for you.
“She’s in a trauma,” Dana’s voice cut in.
He glanced over to find her gesturing toward Robby. ‘Do something,’ she mouthed.
Jack sucked in a breath, nodded once and moved up behind his best friend. His fingers attempted to replicate the comforting pattern that you’d long memorized.
Robby froze.
His hands dropped as he blinked. Once. Twice.
“Jack?” Robby drew out the word. “What are you doing?”
“She’s busy. I’m all you have. Deal with it.”
Robby huffed a laugh and tried to duck away, but Jack’s hand merely followed. “Believe it or not, it’s not near as comforting when you do it. In fact, it’s fucking strange. Knock it off.”
“No. Let me comfort you.” Jack was nothing if not stubborn.
Robby started to protest before just deflating. “Fine.” A pause. “Go a little higher.”
Melissa King walked past the hub, tablet in hand, nodding to the attendings as she passed. Then she stopped, processed and turned to face them. “I…um…I’m not certain that’s entirely appropriate.”
Her words caught Crus Henderson’s attention and he turned to see what had snagged her attention. He grinned and stepped up beside her. “Oh, you don’t want to get in the middle of that. Trust me. Just keep moving.”
Jack narrowed his gaze. “I’m soothing him. Do you have a problem with that? I didn’t realize you were so closed minded, Dr King. What if he’s my husband? Have you considered that?”
Crus snorted and patted Mel’s shoulder. “Good luck.” Then he walked off and left her to the wolves—or rather the Abbot.
Mel stuttered, her brow furrowing. “No. I mean…” She huffed in annoyance. “Aren’t you already married to Dr. Abbot?”
“I am Dr. Abbot,” Jack answered, lips twitching as he fought his amusement.
You’d stepped out of the trauma room during the initial conversation and made your way over with a shake of your head.
Robby looked from Mel to you and glanced over his shoulder at Jack. “I’m keeping my last name. Three Abbots is too many.”
You shrugged. “I could always switch to Robinavitch.”
A resounding “No!” came from both men and you smiled.
You turned to Mel. “Ignore them. They’re just like this. It’s a problem really. Hand off your patients to Dr. Henderson, please.”
She nodded slowly, clutching the tablet to her chest as she walked away. She looked back once with a heavily furrowed brow as she tried to process what had just happened.
“You two are menaces,” you said to the men once she’d left.
“I’m soothing,” Jack insisted and Robby chuckled. A real smile was on his face for the first time all day.
You smirked and huffed a laugh. “You just going to keep letting him play with your hair all night or do you want to do handoff?”
Robby straightened and brushed Jack’s hand away. “Stop it.”
“I mean, it’s fine. I don’t want to interrupt your bonding moment or anything,” you continued.
“Oh, shut up,” Robby said as he stood, cheeks flaming red.
Bonus:
As Mel gave Crus a rundown on her patients, she kept glancing back to the hub where the attendings were in conversation.
“Hey, you with me?” he asked drawing her attention back to him.
She startled and cleared her throat. “Yes, sorry. Yes.”
Crus chuckled as he flashed her a smile. “I take it you haven’t seen the three of them interact much.”
“Not really. No.”
“You’ll get used to it. They’re a little chaotic, but there is no one better to learn from.”
Mel nodded absently. “So, the Doctors Abbot are married and Dr. Robby is…”
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x nurse!girlfriend!reader
Warnings: heavy angst, hurt, verbal aggression, age gap (20 years age difference), violence, argument, immature behavior, blood, injury, crying.
Summary: what begins as a reprimand spirals into a painful argument, exposing the fragile fault lines of your relationship.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
.‧₊˚ part 2 ; fixing us (soon)
🎀 Based on a part of this request 🎀
You knew you shouldn't had done it.
It was reckless but it has to be done.
Jack hadn't said a word since he pulled you out of Trauma 2 by the arm.
He stood with his forehead pressed against the door, his hands on the door, breathing heavily, trying to hold back everything he had to say about what you had done. Struggling between his professional side and his lover side.
The age gap between the two of you had always been something you both navigated quietly, the twenty years of wear, loss and hard earned medical instincts that gave him those faint silver threads at his temples.
Usually, that difference felt like a safe harbor.
But tonight, right now, it felt like a burden.
"Jack-" you started, your voice trembling as you held the bleeding wound on your forearm.
"Don't," he snapped, his voice was cold, sharp, and vibrating with danger. You had never seen him direct at you that way.
He finally turned to face you, stepping into the center of the room. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle jabbed against his skin.
"What were you thinking?" he asked, pointing a finger directly at you, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "Answer me. What in God's name was going through your head back there?"
