what we do in life echoes in eternity

The kitchen went dead silent at the word.

Daella’s head turned so fast you could swear you heard her neck crack. “Did dad just—”

“He did,” you just said, cheeky smile beginning to turn in your face.

“In front of us,” she added, already reaching for her phone, thumbs flying. “I need this documented. I need a timestamp.”

Egg, who hadn’t inherited his father’s flat expression but all of his father’s lack of tolerance for these scenes, looked at his dad, looked at you, and simply said “I’m going to my room,” and disappeared upstairs with the efficiency of an almost teenager avoiding second-hand embarrassment.

Baelor finished writing a message and put down his phone quietly, sipping from the glass. “Well,” he said, mildly. “That is certainly a word.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you told Maekar, turning around and patting his chest a few times, matching his energy fully. “Full seven-course meal. Michelin star. I’d even wait outside in the rain for a table.”

The partial, corner-smile turned into a full one on his lips.

“Bold claim,” he went on.

“For the right dish?” you said, “I’m a generous reviewer.”

“Oh my Gods,” Daella almost exclaimed, the girl was almost vibrating with joy. “This is going to the family group chat.”

“Don’t.” Her father said without breaking eye contact from you, without any real conviction behind his words.

“Already sent,” she chirped happily.

Baelor took another sip of his wine, watching his younger brother with open, clear amusement. “Well,” he said. “You do have to try the snack, right?”

“Baelor,” Maekar warned him.

The older brother raised his arms in defence. “I’m simply observing,” he said, entirely serene, “that you should be extremely pleased with yourself.”

“Gods, sometimes I hate this family,” Maekar answered, without heat, as his arms circled your waist and you suppressed a laugh. And then, because he was never a man to let a shot go unanswered, even from his own brother: “Though now that I come to think of it,” he provided a fuller, teasing smile, “you should also be extremely pleased with the visits you’ve been getting at the museum lately, shouldn’t you?”

Baelor’s composure, you could see, did something interesting.

Daella, still reporting to the group chat, made a sound like she’d just been handled the best birthday present of her life. “Wait,” she said, “what visits, uncle?”

“Nothing,” Baelor said quickly, with the exact controlled calm of a man whose ears had gone faintly pink.

“That’s not a nothing face, your ears—”

“It truly is nothing, honey,” Baelor said again, retrieving his wine glass with considerable haste and taking a longer gulp of the liquid.

Maekar — thoroughly, visibly pleased with himself — kissed you square on the mouth right there in the kitchen, while Daella was apparently describing the scene in full detail to the group chat.

Egg’s voice drifted down from upstairs. “Is it safe to come back down? I still have issues with Daella.”

Donnel did not explain where you were going until you had been driving for nearly twenty minutes. You had been too stunned to ask. The city slipped past the windows in streaks of orange streetlight and reflected blue from the emergency vehicles still racing in the opposite direction. Your entire body felt strangely detached from you, as though you had left some essential part of yourself standing on the pavement outside your burning building. Rhaenyra was the only thing anchoring you. She was curled against your stomach inside the open carrier on your lap, her small body vibrating with a continuous purr. One paw rested over the edge as though she had personally decided you required supervision. You stroked between her ears with your good hand. Donnel had stopped to get her the carrier, insisting she would be more comfortable. You still could not believe she was unharmed. Apparently one of the firefighters had found her hiding beneath your bed before the flames reached your floor, terrified but unharmed apart from singed whiskers and a general air of profound insult. You had cried harder when they had placed her into your arms than you had when you watched your flat burn.

Now she pressed herself against you, warm and alive. You buried your nose briefly into her fur.

“Where are we going?” You asked.

Donnel glanced at you through the rear-view mirror.

“Summerhall.”

“What?” You frowned.

“Summerhall. Mister Targaryen’s brother’s residence.”

“Maekar?”

“Yes.”

You stared through the windscreen.

“Why?”

Donnel gave you a look that suggested the answer should have been self-evident.

“Because your flat was just set on fire.”

“It could have been electrical.”

“It wasn’t.”

You looked at him sharply.

“What?”

“The fire brigade found accelerant,” he explained.

Your stomach dropped. Donnel immediately seemed to regret saying it.

“They’re still investigating.”

“Accelerant.”

“Yes.”

You looked down at Rhaenyra. Her eyes were closed, entirely unconcerned. Someone had deliberately burned your home. The thought sat differently from the attack. The underground had been enormous, a terrorist attack involving dozens of strangers. It had been horrifying, but there had always been a tiny, desperate possibility that Bittersteel had merely chosen that train by chance. Even after the letter. Even after Baelor told you otherwise. Part of you had wanted to believe that you had simply been unlucky. Your flat was different. Your flat had your name attached to it. Your books. Your photographs. Your clothes. Your cat. Your bed.

Someone had gone there because you lived there. A tremor began in your fingers. You curled them into Rhaenyra’s fur.

“So he knows where I live,” you whispered.

Donnel’s mouth tightened.

“He knew.”

“Knew?”

“You won’t be going back there.”

You gave a small, humourless laugh.

“Obviously,” you said, giving him a deadpan look.

“I didn’t mean..."

“I know. Sorry.”

Donnel had been nothing but nice. It wasn't fair to snap at him. Silence returned.

“Why Summerhall?” You asked after a moment.

“Security.”

“Baelor has security.”

“Yes.”

“His house has cameras,” you pointed out.

“I'm aware," he said dryly, making you blush. "Summerhall is different.”

“How different?”

Donnel considered his answer.

“You'll see.”

You leaned your head back against the seat. You had heard of Summerhall. Everyone had. The Targaryens were not royalty anymore, not officially, but their properties remained famous enough to occasionally feature in architectural magazines and documentaries about the old dynasty. Summerhall had once been a royal retreat. Then the wars came. Then rebuilding. You had seen photographs online years ago. A sprawling pale-stone estate surrounded by woodland, belonging now to "Prince" Maekar Targaryen, though no one was supposed to use the title anymore unless they wanted an argument about constitutional technicalities. You knew almost nothing about Maekar himself beyond what Baelor had told you. You had seen photographs. A stern-looking man with white hair cut short and a beard, broad shoulders, heavy brows and the sort of expression that suggested he found most people at least mildly disappointing. You remembered joking once that he looked like he ate people for breakfast. Baelor had laughed.

“He’s softer than he looks.”

The memory hurt. You closed your eyes and breathed slowly. The ache in your ribs had mostly become background noise now, but fear made them feel tighter.

“How long?”

“About three hours.”

You opened your eyes again.

“Three hours?”

“Yes.”

“You’re taking me three hours away?”

“Orders.”