"The, the patient had a knife! He was escalating, and security was at the other end of the floor-"
"So you stepped in front of him?!" Jack raised his voice, a sharp laugh bursting from his throat before turning deadly serious again. "You stepped into the reach of an intoxicated patient holding a fucking knife, bare handed? Without gear, without training, without waiting five bloody seconds for back-up?!"
"He was going to hurt a nurse!" you shouted back, the adrenaline still coursing hot through your veins. "I was right there! I reacted!"
"You didn't react, you acted like a reckless child with a savior complex!"
The words hit you. You flinched, the sting of the insult cutting deeper than the actual slice on your arm.
Jack instantly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. But when he opened his eyes again, the fury hadn't faded, it had just shifted into something far darker, laced with terror.
"You could have been killed," he whispered, his voice dropping, trying to calm himself down. "Do you understand that? One inch to the right, one sudden movement, and he would have stab you on the chest. And I would have been dragging your body onto a gurney. I would have been the one running the code on my own girlfriend."
"I made a decision-"
"It was a stupid decision!" Jack slammed his hand down on the metal table. You flinched, with a mix of fear and hurt. "It was completely undeniably reckless! You aren't invincible. You think you're helping, but all you did was put yourself in fatal danger!"
He ran both hands through his hair, pacing the narrow length of the room. The angry on his face was agonizing to look at.
"This isn't a fucking videogame, he stabs you and you're gone," Jack murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he stopped pacing, looking at you with eyes that were red rimmed and filled with agony. "You can't do something so impossibly stupid, so utterly careless with your own life..."
He paused, swallowing hard, his chest heaving.
"I hate it when you're like this" he breathed, the words heavy and devastating. "How easily I could lose you because you don't respect how fast a life can end in this place."
Tears finally welled up in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. "Jack, please..."
"No," he said softly, holding up a hand, refusing to let you touch him even as his own hands shook violently. "I need you to listen to me. I love you, baby. I love you so much it frightens me every damn day. I cannot watch you throw yourself into a fire just to prove you're brave. If you ever, ever, do something like that again, I won't be able to keep doing this."
He stood there for a moment, watching you cry.
Then, he reached into the cabinet, pulled out a strip of sterile bandages and an antiseptic wipe, and walked slowly over to you. "Come here,"
As his hand brushed against your skin, you pulled your arm back sharply, taking a sudden step away from him.
"Don't," you choked out, wiping the tears from your cheek with your shoulder. "I can do it myself."
Jack stopped, his hand hovering in mid air. A deep frustration crossed his features, pulling his brow down tight.
He had reached his absolute limit, the adrenaline and sheer terror of the night twisting his patience thin.
"Don't be immature," Jack said, his voice dropping into a firm tone. "Stop acting hysterical. You're bleeding, sit down and let me fix it."
The words immature and hysterical sliced through you, burning far worse than the cut on your arm.
The built up fear, the humiliation of being berated like a child, and the weight of his anger all exploded at once. You were done with him tonight.
"I said I can do it!" you gasped out, your voice cracking into a choked sob. You shoved at his chest, hard enough to pus him and make the boundaries clear. "Just go away! Leave me alone!"
Jack froze, taking a step back, shocked by the pain in your voice. But before he could say another word, the door opened.
Outside, Shen was by the doorway, listening. When he heard your voice, he step in. He took in the scene instantly: you backed from Jack, chest heaving and sobbing hysterically, and Jack standing over you with bandages in hand, looking stormily defensive.
Shen didn't hesitate for a second.
"Jack," Shen said, his voice was completely non negotiable as he stepped directly between him and you. "Out. Now."
"Shen, this isn't-" Jack started as he looked at him.
"I said out, Abbot," Shen interrupted, pointing firmly toward the open door. "You're done in here. I'll take care of her."
Jack looked from Shen back to you. You wouldn't meet his eyes, your head turned away as quiet sobs tore from your chest.
For a second, the anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by the realization of how he had just hurt you.
With a tight nod, Jack swallowed hard, set the bandage strip down and walked out without another word.
The rest of the night shift passed in a cold fog.
Shen had cleaned and bandaged the cut on your arm, giving you a little speech before sending you back out to work.
For the remaining four hours, you actively avoided Trauma Bays, took the long way around the nurse's station, and kept your head down whenever his figure in scrubs moved through the hallway.
Jack did the same. Whenever you were in the same general area, his presence felt impossibly heavy, but he never approached.
When 7 AM finally rolled around, you clocked out, feeling bruised down to your bones. You walked out to the parking garage, cold morning air biting at your face.
You half expected him to have left without you, but there he was.