You stared at the back of his head.

“You really love that word.”

He smiled faintly.

“I’m aware.”

“Whose orders?”

He did not answer immediately.

You already knew.

“Baelor’s.”

“Yes. Right.”

Your pulse kicked. You looked out of the window. Of course. Of course this had something to do with him. Your phone had been buzzing intermittently since you left the street. You had not looked at it. It remained face down beside you on the seat. You knew there were messages. Tanselle. Rowan. Probably Dunk and Raymun. Possibly half the university. Possibly him. You did not want to know. Not yet. Rhaenyra shifted, pushing her head beneath your palm until you resumed stroking her.

“Is he there?”

Donnel’s gaze flicked towards you in the mirror.

“Not yet.”

Yet.

Your stomach tightened. You hated the ridiculous reaction your body had to the idea of seeing him. Anger first. Then fear. Then a longing so sharp it embarrassed you. You had spoken to him only hours ago. You had heard his voice. You had listened to him admit that everyone in his life thought he was an idiot. You had ended the call almost feeling human. And now, your home was gone.

The road grew darker as the city disappeared behind you. Streetlights became less frequent. Buildings gave way to fields and woodland. At some point, the adrenaline began to drain from you. Your head became heavy. Rhaenyra’s purring vibrated through your stomach. The heater hummed quietly. You tried to stay awake. You failed.

When you opened your eyes again, the car had stopped. For one disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were. Then the headlights illuminated a security gate. Not a normal gate. An absolutely ridiculous gate. Tall iron fencing disappeared into darkness on either side. Cameras rotated above stone pillars. A guard booth sat behind reinforced glass, and retractable metal barriers rose from the road in front of the car. Two guards approached. Donnel lowered the window. One scanned something on his phone. The other looked into the back seat, his gaze lingering on you. You felt strangely reassured. The barrier lowered and the gates opened. The car continued. You expected that to be it. It was not. There was another checkpoint perhaps a kilometre further along. Then another. At one, Donnel had to place his hand against a biometric scanner. You stared.

“This is completely insane,” you scoffed.

“It’s effective.”

“Do they expect an army to attack?”

“Only the occasional paparazzi.”

That earned him a quiet laugh as you sank back into the seat. It was excessive. Absolutely absurd. And yet, with every gate that closed behind you, something in your chest loosened. If Bittersteel wanted to reach you here, he would have to get through an army of cameras, guards, sensors and fences first. You half expected the place to have hidden booby traps as well, something out of old spy movies you had watched when you were young. For the first time since the fire, you felt something resembling safety.

Then Summerhall came into view.

You had expected a manor. Summerhall was closer to a small palace. The oldest section stretched across the centre of the estate, built of warm pale stone with tall chimneys and steep slate roofs. But generations of renovation had softened the severity of the original structure. Modern wings extended from either side, designed with enormous bay windows that reflected the lights of the drive. Glass corridors connected newer sections to the older building. Warm golden light glowed from almost every window. It should have felt imposing. Instead, it looked lived in. There were bicycles abandoned near one entrance. A football sat beside a hedge. Someone had left a pair of muddy boots on the front steps. That surprised you.

Donnel pulled beneath a covered entrance. Before you could reach for the carrier, he was opening your door.

“I can manage,” you insisted.

“I know.”

“You’re still going to carry everything.”

“Yes.”

“You’re irritating.”

“Occupational requirement,” he shrugged.

You stepped out. Cold air immediately bit through your coat. Rhaenyra complained loudly from her carrier.

“I know,” you murmured. “I don’t like being kidnapped by aristocrats either.”

Donnel pretended not to hear. Inside, Summerhall was even less museum-like than you had expected. The entrance hall was enormous, with an old stone staircase rising along one wall, but modern lighting softened it. Family photographs sat on tables beneath portraits that were probably worth more than your former building. Children’s coats hung from a rack. One was a bright, glittery purple. You smiled despite yourself. Donnel led you through several corridors. You passed another guard. Then a woman carrying folded laundry. Then a very confused-looking dog that sniffed Rhaenyra’s carrier before scampering away shen she hissed at him. Eventually, Donnel stopped outside a bedroom.

“This is yours.”

You stared inside. The room was larger than your entire living room. A wide bed occupied the centre beneath a carved wooden headboard. There was a fireplace, a small sitting area and doors opening into a private bathroom. Another set of doors appeared to lead onto a balcony. A bowl, litter tray and small basket had already been arranged for Rhaenyra. You looked at Donnel.

“You told them I have a cat?”

“Theywere informed.”

“By whom?”

He avoided your eyes. You narrowed yours.

“Never mind,” you grumbled.

He placed the carrier down and opened it. Rhaenyra stepped out cautiously, sniffed the carpet and immediately disappeared beneath the bed. Donnel moved the small emergency bag he had been keeping "just in case" onto an armchair. It contained almost nothing. A few toiletries, aphone charger, pain medication and a change of clothes he had managed to grab from somewhere. Everything else was smoke and ash. Your throat tightened at the idea of your belongings dissapearing in a blaze.

“You should rest,” Donnel said.

“I’ve been asleep for two hours.”

“Nearly three.”

You looked towards the clock. Almost nine. Your exhaustion returned the moment you noticed. Donnel hesitated at the door.

“Mister Targaryen will be here later.”

Your heart jolted. You hated that he noticed. His expression softened slightly.

“Do you need anything before I leave?” He asked kindly.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

He left. The room became quiet. Too quiet. You stood there for several seconds. Then went to the window. The estate stretched into darkness. The nearest grounds were lit softly, revealing lawns, hedges and a fountain. Beyond that lay trees. Several security vehicles moved slowly along distant roads. You could see cameras mounted near the roofline. You were safe here. Probably. You touched your fingertips to the cold glass. A sound behind you made you turn.

“Why is your arm like that?”

You nearly screamed. A small boy stood in the doorway. He could not have been older than ten. Pale blond hair stuck up at the back as though he had been lying down. Large violet eyes stared at your brace with undisguised curiosity. You put a hand over your chest.

“Gods above! You scared me.”

His eyes widened.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You breathed carefully, studying him. Definitely a Targaryen. He stepped inside.

“What happened?”

You looked at your arm. There was no pleasant way to explain terrorism to a child.

“I had an accident.”

“What sort?”

“A train accident.”

His brow furrowed.

“The one on the news?” He asked.

You hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

His expression changed instantly.

“Did it hurt?”

“A bit.”

This was such a ridiculous understatement that you almost laughed. He edged closer.

“Is it still broken?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see?”

You lifted the brace slightly. He inspected it seriously.

“Uncle Baelor broke his nose once.”