Jack was leaning against the passenger side of his car, holding two paper cups of coffee from the cafeteria. He always drove you home after your shift. It was a rhythm you’d built together, a quiet ritual of transitioning from the madness of the ER back to normal life.
Neither of you spoke on the drive. The silence in the car felt suffocating.
When he finally pulled up outside your apartment building, Jack cut the engine. He didn't unbuckle immediately. Instead, he rested his hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield before turning to look at you when you opened the car door to leave.
"Can we talk?" he asked quietly as you where already walking to the building with wet eyes. "Please."
You turned around, nodding slowly. You didn't want to bring him inside, so you two stayed in the hallway outside your apartment door, key resting heavy in your palm.
Jack stood a step away, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
"I shouldn't have raised my voice at you," Jack began, taking a breath and looking at youy. "And I shouldn't have... used those words. I was... terrified. I was out of my mind with fear, watching you put yourself in front of a blade like that. But I handled it wrong."
You swallowed down the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "You spoke to me like I was a child, Jack. You called me immature and hysterical."
"Because you were acting on pure emotion!" Jack said, stepping a fraction closer, though his tone was defensive despite his apology. "You're a talented healthcare worker, but you lack the experience to know when a situation is beyond your pay grade. You rushed in without thinking about the consequences. That is impulse. That is a young and reckless reaction, and I can't just ignore it because it hurts your feelings to hear it."
His words settled over you heavily.
He is apologizing for how he said it, but not for what he thought.
Standing there, looking into his eyes, you saw it clearly. He didn't see an equal who had made a high stress judgment call in a chaotic trauma center. He saw a young, naive girl he had to manage and protect from her own foolishness.
The age gap between you wasn't just a number to him right now; it was a wall he was using to put himself above you.
A cold clarity washed over the anger, leaving behind an ache.
"You really see me like that, don't you?" you whispered, the realization pulling a broken breath from you. "Just a young, immature girl who doesn't know any better."
Jack blinked, panic entering his eyes by the calm of your voice. "That's not what I'm saying-"
"It is," you interrupted, shaking your head gently. "You think I'm too young to understand the risks, and you think you're the only one in this relationship who has any wisdom. Profesional and personal talking."
"I'm trying to keep you alive!" Jack snapped softly, reaching out to touch your arm, but dropping his hand when you took a small step back. "I care about you. I love you. But I've been doing this for longer than you've been in medicine. I know how this ends when people get careless."
"I know you love me," you said, tears brimming in your eyes again. "And I love you, too."
Jack let out a breath, his shoulders dropping slightly in relief. "Okay. Good. Then let's just go inside, get some sleep, and-"
"No," you said firmly, lifting your chin. "We need space. I need space."
Jack froze, his forehead furrowing. "What does that mean?"
"I'm not breaking up with you. But I see how you see me during some shifts. I'm going to ask to be switched to day shift for a few days," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the tremble in your hands. "I need to work without you staring over my shoulder waiting for me to to fail and you need time to decide if you actually respect me as an adult, or if you just see me as someone you have to babysit."
Jack stared at you, stunned into silence. For the first time all night, the authority drained out of his posture, replaced by vulnerability.
"Day shift?" he repeated quietly, the reality sinking in. "We won't see each other at work. We won't even have the same sleep schedule."
"I know," you replied feeling your heart break and a tear escaping your eyes. You turned the key in the lock and opened your apartment door. "I don't liked how you talked to me tonight. I understand your point but I think that's what we need right now."
You stepped inside, but paused.
You looked back at him standing alone in the hallway. Despite everything, the sadness and terror in his eyes was still raw.
You leaned forward, rising on your tiptoes to press a soft kiss against his cheek.
Jack’s breath hitched. His hand shot forward, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you against him so suddenly it felt like a silent plea. He squeezed your waist with a desperate warmth, his whole body shaking as if he were trying to convince himself you were still whole and unhurt. For a fleeting second, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his uneven breath felt hot against your skin.
He wanted to hold on. He wanted to pull you back inside the safety of his arms, but the unspoken wall of his condescension still stood cold and immovable between you.
You gently placed your hand over his wrist and slowly pushed back.
His grip loosened with agonizing slowness, his fingers lingering on your waist as if letting go was tearing something out of him. He lifted his head, his eyes glossy, and completely shattered by the realization that his own need to protect you had pushed you away.
"Get some sleep, Jack," you whispered, your voice breaking on his name. "I will... I will text you later. Okay?"
His hand finally slipped off your side.
He didn't speak. He couldn't. He just nodded.
You stepped into the safety of your apartment and pulled the door shut. The click echoed down the hallway, leaving him standing in the cold alone. Regretting all he has said.
Summary: After the death of your husband and Daeron's ascension to the Iron Throne, you are summoned to King's Landing to discuss your future.
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x F!Reader (past Ormund Hightower x F!Reader)
Word Count: 3.6.K
Warning: Eventually 18+ only. This chapter includes brief references to past physical, sexual, and emotional abuse (Ormund is a warning himself, okay?).
A/N: A big thanks to @aninhatatu for all her help. No use of Y/N. Reader's house is not named and there is no physical descriptions of her given. Daeron will feature heavily in this story because I adore him.
Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Masterlist
When you are a girl, you dream of the day you will marry a true knight who will love you as faithfully as the heroes in the songs.
Your father promises he will find you a good and honorable lord to wed. He speaks of great castles beyond the Reach and noble houses far from home, but your heart seeks another much closer than the distant lords your father imagines.
You long for Gwayne Hightower, looking forward to the days he visits alongside his father. There is a tenderness in him that seems so absent from the men around you. Even the simple courtesy of the way he presses a kiss to the back of your hand feels like something out of the songs you cherish. You imagine a day he might look upon you the same.
It is a dream you guard closely, never daring to give it voice for fear that speaking it aloud will make it vanish. Yet you hold onto the hope that once your sister is wed to his cousin, Lord Ormund, your father might look kindly upon such a match.
Then sickness comes, and with it the Stranger. He claims your sister and the future you imagined. Dury destroys what little remains.
Weeks later, it is you who stands beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Starry Sept and accepts the richly embroidered bride cloak from Lord Ormund Hightower as sunlight pours through the windows.
His eyes are impossibly blue and gentle, his bearing every inch the noble lord the stories have promised. You believe him kind. You believe him true.
That illusion does not survive the night.
The years that follow as his wife are a slow burial of the girl who once believed in songs. You learn to make yourself small, to accept whatever his temper and his body demand of you, and to survive until morning.
You are not alone in your captivity. Daeron is little more than a boy when you first meet him, and he too suffers beneath your husband. Ormund's cruelty toward him is subtler, but no less damaging for its lack of bruises. It comes in a familiar barbed tongue and carefully chosen words that burrow deep, slowly twisting a kind heart into one that forever questions its own worth.
You cannot save Daeron from Ormund, any more than you can save yourself. But you offer him what comfort you can, growing skilled at redirecting your husband's ire when it turns toward the boy, just like Daeron learns the ways to shield you in return.
Then comes the war, and for the first time in years you find yourself alone. Yet there is no peace in your husband’s absence. You have spent so long preparing yourself for his anger that you no longer know how to exist without waiting for it. The silence feels like a trap.
Worse still, he takes Daeron with him.
It is a strange thing, to find yourself both hoping for and dreading their return. Their fates are too intertwined now so you find yourself kneeling before the statues of the Seven, whispering pleas to both the Warrior and the Smith. Months pass with little world beyond what gossip your maids gather for you.
Then, on a warm summer morning, news comes that your lord husband has fallen in battle.
Nothing is said of Daeron. You wait nearly a week in agonizing fear before a letter arrives sealed with the king's sigil. You break the heavy wax and unfold the parchment, breath catching in your throat at the familiar hand that sweeps across the page.
Daeron.
Your fingers linger over his name as though you fear it might vanish beneath your touch. A sob catches in your throat.
He is alive.
More than that, he is king.
Ink blurs beneath your tears as you read his message, a request to come to King's Landing. He promises that you will be welcomed, that you will be safe. It has been years since anyone has promised you safety.
–
The journey to King’s Landing takes nearly three months. Hightower men dressed in the dark greens and blacks of your house greet you within the inner keep. They bow when you emerge from the carriage, voices subdued as they offer condolences. You nod at the proper moments, offering the expected words of gratitude with practiced ease, your expression composed in quiet dignity and mourning.
Inside, you feel nothing.
Their praise of Ormund's honor and the heroic deeds that helped secure the king's ascension twists something inside you. They speak of a man you scarcely recognize, a man far removed from the one you knew.
Thankfully, you are spared further words when another figure approaches.
"My lady," he says with a quick bow, "I am the King’s steward. His Grace requests your presence once the Small Council has concluded its business."
"Of course," you reply, lifting a hand to your brow as you glance toward Margaery, your maid. "If I may have but a moment."
His eyes flick briefly over your travel-worn appearance before returning to your face, his tone remaining perfectly respectful.
“His Grace will not mind a brief delay," he agrees, motioning for you to follow.