You blinked.

“That feels like a very different injury.”

“He didn't need a brace like yours but he said it hurt.”

“I’m sure it did.”

The boy nodded as though you had reached a satisfactory conclusion. Then he held out his hand.

“I’m Aegon.”

You shook it carefully.

“Aegon.”

“But you can call me Egg.”

“Egg?” You frowned.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“My family does.”

You smiled faintly.

“That is a dangerous privilege to give to a stranger,” you wanred him.

“You seem nice.”

“You have known me for about thirty seconds.”

“I’m good at people.”

You liked him immediately.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He peered towards the carrier.

“Do you have a cat?”

“She’s hiding.”

“Can I see?”

“If she comes out.”

He crouched immediately, peering beneath the bed.

“Hello?”

Rhaenyra hissed. Egg sat back.

“She doesn’t seem nice.”

“She’s had a bad day,” you sighed.

“So have you.”

You looked at him. He said it without pity, simply as fact.

“Yes,” you admitted.

He stood, straightening his sweater.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“I thought everyone would have eaten already.”

“Uncle waited.”

Of course he had.

You swallowed.

“Right.”

Egg headed towards the door before looking back.

“You coming?”

Apparently yes. You followed while Egg talked constantly. You were grateful. It stopped your thoughts from spiraling. 

“What do you study?”

“Journalism. At KLU.”

“Uncle Baelor teaches there.”

“I know.”

“He’s very clever.”

“I know.”

“He can be annoying though.”

You looked down at him, an amused smile tugging at yout lips.

“Believe me, I know.”

Egg grinned.

“I think you really do know him.”

You nearly walked into a table. Thankfully, Egg had already moved onto another subject.

“Do you have brothers?”

“No.”

“Sisters?”

“No.”

“That sounds peaceful,” he sighed.

“It was.”

“I have loads.”

“I heard.”

“Daella says I annoy her.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes,” he shrugged. "Daeron and Aerion are at KLU as well. Well, when Daeron is...alright, he is. And Aerion..."

You felt his hesitation. The name was familiar. You remembered a conversation with Dunk, Raymun and Tansy, when you had discussed Baelor and his family. Aerion was one of Maekar's. You remembered he and Dunk had fought.

"He's busy picking fights with men twice his size?" You offered with a smile.

Egg's moout and eyes widened.

"You know Dunk? He is the best rugby coach ever! The best! But Dad made me stop after...the incident."

"Dunk is my friend. Maybe I could convince your father?"

He led you through a set of double doors. The dining room beyond was absurd. A long table stretched down the centre beneath hanging lights. Paintings covered the walls, most depicting landscapes or long-dead Targaryens staring disapprovingly from gilded frames. You noticed the people before anything else. Two girls sat near one side of the table. One looked about thirteen, pale-haired and elegant even in an oversized jumper. The younger one, perhaps eight, had dark curls streaked with silver and was swinging her legs beneath the chair. At the opposite end sat two men. You recognised Maekar immediately. Photographs had not done him justice. He looked even more severe in person. His face seemed built almost entirely from sharp angles and displeasure. Then your eyes moved beside him.

Baelor.

Everything inside you stopped. It had been weeks. You had spoken to him. You had heard his voice. None of that prepared you for seeing him. He looked tired. More than tired. His face had thinned, and there was more silver stubble along his jaw and hair, which was slightly disordered, and the second his mismatched eyes found you, every expression disappeared from his face. Then he stood. You froze. He came towards you automatically. Three steps. Four. Then stopped. As though he suddenly remembered he no longer had the right. His mismatched eyes moved over you.

“Are you all right?”

You stared at him. Your heart was beating hard enough to make your ribs ache.

“My flat has just burned down,” you said flatly. “But apart from that, everything is peachy.”

A sharp sound came from the table. Maekar had snorted. You looked towards him. His face remained perfectly serious. But there was unmistakable amusement in his purple eyes. Baelor closed his eyes briefly.

“I meant physically.”

“I know what you meant.”

Egg climbed into a chair.

“This is her. The lady from the train.”

Maekar stood.

“You must forgive Aegon. He has a habit of pestering people.”

“I don't,” Egg protested.

“You do,” everyone at the table said simultaneously.

That almost made you smile. Maekar approached. Up close, he was intimidating enough that your spine straightened automatically. Then he held out his hand.

“Maekar.”

You shook it.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” you said.

“You’re welcome here as long as necessary.”

His voice was deep and blunt. No false warmth. You appreciated that. He glanced at Baelor.

“My brother assures me your safety is his chief concern.”

Your gaze flicked towards Baelor.

“His judgement on that subject has been questionable.”

Maekar’s mouth twitched. Baelor looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.

Dinner was excruciating. Not because anyone was unkind. Quite the opposite. Maekar mostly left you alone. Egg filled every silence. The older girl introduced herself as Daella and asked intelligent questions about university. The younger was Rhae, who spent several minutes explaining why the dog you had seen earlier was forbidden from entering the dining room because he once stole an entire roast chicken. You concentrated on them. It was easier. Daella was thirteen and already possessed the dry observational humour of someone twice her age. Rhae was eight and apparently incapable of sitting in the same position for longer than twenty seconds. Egg was ten and interrogated you between mouthfuls.

“What’s your favourite book?”

“Impossible question.”

“Favourite historical period?”

“Also impossible.”

“Favourite king?” He pressed on.

“I’m not answering that in this house.”

Maekar actually laughed. You heard Baelor exhale beside him. You refused to look. You could feel him watching you periodically. You refused to acknowledge it. You spoke to the children. You spoke to Maekar. You asked Daella about school. You promised Rhae you would let her show you her drawings of dragons. You did not speak to Baelor unless absolutely required. For nearly twenty minutes, you managed. Then Egg ruined everything. He looked between you and Baelor.

“Are you Uncle Baelor’s darling?”

The table became silent. Completely. Rhae stopped chewing. Daella looked at her plate. Baelor went rigid. Maekar slowly put down his fork.

“Aegon.”

Egg looked at his father.

“What?”

“That is not an appropriate question.”

“But Matarys said...”

“Aegon,” Maekar's voice was firm.

You stared at your plate. Your throat had closed.

Darling.

You remembered Baelor saying it quietly against your hair.

Darling.

Sweetling.

Love.

All those small words that had meant safety once. You forced yourself to breathe. Egg looked confused.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised.

“It’s all right.”

Your voice came out thinner than you intended. You looked at him.

“You didn’t know.”

He nodded. Then you added, because apparently you enjoyed emotional self-destruction:

“I’m not anymore.”