The steward leads you through a series of quiet corridors, your maid following close behind with a small traveling trunk balanced carefully in her arms. The chamber awaiting you is modest but comfortable. A basin of fresh water rests upon its stand with clean linens folded neatly beside it. A large mirror hangs upon the far wall.
You pause before it.
The woman staring back at you looks exhausted. Dust clings to the hem of your skirts, and your mourning veil has slipped askew. Ormund would be furious if he found out you had been seen in such a state.
The thought comes so suddenly that you freeze.
He is dead, you remind yourself. Yet the unease settles beneath your skin all the same, irrational but impossible to silence. You can almost hear his clipped voice. A Hightower lady, his wife, no less, reflected not only upon herself, but upon him. To appear before the court looking so travel-worn was careless. Unbecoming.
"My lady," Margery says quietly, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.
You flinch and she adverts her eyes.
“Yes,” you agree to her unspoken words, mouth gone dry.
Together, you work to make yourself presentable. You wash your face and hands and allow Margery to help you into a fresh gown. It is black, like all the others, stiff and uncomfortable. She runs a critical eye over you before smoothing the creases from your shoulder and tugging at a fold of bunched fabric at your waist, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
It strikes you then that you are not the woman trapped in old habits, still fearful of her master's displeasure.
You say her name softly, and she looks up, her expression uncertain.
"All is well," you assure her.
She nods once and helps you pin a fresh mourning veil into your hair. Only then do you allow the steward to lead you to the king.
The deeper into the keep you go, the darker it becomes, lit only by flickering candlelight that leaves the air hazy with smoke. The Red Keep is nothing like the Hightower, surrounded by sea winds and endless beauty. This place feels close and shadowed. The very air seems heavy, steeped in a cold kind of power that unsettles you.
Golden dragons on fields of green hang from every wall, an uneasy union of Targaryen and Hightower heraldry. Ormund would have despised the sight.
You walk a few moments longer until the steward stops before the towering oak doors of the Small Council chamber. Two white-cloaked Kingsguard stand sentinel on either side. You come to a halt behind him and wait.
“The Lady Hightower,” the guard calls out, opening the heavy doors.
A short flight of stone steps rises before you, and you ascend them slowly. At first, you do not see Daeron at the far end of the table. Your attention is drawn instead to the tall figure who rises the moment you enter.
Warm green eyes meet yours, and suddenly you are fifteen again, back in your father’s great hall, watching Gwayne practice with your father’s men. For a moment, you simply stare, caught between memory and the present. A strange flurry of emotions stirs in your chest. You should have expected Gwayne to be at Daeron's side, yet the sight of him still takes you by surprise.
Unbidden, you stare, searching his face for the changes left by the years since you last saw him. Weariness marks him now, the war having taken its toll, but his proud features remain as striking as ever. Reddish-gold hair curls at the nape of his neck, and he is dressed in a fine green doublet woven through with gold thread. At his side hangs Vigilance, Ormund’s longsword and the symbol of the title and the legacy he now carries.
The new Lord Hightower.
Gwayne opens his mouth to speak, but Daeron rises first, his chair dragging heavily against the stone floor. The rest of the men at the table quickly follow, scrambling to their feet, but Daeron pays them little attention, rounding the table toward you.
He seems to catch himself halfway, stopping abruptly to slow his gait. His attention jumps to Gwayne, then to the gathered council, as though suddenly aware of the eyes upon him.
“Lady Hightower,” he greets, stilted and formal.
On his head rests a golden crown. A seven-pointed star sits at its center, emerald facets catching the candlelight, framed by a pair of dragons whose delicate etching is so faint you nearly miss them.
He has grown taller since you saw him last, much of the lingering softness in his face gone, but he still looks so young. A scar bisects his left brow, and dismay settles in your chest. Your fingers itch to soothe away the hurt that must have caused it, but the skin has long since healed, pale and silvery against the rest of his face.
Someone at the table coughs, the sound drawing you back to the moment at hand. Only then do you realize you’re simply standing there, staring. You are not greeting Daeron you realize, but your King.
You drop into a deep curtsy, head bowed.
“You Grace.”
You hold your posture until Daeron gently takes your elbows and encourages you to rise. A faint blush colors his cheeks, and despite everything, you cannot help but smile.
"I am pleased you are here," he says warmly. "We have much to discuss."
"And to celebrate," a dark-haired man behind him adds, lifting his cup. "It will not be long before His Grace finds you a worthy husband.”
Daeron goes still.
His brows lift in surprise, and your own mirror his. You know him well enough to recognize the flicker of emotions that crosses his face, something between fear and guilt.
A quiet anxiety blooms in your chest, making your jaw tighten and your stomach twist.
"My..." Your voice falters as you look between the men gathered in the room. Most avoid your gaze, but the man who spoke watches you carefully, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
The silence that follows is broken by Gwayne.
"Lord Peake." The words come sharply, and the man's smile falters. "You forget yourself."
Gwayne’s handsome features harden, the warmth gone from his face, replaced by a cold displeasure carefully held in check.
Daeron touches your arm, drawing your attention to him for only a moment before your gaze returns to Gwayne. He has moved from his position behind the table, placing himself between you and Lord Peake. One hand hangs relaxed at his side, but the other rests upon the pommel of his greatsword.
“Lady Hightower’s future is a private matter between the Hightower House and the crown”.
Lord Peake raises a single hand, as if to forestall further reprimand. "You mistake my meaning. I merely wished to offer Lady Hightower happy news."
Your breath leaves you in a slow, unsteady exhale. They speak of your future as though you are not in the room. As though you do not matter. It is all too familiar.
Gwayne does not answer. Instead, he folds his hands behind his back and looks to Daeron.
"I would speak with Lady Hightower and my Hand in private,” Daeron announces. “We shall reconvene tomorrow."
Chairs scrape against the stone as the men rise and file from the chamber. Lord Peake is the last to leave. He slows beside Gwayne, meeting his eyes with the faintest lift of one brow. Then he turns to you and smiles. It is a courteous smile, perfectly measured. Perfectly empty. Your stomach tightens. You know that smile.
As the heavy doors swing shut behind Lord Peake, a different silence settles over the chamber.
You lower your eyes to your clasped hands. Your thumb finds the slender silver ring on your finger, tracing the emerald set within it. The ring worn by every Lady Hightower that’s become before you. The one Ormund placed on your hand all those years ago. It will belong to Gwayne soon you realize.
Daeron says your name so softly it almost breaks you. But you keep your head bowed, pressing your thumb harder against the emerald's sharp edge until it bites into your skin. The sting steadies you, driving back the tears threatening to spill.
You mustn't cry. Ormund despises tears. He calls them weakness. He—
Daeron reaches for your hands, his own larger than you remember. Gently, patiently, he eases your fingers apart until the pressure against the ring disappears.
“He is not here,” he whispers quietly. “You do not have to stifle yourself.”
You blink rapidly, clearing your vision before forcing your shoulders back. “I am sorry, your Grace,” you reply.
The use of his title seems to wound him. A shadow crosses Daeron's gentle features.
“You do not need to call me that when it is just us,” he says. “Things have not changed.”
Against your better judgment, your look to Gwayne. He watches without speaking. Daeron follows your gaze.
"We can trust my uncle," he says gently. “He is a good man.”
They said the same about Ormund.
You force a smile for Daeron and he relaxes.
His hand remains wrapped around yours as he gently guides you away from the council table toward a smaller seating area tucked beside the hearth. The chairs there are lower, cushioned. He waits until you are seated before taking the place beside you.
Gwayne settles into the chair opposite, leaving the low table between you.
"This is not how I wished this conversation to happen,” Daeron begins.
"How long?" The words leave your lips before you can stop them. The two men exchange a glance. "How long until I must marry again?"
Daeron's face falls. His fingers tighten around yours before he lowers his eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost helplessly, he looks to Gwayne.
“Soon,” his uncle replies.
The words settle over the room like a stone.
"Lord Peake spoke out of turn," Gwayne continues, "but he did not speak without reason." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Since Ormund's death, many ravens have arrived carrying proposals."
You stared at him. "For me?"
"For your lands," he corrects gently. "For your inheritance. Your father's health worsens and the maesters believe he has little time remaining."
You swallow around the lump in your throat. Ormund had never permitted you to leave Oldtown without him as your escort, and your father's failing health had long since robbed him of the strength to travel. Letters from him had grown fewer with each passing moon. Long before that, you had stopped asking Ormund if you might return home. It was not worth provoking him.
"As he has no sons, his lands and titles will pass through you... and then to the sons you will one day bear. Until your heir comes of age, your husband will govern in his stead. But, if your father dies before your future is settled, every ambitious lord Westeros will believe the succession is open to influence."
His expression shifts, disgust surfacing briefly.
“There are those like Lord Peake who would not hesitate to spill blood over it."
Your gaze drops to the fire. The flames dance and twist, blurring as your vision stings. Before you even realize you're doing it, your thumb finds the emerald ring again, turning it over and over against your finger until the stone bites into your skin.
Daeron’s reign is still new, still fragile. They cannot risk another open war, not while he struggles to secure the realm. You know that. You know exactly why they have made this choice. It does not make it hurt any less.