Your eyes burned. You reached for your water before anyone could see your hand tremble. Across the table, Baelor looked devastated. Good. You wanted him devastated. You wanted him to feel one fraction of what you had felt. Then immediately hated yourself for wanting it. The rest of dinner passed quietly. Rhae eventually resumed talking. Daella deliberately asked you about the bookshop. Maekar changed the subject to university funding with the subtlety of a man driving a carriage through a wall. When you finally stood, exhaustion hit you all at once. You wanted your room, a shower and some sleep.

“I’ll show you back,” Baelor declared while standing up.

“No.”

The answer came instantly. His expression tightened.

“I only mean to walk you there.”

“I know where it is.”

“You arrived five minutes ago.”

“Egg can show me.”

Egg opened his mouth. Maekar interrupted.

“Aegon is going to bed.”

Egg looked outraged.

“I am?”

“Yes,” his father said with a pointed look.

“That’s convenient,” you muttered.

*

Maekar’s eyebrows rose. You could not tell whether he was offended or impressed. Baelor stepped away from the table.

“Please,” he insisted.

You hated that word in his voice, that pleading glint in his eyes.

“Fine,” you sighed.

The walk through Summerhall felt much longer than before. Neither of you spoke. His footsteps remained slightly behind yours. Not beside you. Behind, giving you space. You hated that too. At your door, you reached for the handle.

“Goodnight,” you said quickly.

“Wait.”

You closed your eyes. Of course. You turned. Baelor stood several feet away. He looked nervous. You had rarely seen him nervous. Even during arguments, he usually possessed that infuriating composure that made you feel like the unreasonable one. Not now.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked at him. He swallowed.

“There has not been a day since the hospital when I haven’t regretted what I did.”

You tightened your grip around the door handle.

“Then why did you do it?”

He flinched, then looked at the hardwood floor.

“I thought it was necessary.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Yes.”

The immediate admission surprised you. He stepped slightly closer.

“I know now that it was stupid.”

“You needed my home to burn down to work that out?”

Pain crossed his face.

“No.”

“Because apparently leaving me achieved absolutely nothing.”

“I know.”

“It didn’t keep me safe.”

“I know.”

“You just made sure I was terrified and heartbroken while someone was still trying to kill me,” your voice broke.

His eyes closed. You could see the words physically land.

“I deserve to hear it.”

Something in you broke loose, somewhere beneath your ribs.

“You hurt me,” you breathed.

“I know.”

“No.”

Your voice sharpened.

“You keep saying that, but I don’t think you do.”

Baelor went still.

“You hurt me,” you repeated, taking a step towards him.

Your eyes burned but you swallowed back your tears, staring straight at him.

“Deeply.”

He took a breath. You did not let him interrupt.

“I spent days locked in my room.”

His expression changed into something pained, his mouth tightening.

“I barely ate.”

Your throat hurt, your voice coming out scratchy.

*“Tanselle had to force food into me. Rowan, Dunk and Raymun came over every day because they were afraid of leaving me alone too long.”

He looked stricken.

“Sometimes I threw up because I was so anxious I couldn’t keep anything down,” you continued.

His face went pale. His hand rose to your cheek before he remembered and let it drop at his side.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“Of course you didn’t know.”

You laughed bitterly.

“You left. Like everyone I have ever loved, you just left.”

He took another step towards you. You immediately moved back. He stopped.

“I thought staying away was helping you,” he explained.

“Well, it didn't.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was already traumatised. I had just woken up after being unconscious for five days. I had broken ribs. My arm was shattered. I could still hear people screaming in my head.”

Tears spilled over. You wiped them away angrily.

“And the person I wanted most was sitting beside me telling me that loving me meant leaving me.”

Baelor looked as though you had struck him. You continued anyway.

“I know you thought you were protecting me.”

Your voice softened, which somehow made it worse.

“But what you did wasn’t healthy.”

He said nothing, his eyes searching your face and his hands trembling at his sides.

“I shouldn’t have been that destroyed. I don’t want to be the kind of person who stops functioning because someone leaves.”

“You had survived a terrorist attack. Everything just added up.”

“That wasn’t all of it.”

“No.”

He understood. That made you angrier. You looked at him again.

“Did you ever love me?”

Shock crossed his face, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?” He breathed.

“Did you?”

“How can you even ask me that?”

“Because you left very easily,” you scoffed.

“I did not leave easily.”

“You left.”

“Yes.”

His voice rose for the first time.

“And it fucking tore my heart apart!”

You stared. He took a breath, visibly forcing himself calmer.

“I’m sorry.”

Then, added quieter:

“Of course I loved you.”

Loved.

Past tense. Your stomach dropped. He saw it immediately.

“Love,” he corrected. “I love you.”

You said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed on yours. He stepped closer.

“I love you more than I have ever loved any woman.”

You inhaled sharply.

“Don’t say things like that just because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not.”

“What about Jena?”

He hesitated.

“I loved Jena.”

The answer was respectful. You appreciated that.

“Our marriage mattered to me. She still matters to me. She is the mother of my children and one of my closest friends.”

He stepped closer, slowly enough that you could move if you wanted. You did not.

“But what I feel for you is different,” he insisted.

You looked away.

“Of course. How convenient.”

“No.”

His voice softened.

“It terrifies me.”

That brought your eyes back to him. You looked at him, taking in his messy, greying hair, the lines on his face. The way his arms trembled slightly.

“I have spent most of my life believing that if I thought carefully enough, planned enough, sacrificed enough, I could protect the people I loved.”

His mouth twisted bitterly.

“It was a very arrogant belief.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“Maekar has spent the past month explaining that to me in less polite language.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Baelor noticed. He did not smile.

“I panicked.”

You frowned.

“That’s what happened.”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“I saw you in that hospital bed and I panicked.”

His voice became rough.

“You were covered in blood. You didn’t wake up properly for days. Every time a machine made a different sound, I thought—”

He stopped. His throat worked. Yours tightened, as tears ran down your cheeks.

“I couldn’t bear the thought that my life had brought that to yours.”

“So you decided for me.”

“Yes. It was foolish of me.”

“At least we agree on that.”

“Yes. It was wrong.”

Silence stretched between you. You looked towards the room. Rhaenyra appeared from beneath the bed and walked towards the door, tail upright. She looked at Baelor. Then rubbed herself against his trouser leg.

Traitor.

He looked down at her, his expression crumpling slightly.

“She’s all right.”

“She almost wasn’t.”

“I know.”

“She could have died in that fire.”

“I know.”

You knew you were not only talking about your cat. You watched him. There was something raw in his face now. Not self-pity. Fear, real fear.

“I will do anything,” he said.