After a long moment Gwayne says your name. Not Lady Hightower. Not some carefully chosen honorific. Just your name.
The sound catches you off guard. Against your better judgment, your eyes lift to meet his.
"I understand," you manage. The words are steady enough, but they sound distant, like someone else has spoken them.
“You are a member of House Hightower. We will protect you,” he says. The promise is earnest enough to make you ache.
You want to believe him. You want to be angry with him. Instead, fear settles heavily beneath your ribs, cold and unyielding.
At last, Daeron speaks.
"I wanted..." His voice catches. "I wanted you to have more time."
For the briefest moment, you see not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but the little boy Ormund first brought home to Oldtown. All gentle smiles and earnest questions, forever eager to please. He is still there. Pained by what duty asks of him and of you.
"You will be safe here, no matter the outcome," he promises, a small crease forming between his brows.
"Have you settled on someone?" you ask quietly.
You hold his gaze. It is not a challenge. It is a quiet demand for honesty, if nothing else. After everything the two of you have endured together, you are owed at least that.
"Nothing would be decided without your approval,” he promises
You search his face, watching as his expression shifts ever so slightly, a change you might have missed had you not known him since he was a boy. The look when he was weighing the cost of the truth before giving voice to it.
He already has someone in mind you realize.
“Who?” You ask with a boldness that surprises you.
His eyes drift toward Gwayne. The older man stills. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before he shakes his head once.
It’s a warning that Daeron ignores it.
"My uncle," he says. "You would keep your title. And because Gwayne serves as my Hand, your home would remain here, in King's Landing."
His voice is careful, but you hear what he does not say. That you would be close to him. That you would not have to return to Oldtown and walk those halls where every stone still bears the memory of Ormund’s abuse. It is a boyish hope, but it is a kind one.
Your look to Gwayne. Daeron's suggestion seems to have unsettled him. In his position Ormund would have feigned reluctance. He would have offered some practiced protest about duty before graciously accepting what he desired all along.
Gwayne does no such thing.The muscles in his jaw tighten, hollowing his cheeks. His expression is not one of embarrassment or false modesty, but something closer to shame.
"This is not a burden Lady Hightower should bear today," he says quietly.
"Of course," Daeron agrees at once.
His hands twist together in his lap before he catches himself and stills them. His gaze darts from Gwayne to you and back again.
"We should let you rest," he declares after a moment, rising so abruptly that his crown slips forward over his brow. He hastily straightens it, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "You must be tired from the long journey."
You stand and smooth your skirts, searching for words but all you can manage is, "Thank you, Your Grace."
The title leaves your lips before you can stop it. Daeron's smile falters.
"Daeron," you say softly.
His expression warms at once and you smile to see him so unguarded.
For a heartbeat, he remains where he is and then he takes one uncertain step, then another, before closing the distance and wrapping his arms around you. The embrace is almost desperate. He buries his face against your shoulder, clinging to you. Your hand finds the familiar curve of his back. Slowly, gently, you stroke between his shoulders. After a long moment, the tension leaves him in a soft, shuddering breath.
Over Daeron's shoulder, your eyes meet Gwayne's. His features tighten almost imperceptibly. He looks almost stricken, but a heartbeat later, his composure returns.
Without a word, he looks away.
You close your eyes and rest your cheek lightly against Daeron's hair, allowing yourself to simply exist. In this quiet moment, he is not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are not Lady Hightower. You are simply two people who survived the same man, holding one another steady as the world shifts beneath your feet.
You are free of Ormund. That alone feels almost impossible. Yet beneath that relief, a shadow lingers. You want to believe Daeron is right. That Gwayne is a good man. A true knight, the kind the songs once taught you to believe in.
But hope is a fragile thing.
You are no longer certain you remember how to hold it.
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A great boyfriend. A brother. A son…. A convicted criminal.
But above all, he was a man.
And this certainly had its perks. He could reach the top shelf in stores for you, place you on his shoulders at music festivals so you had the perfect view, fuck you on his big cock, open particularly tight jars when you couldn’t - you normally could, but you liked to make him feel needed sometimes. He liked that, feeling needed, you weren’t exactly sure what his enjoyment gauge was on opening pickle jars at random.
But it also lent itself towards a couple of grating personality traits that Andrew had still not grown out of.
Namely, his inability to advocate for himself. Or refusal, may be more apt.
He would speak up for anyone if he felt they had been done wrong. His brothers, Lena, you. All of you were lucky to have Andrew as your most outspoken defender.
He just didn’t extend himself that same courtesy.
Enter his food orders.