“What?” You blinked.

“To repair what I have done.”

He swallowed, putting his hands on his hips.

“Anything.”

You stared at him.

“I’m not promising I’ll forgive you.”

“I'm asking you to.”

“I’m not promising we’ll get back together.”

“I know.”

“It could take ages,” you asserted.

“I don’t care.”

"I might never forgive you.”

Pain flashed across his expression, but he nodded.

“Then I will spend however long you allow me trying to deserve forgiveness anyway.”

You looked at him. This was the problem. This was always the problem. When Baelor loved, he did it so completely that even his mistakes were acts of devotion twisted into something destructive. He would break his own heart and yours if he could convince himself it kept you breathing. You did not know how to fix that. You did not know whether you should even try. Your body was exhausted. Your flat was ashes. Someone wanted you dead. Your cat had decided the man who broke your heart was an acceptable scratching post. You could not solve your love life tonight. You rubbed your forehead. Baelor immediately looked concerned.

“Are you dizzy?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“A little,” you amditted.

“You should rest.”

“I know.”

He started to step away.

“Baelor.”

He stopped. You sighed.

“If you really want to start getting back into my good graces…”

His entire expression changed. Not hope exactly. He was too careful for that. But something near it.

“Yes?”

You looked at him for several seconds.

“Make me a cup of chamomile tea.”

He blinked slowly, almost in disbelief. You almost smiled.

“That’s it?”

“For tonight.”

“Yes.”

He nodded immediately.

“Of course.”

“With honey,” you added.

“With honey.”

“Not too much.”

“I remember.”

Your throat tightened. Of course he remembered. He turned towards the corridor. You watched him take several steps.

“Baelor?”

He looked back. You leaned against the doorway.

“I’m still furious with you.”

“I'm aware.”

“I might be furious for a long time.”

“I know.”

“And tea does not mean forgiveness.”

His mouth softened.

“I know.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re saying that a lot.”

“I have been wrong about a great many things lately. I’m trying to appreciate the moments when I understand something correctly.”

You stared at him. Then, before you could stop it, a tiny laugh escaped you. It hurt your ribs. You winced. Baelor immediately stepped forward. You raised a warning finger.

“Tea.”

He stopped.

“Yes.”

He disappeared down the corridor. You went inside and closed the door. Not completely. Just enough to leave a narrow gap. Rhaenyra jumped onto the bed and curled herself against the pillows as though she had lived at Summerhall her entire life. You went to the bathroom. Any other day, you would have marveled at the marble. Tonight, you were too exhausted to care. Your hands were shaking. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. Nothing was fixed. Nothing was forgiven. You were still angry, still frightened. Still deeply, embarrassingly in love with him. You jumped under the shower, scrubbing away the fear, the fire and the sadness. When you emerged, a cup of tea was wating on the nightstand. You took a careful sip. It was perfect.

Arsehole.

property of the dragon

You'd paid her. You'd laughed about it on the bus. And you'd thought about Baelor's face the entire way home and decided, somewhere around the third stop, that you weren't going to tell him.

You were going to let him find out.

It took two days.

An ordinary Tuesday evening, his flat, the two of you on his sofa with a book abandoned somewhere and his hands moving over you with the unhurried attention they always had. He worked your shirt up and over your head, his mouth already at your collarbone —

And stopped.

You felt the stillness before you saw his face. The particular full-system pause of a man whose brain had encountered something it needed a moment to process.

"That," he said, very quietly, "is my family’s crest."

"It is," you nodded.

He sat back slightly. His fingers found the edge of it — feather-light, the specific reverence he brought to primary sources, following the outline of the first dragon head with his thumb.

"It's very well done," he said. "The proportion of the necks to the body is correct, which people get wrong constantly. Most reproductions elongate them into something more serpentine, which is a nineteenth-century affectation, actually, there's no textual basis for—"

"Baelor."

"—and the triquetra arrangement is significant," he continued, entirely absorbed now, his fingers tracing the second head, "because the three-headed configuration predates the dynasty's own use of it by a considerable margin. There are Byzantine precedents. Thracian, arguably, if you accept the—"

He stopped when his eyes had reached the lettering. You watched the entire apparatus of Byzantine historiography leave him at once. Completely evaporated.

property of the dragon

He looked at it for a long moment. Just looked — at the dark lines against your skin, at the words, at what they meant in the specific context of his hands on your ribs and his name in your mouth most nights and everything that had somehow accumulated behind you both without either of you quite noticing it happening.

"You did this voluntarily?" Not quite a question.

"Market stall," you explained. "Completely spontaneous."

"Property of the dragon," he read aloud, his thumb moving along the script now, tracing each word with the same care he'd given the sigil.

"It's henna," you said. "It'll fade in a few weeks."

"A few weeks," he repeated.

"Give or take."

He looked up at you then, and the expression on his face was the completely undone one that lived underneath all the composed ones and only surfaced when he'd stopped managing it entirely.

"You came home," he said, "with my family's sigil on your ribs."

"Seemed an accurate depiction," there was mirth in your voice, and he loved it. "I think I did a pretty decent design."

"It is accurate," he agreed, very quietly, and something in the way he said it — the plainness of it, the absolute lack of hedging from a man who hedged professionally — landed somewhere warm and total in your chest.

Then he leaned down and pressed his mouth to the henna.

To the dragon first — one head, then the next, then the third, unhurried, his hands spread wide against your ribcage to hold you still. Then lower, to the lettering, kissing each word separately: property, his lips against the p and the r and the o; of, barely a breath; the; and then dragon, slower than the rest, his mouth lingering there.

You not only felt the slight tickle of his beard on across your skin; you felt it everywhere. Not just the physical fact of it — the whole shape of what he was doing, the deliberateness, a man kissing a claim he hadn't asked for and had clearly wanted more than he'd known how to say.

"Baelor," you breathed, your hand finding his hair and threading through it.

"Give me a moment," he asked, against your ribs. "I'm having a feeling."

"Take your time, love."

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark through his glasses, and the smile was still there, warm and slightly wrecked, and his hands were still spread over the your skin like he was holding something that might otherwise get away.

"I want to say something," he said, "and I want you to understand that I have thought about how to say it and arrived at nothing better."

"Okay," you supressed a laugh that was forming in your throat.

"I don't own you," he said. "I want to be clear about that. That's not what this—" he gestured, faintly, at the lettering. "That's not what I feel."

"I know," you nodded, waiting for him to get to the point you knew he was trying to make despite the fog in his brain.

"But you chose to wear that," he continued. "You chose it, and had it drawn on your body, and came here and let me find it, and I find I am not able to construct a single sentence about how that makes me feel." A pause. "So I'm going to stop trying."

"Please do," you almost chuckled.

"I think the Byzantine precedents can wait," he said, moving his hands lower across your back.

"They really can."

He kissed you, and the historiography of Targaryen sigillography remained entirely unaddressed for the rest of the evening, which you suspected it could definitely survive.

You'd been in Maekar's house for twenty minutes before he noticed.

He'd been in the garden — some structural crisis involving the tomato beds again that had apparently required an hour and a half of his attention and had left his t-shirt filthy and his patience run thin — and came in through the back door with the particular focused irritation of a man who had solved a problem but resented having to.

He found you in the kitchen, stretching to reach one of the last mugs in the cupboard, your favourite. Maekar stopped in the doorway, removing his gardening gloves, and didn't come any further into the room.

"What's that?" He asked.

You followed his line of sight to your hip, where your shirt had ridden up and your waistband had slipped just enough — the three-headed dragon, dark and detailed, curving with the line of your body. The script clear beneath it.

property of the dragon

"Henna," you said, matter-of-factly.

He crossed the room in three steps, which was considerably faster than the situation warranted, and crouched down in front of you to look at it properly.

His eyes moved over it. The dragon. The lettering. The placement.

"Property of the dragon," he read. Flat.

"You remember your letters," you teased him.

He looked up at you. His jaw was doing the thing. His eyes had gone somewhere very dark very quickly, which you had anticipated and which had been, if you were being honest with yourself, approximately eighty percent of the reason you'd reached for that mug in the first place.

"You walked around all day," he said, "with that on you."

"Just this afternoon."

"Under your clothes."

"That’s just where my skin is," you chuckled.

He didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at it. His hand came up and his thumb pressed against the lettering — not tracing it, just pressing, testing whether it would smudge, whether it was real.

It didn't smudge.

"Property of the dragon," he said again, slower.

"It'll fade," you said. "In like a few weeks."

"Few weeks?"

"Depending on how much it is touched." His hands moved to the button of your jeans. "Maekar—"

"I want to see all of it," he said, already working it open, the flat purposeful energy of a man who had decided something and was implementing it without further consultation.

You let him peel the denim down, and the henna extended further than he'd been able to see — the dragon's tail curling down toward your upper thigh, the whole design sitting dark against your skin, considerably larger than the glimpse above your waistband had suggested.

He knelt all the way down and went very still looking at it.

"You planned this," he sounded sure of his words. This damned man knew you like the palm of his hand.

"Little bit," you acknowledged.

"Knew exactly what it would do, right?"

"I had a working theory," you smiled deviously. "Did it work?"

He made a low sound that wasn't quite a word, and then his mouth was on your hip — hard, not gentle, no reverence in it at all.

He kissed the lettering first, open-mouthed, his hands gripping your ass to pull you to his mouth. There was nothing careful about any of it, nothing exploratory. This was a man who had read property of on your skin and had gone somewhere that no longer had room for finesse.

"Mine," he all but growled against your hip, which was entirely redundant given the text and entirely necessary for him regardless.

"Yours," you said through a chuckled moan, your hands reaching to the nape of his neck. "Has been for a while."

He lifted his head to look at you and the expression on his face was one you'd seen exactly a handful of times, the look of a man who had encountered something that had rewritten a significant part of his brain and was still catching up to what he'd become because of it.

"Whose idea?" He asked, face tilting downward again and tongue lapping against the softness of your lower belly. There was a bit of teeth in his kisses now, which had you squirming slightly.

"A friend dragged me to the stall," you managed through a huffed laugh.

"And you picked it?"

"I designed it," you corrected. "I sat there for thirty minutes and could only think about your face after finding it."

He closed his eyes briefly. Opened them. "Don't let it fade," he said.

"Maekar, it's henna, it's chemically going to—"

"Then we get another one," he almost sounded commanding, with total flat certainty, like this concluded the discussion. "Or a real one. Whichever, I don’t give a fuck."

You laughed — you couldn't help it — and he did not laugh, which somehow made it better, because he'd meant it entirely and was already looking up at you from your hip with the focused intent of a man knowing exactly that this specific word carried real intent.

"You're serious," you breathed, looking at the darkness of his eyes, which had almost swallowed his near-lilac hue.

"I'm always serious," he said, and put his mouth back on the lettering and moved it progressively downward.

The tomato beds and the garden and the entire rest of the evening ceased to have any bearing on anything at all after that.

I'm trying to catch up with some older requests! It might take some time tho <3

🧡 GENERAL TAGLIST - @celestialsonglines @princessoftheblood @ohmylul @depressedpolishgirl @jjubilee-fluff @dreaming-of-illusory-flowers @loveslide @samthegreenapologist @themoonseroticoracle @nicoall12 @poe-slittleraven13 @lotus-ignis @ferchu1990 @bookish-bee30 @nairafeather @verrseau @ladywilloughby @thedevilkeepsadvertising @eleventhboi @thaiaavery @shipperqueen93 @dulcebloodhnd @hrh007 @thedevilkeepsadvertising @jeor @xglittergoddess @shyravenns @qardasngan @abiyikes @goldentarg @mags-writes @rotseria @noble-17

🛡️ GENERAL AKOTSK TAGLIST - @sem-ra @aemondvelaryon @mitth-eli-vanto @baelorenthusiast @princessphilly @superkittysr

🥀 BAELOR TARGARYEN TAGLIST - @violet-medusa @sacha1slytherin

Relief first. Always relief first, before anything else had a chance to register — the voice on the other end was yours, was laughing, was fine, whatever else it was.

"How little?" he asked, already reaching for his shoes, his heart still catching up with itself.

"Like a lot little," you tried, which made no grammatical sense and made you laugh so hard he had to hold the phone away from his ear.

"Text me the address," he said, keeping his voice level, keeping the worry out of it. "I'm leaving now. Are you somewhere safe?"

"I'm on the pavement," you said, like this answered the question.

"Are you alone?"

"Valarr was here," you said, voice a little further because you were sending him — or trying to — the address while speaking, "but he left early, Kiera wanted to go, they're very cute together, did you know that, they are very cute—"

"I did know that," he said, pulling his coat on, something in his chest loosening slightly at the sound of you being simply, ordinarily silly rather than anything worse. "Stay where you are. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You're the best," you said, with the enormous sincerity of the extremely intoxicated. "Has anyone told you that?"

"I only care if you’re the one that tells me," he said, and the fifteen minutes it took to reach the club were the longest of his week regardless, his mind running the same short list it always ran when you were somewhere he couldn't see you for a long period of time.