He was so happy to take you out to fancy dinners, though it made the both of you uncomfortable. You had pretended to enjoy the expensive banquets in sparkly (read: scratchy) dresses and high heels because you thought that it was what Andrew wanted. Andrew had endured these dinners because he thought it was what you deserved. Princess treatment fit for his princess.
The fancy dinners had, over time, subsided. They’d faded out comfortably to just dinners. Pizza on the hood of his car parked up at the beach, greasy burgers in sticky diner booths. Or, more often, drive throughs and quickies in quiet parking lots afterward.
These were much more your speed, and admittedly, his. The youthfulness of it all kept the romance alive, you thought, and Andrew got to live out the experience now, his childhood not exactly having allowed for dry humping in his pick-up truck underneath the flickering street lamp of a Wendy’s. He’d been too busy tankering with engines, getting into fights, and pulling jobs for Smurf.
“Let me get a number four, no pickles,” Andrew said into the beat up speaker box.
“Is that all for tonight, sir?”
He looks at you expectantly. “What do you want, sweetheart?”
You lean over him, poking your head out the window. “Can I get a number seven, extra pickles?”
You plant your ass back in the seat, Andrew eyes you up and down, as if anticipating an explanation. You shrug.
“I could’ve told them,” Andrew offers, mildly confused; like he thought that what you did was weird, but you had done it so nonchalantly that he now felt like he was the one being weird for reacting.
“Is that all for tonight?” Instead of answering, Andrew drives to the next window.
He swats your hand away when you try to offer up your credit card, taps his own, and shoots you a glare in between changing gears. “Don’t ever do that.”
“Popey, I can pay for my own meal,” you cross your arms.
He frowns mockingly. “Sure you can.”
“The number four and the number seven?” Andrew takes the drink tray from the server and blindly passes it back to you to hold, grabs the food bag and rights himself in his seat.
“Have a good night, sir.”
Andrew pauses. “You too, man.”
Beside him, you open the food bag, destroy a handful of fries while he’s not looking, and open his burger wrapper.
You tsk softly.
Andrew changes gears again, takes his foot off the brake.
You clasp a firm hand around his wrist. “Y’alright?”
You unbuckle your seatbelt, foregoing the bag and the drink tray so you can pitch yourself out the window again.
You knock on the closed window. “Excuse me.”
A server appears, confused. They open the window.
“Yes?”
You smile. “Hi, my boyfriend ordered the number four with no pickles?”
They look at you, unamused. “Okay?”
You hand them the opened burger wrapper. “There’s pickles.”
“So take them out,” the worker offers unhelpfully.
You smile a little deeper. “Oh! Why didn’t I think of that?”
You remove the pickles from the burger, one by one.
Andrew watches in awe as you stack them between your forefinger and middle finger - he counts five, six maybe - and drop them into the worker’s palm.
They look down at their palm in disgust, ketchup and mustard and limp, soggy pickles soiling flesh.
“Can I get the number four, now, no pickles?”
They nod sheepishly and retreat, closing the window again.
Andrew gropes your ass before you plant it back in your seat, assured, like he’s trying to reclaim control of the situation.
“Princess.”
“Popey,” you reply, willing your features into compliance, feigning innocence.
“Why’d you bully that kid?”
You scoff. “You asked for no pickles.”
“I could have picked them off,” Andrew shrugs halfheartedly, knows you’re going to call him on it.
“You could have, sure. But you always complain you can taste the essence of pickle.”
Andrew clenches his jaw. It’s not out of anger, really.
He’s more… chewing on your words. You’re right. And he’s grateful that he’s not going to starve tonight, or ruin your date night because he can’t handle a little pickle in his burger.
“Thank you, angel,” Andrew offers softly. He’s still so shy sometimes, it makes you want to eat him.
The window opens, another employee standing in place of the last one. This one looks a little more managerial.
“I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding, ma’am. We’ve thrown in a pie for the inconvenience.”
“Thank you so much, have a great night,” you reply cheerfully.
Andrew takes the bag from the employee, plants it in your lap, squeezes your thigh gently, and finally leaves the drive through.
If he’s a little more attentive to your needs in the back of the pick-up later, takes a little more time with his tongue and fingers in your cunt, well that’s just him expressing his gratitude to his girl. In the way he knows best.
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cant post this on my main so this will be a rare fandom post by fishy on this blog but
can I say the fandom antisemitism towards Noah Wyle and by extension (if not equally) towards Dr. Robby is so insane. this is probably the most blatant case of fandom antisemitism I've seen. can we get it together? we are so much fucking better than this, people. as much as I enjoy this show some of you guys are un-fucking-bearable. can we collectively lock the fuck in and either shut up or stop with this? thanks. sincerely a very tired little guy.