He found you exactly where you'd said, propped against the wall with your shoes in one hand, and the sight of you — upright, laughing, entirely yourself — untied something in him so completely he had to stand still a second before trusting his voice.

"There he is," you announced to the small queue nearby. "That's my Baelor. Everyone, this is my Baelor."

"Yes," he said, warmth surprising even him, smiling something close to shyly to the strangers around you. He took your shoes and got an arm around your waist. "Let's get you to the car, sweetheart."

"I told everyone about you tonight," you said, letting him steer you across the car park. "Everyone. I told them you're the most intelligent man I've ever met. And the most caring. I told Tansy you make tea for people without being asked and she said that was, and I quote, 'disgustingly wholesome,' and I said I know, isn't he perfect—"

"I'm not perfect," he said, though something in his chest had gone very warm.

"You are," you fought back, with total conviction, stopping walking entirely to make the point, which meant he stopped too. "You're my perfect boyfriend. I told everyone. I was very loud about it."

"I gathered," he said, gently getting you moving again, smile plastered on his face.

He got you into the passenger seat, leaned across to do your seatbelt when the buckle defeated you, and you kept going, apparently not finished.

"Valarr was so happy for us," you said. "Did I say that? He was really happy."

Something crossed Baelor's face, a faint colour rising at his cheeks, there and gone, the specific self-consciousness of a man who was, in point of fact, dating his son's best friend, and who had mostly made his peace with that fact in private, composed moments, and found it landed rather differently hearing it said aloud, drunk and delighted, in a car park at two in the morning.

"He's very fond of you," Baelor said, carefully.

"He loves me," you said. "He told me tonight. He said I make you lighter. He said you used to forget to eat lunch and now you don't, and that's apparently my doing."

"That is your doing, my love," Baelor admitted, the colour at his cheeks not fully fading, and pulled out of the car park before you could see it clearly.

You didn't stop talking. You were, if anything, gathering momentum.

"Baelor," you said, with sudden urgency, as though you'd just remembered something critical. "The mosaic!"

"Which mosaic?"

"The one at the exhibition. The Ravenna one, the — the fish, and the — you know the one, the sixth century one, I sent you the link, you have to come with me, you have to, it closes in three weeks and I want to go with you specifically because you'll actually know what I'm looking at and everyone else just says oh that's nice and I don't want nice, I want you—"

"I'll come," he said through your banter.

"—and you can tell me about the tesserae and the — wait." You stopped. "You said yes?"

"I said yes," he repeated, not really managing to entirely remove the smile from his lips.

"You didn't even let me finish drunk-begging," you said, sounding faintly betrayed by this efficiency.

"I didn't need you to," he said, and found, absurdly, that he was smiling harder — the composure entirely undone by the sheer earnestness of you, drunk and rambling and so plainly, uncomplicatedly happy, telling perfect strangers about him in a queue outside a club.

By the time he got you up the stairs you'd moved on to a lengthy, deeply sincere assessment of his reading glasses, and he steered you to the sofa — glasses off, shoes off, water glass filled and placed in your hand, more out of habit than any real worry now.

"Drink that," he indicated, "and then you can tell me more about your mosaic."

"Deal," you said, drinking half in one go, and then, quieter, the momentum finally slowing: "Baelor."

"Yes."

"I really love you," sudden, overwhelming sincerity, all the yapping dropping away at once. "Like, a lot."

Something in his face went entirely soft.

"I really love you too, sweetheart," he said, sitting beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. He held you there a moment, quiet, and found himself saying, before he'd fully decided to: "Next time you go out — let me come with you."

"Mm?" already half asleep.

"Not to hover," he said, mostly to himself now, working it out as he spoke. "Just — I'd like to be there. Somewhere in the room. So you don't have to call me from a pavement."

"You'd hate it," you mumbled. "Too loud. Too many people. Too little brains."

"Probably," he admitted with a huffed laugh. "But I'd manage."

You didn't answer — already gone, your weight settling fully against him, the water glass listing until he rescued it from your hand.

He sat there a while longer, turning the evening over — the mosaic, Valarr, the specific, undignified warmth of being called perfect by someone too drunk to know better and meaning it entirely anyway — and pressed his mouth to the top of your head.

"Sleep," he said, to no one now, and meant it for both of you.

Maekar was watching some silly nonsense on the TV by 1:52 when you called him.

He was awake, some instinct honed over twenty-five years of teenagers with curfews he no longer had jurisdiction over, and the phone lighting up did something specific to his stomach every single time it happened at this hour — a drop, fast and total, before he'd even seen the name.

"Heeeeeey," you said, extremely loud. "Hey, Maekar, so, funny story—"

The drop didn't fully leave. Not yet. Not until he had eyes on you.

"Where," he said, already pulling jeans on, the phone wedged against his shoulder.

"I might be a little drunk," you said, stretching the little a bit more than necessary.

"Where."

"The one with the blue sign," you tried. "Near the — the place. You know the place."

"I don't know the place." Flat, controlled, the specific calm he used when something needed handling and panicking wouldn't help. "Text me a pin. Now."

"Fine," you said, put-upon, and then, immediately cheerful: "you're coming to get me? You're soooo nice."

"You alone?" he said, keys already in hand.

"There's a lady here with a very cute dog," you said. "We are friends now!"

"Stay with her," he all but commanded. "Don't move. I'll be there in ten."

He hung up and was in the car within ninety seconds, and the drive there was the kind of quiet that had nothing peaceful in it — his jaw tight the whole way, his mind doing the same math it always did, too fast, too many outcomes, until the only thing that would fix it was actually seeing you.

He found you sitting on the curb, shoes off, deep in conversation with a stranger about her dog, and the second he was close enough to be sure — really sure, eyes on you, upright, laughing — something in his chest unclenched so hard it was almost painful.

"There he is," you announced to the stranger, standing too fast and grabbing his arm for balance. "That's him. That's my pookie Maekar!"

"Get in the car," he said mildly embarrassed at the pet name, and pulled you in against his front for one long moment before he let himself do anything else, his hand splayed flat against your back, checking without checking, making sure you were solid and warm and actually there.

"You're squeezing me," you laughed, muffled against his chest.

"Yeah, I know," he said. You pressed your face against his sternum, between his thick pec muscles, and screamed into the wall of his chest for a moment before stepping back slightly and smiling dumbly at him.

You could see the faint redness starting at the tip of his ears and traveling down to his face, so he rushed a bit to get you into the passenger seat. He did your seatbelt when your hands proved uncoordinated, and produced a water bottle from the door pocket — he'd started keeping one there weeks ago and had never mentioned why.

"Drink," he told you.

"You brought water!" you almost yelled, like this was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to anyone. "You're the best."

"Drink it," he said, and the gruffness didn't quite cover how flushed he still was.

He turned on the engine and started driving. You drank a third, set it down, reached for his shirt buttons instead.

"What do you think you’re doing?" flat, not stopping the car, though the corner of his mouth had already moved despite himself.

"Taking your shirt off," like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"We're in a car."

"That's fine," you protested. "You know I can multitask."

He caught your hand, gently, redirected it to the water. "Drink."

You pouted, actual bottom lip and everything, and he had to look at the road very hard to keep from laughing at you. You drank in apparent protest and then tried to go for his belt instead.

"No," catching your wrist, his jaw working — the specific fond exasperation he used to get with Daeron at fourteen, except warmer; except entirely, hopelessly yours. "You need water."

"You're no fun," you whined, and he huffed something that was almost a laugh, low and involuntary.

By the time he pulled up outside his place you'd migrated to his hair, turned to the side completely and both hands buried in it, informing him with great seriousness that it was so soft, actually, nobody talks about how soft it is, and he'd given up keeping you off him entirely and settled for just not letting you undo buttons.

"Get inside," arm firm around your waist. "Then you can talk about my hair all you want."

"Deal," and then, hand flat against his chest, eventually squeezing, as he walked you up the path: "your chest is so — solid."

"Yeah, I know," he said, and something about the plain sincerity of it, drunk and unguarded, hit somewhere soft in him he didn't examine too closely.

He got you to the sofa, fresh water in your hands, stood over you arms crossed until you'd drunk half, maintaining unblinking eye contact with him the whole time like it was a competition he intended to win.

"There," setting the glass down. "Happy?"

"Definitely getting there," he said, and sat, and you curled into his side immediately, the chaos of the last twenty minutes softening into something quieter.

"Maekar."

"Yes?"

"You came and got me."

"’Course I did, silly," like it was self-evident, because to him it was — there was no version of tonight where he didn't.

"I love you," sudden, sincere, the teasing gone, your face tilted upward to look at him. "A lot. Like, a lot a lot."

Something in his chest did the thing again, harder, and he allowed himself a chuckle.

"Yeah," low, smiling somewhat dumbly at you, "same." He pulled you closer, pressed his mouth briefly to your forehead, and held it there a beat longer than usual. "You scared me tonight. A little bit."

"Sorry," you mumbled, already going heavy against his chest.

"Don't be sorry," he said. "Just — call sooner next time. Before it's a whole thing."

"Mm," not really hearing him anymore, and he reached over and finished the water himself when it was clear you weren't going to.

He sat there awake for a moment longer, just feeling the warm weight of your body against him, and squeezed you slightly to him. He huffed a laugh. “My pookie,” he repeated the pet name you’d used while slightly shaking his head, and got comfortable against the plush of the sofa to sleep as well.

↪︎want more modern!BFF's dad!AU? check out this masterlist!

TAGLIST: @qardasngan @rotseria @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @sacha1slytherin @alternarabuda @jjubilee-fluff @a-sunflower-in-bloom @heieufh @karakatitsa-sonya @eleventhboi @celestialsonglines @xglittergoddess @warpedlilium @themoonseroticoracle @hrh007 @fraaiefreule91 @hannisreading @samthegreenapologist @dont-try-pesticide @thorins-queen-of-erebor @outpostsworld @sotragedynut @nicoall12 @escapic-mezzanine @m0th-g0th @noble-17 @bbjkfnmc @sol-in-wonderland @sem-ra @mitth-eli-vanto @justmasblack @coff33mug @bookish-bee30 @depressedpolishgirl @storminganvils @ladywilloughby @honeyedstark @ferchu1990 @voldemortsnose99 @vengefulswan @sgmwester @baelorswhore @ava-o-morgan @jeor @verrseau @reading-rosa @sondoyonder @scentedcandletidalwave @princessoftheblood @thaiaavery @jdm-traash

Your eyes followed the shape of the structure. There should have been birds, you thought. Seagulls nested on every rocky coast in Westeros, screaming above harbours.

But there were none around Dragonstone. No flutter of wings, nor any shrill cries. It was as though nothing, no living being dared linger above it.

Behind you, lords, ladies and their retainers crowded the deck in a silence that pretended to be courtly composure. Faces remained carefully blank. 

All of you were chosen as honoured guests. 

Carefully selected, carefully collected, the third gathering of such an esteemed company.

The first had come shortly after the end of the Blackfyre Rebellion, held within the walls of the Red Keep in King’s Landing. The war had ended, but its wound lingered still, and with them came the procession of those left behind. Sons and daughters, nephews and nieces, cousins from houses whose loyalties lied elsewhere, whose banners were seen beneath the wrong dragon, whose names appeared too often in whispers and uneasy council meetings. Some arrived stripped of titles and inheritance, others burdened only by the weight of their family’s choices, paying for a crime they did not commit. Yet all were gathered beneath the same roof, living reminders of a kingdom still trying to stitch itself back together. The second gathering had followed not long after, as the Crown sought to decide what would become of those whose blood tied them to their sworn enemies. 

And now it was your turn.

A little more than a decade later had passed since the second gathering. Peace had settled precariously across the realm and the realm was attempting to heal. Castles were rebuilt and alliances were mended, the scars of rebellion slowly fading from the land, if not from the memory.

Then came the summons.

In the name of the eternal King Daeron II, Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar extended invitations to the sons and daughters of noble houses throughout Westeros, calling for a new court to be assembled in Dragonstone. 

An honour, the ravens proclaimed, a privilege bestowed upon them.

Though everyone understood what it truly was.

The Blackfyre Rebellion had ended years ago, the Black Dragon slain upon the Redgrass Field, but victories won upon the battlefield did not so easily erase the loyalties forged. Many who had once raised their banners in his name still lived. Some had bent the knee willingly, others had done so because they had no other choice. Some nursed old grievances in silence, while others simply waited for another opportunity to present itself.

The Crown knew this, and Dragonstone would gather them all beneath one roof.

A court, they called it. A place where the loyal might be rewarded, where uncertain allegiances could be observed, and where dangerous sympathies might reveal themselves with time.

No one was foolish enough to mistake it for anything but a gilded cage. 

And should another rebellion ever threaten the realm, the heirs and close kin of every house whose loyalty remained in question would already be in Targaryen hands.

You recognised many banners surrounding you from childhood lessons. Houses that had raised their banners in support of Daemon Blackfyre. Houses that had hesitated until the last possible moment. Houses that had proclaimed neutrality, while quietly supplying coin, men or grain.

Your own house had never openly declared for the Black Dragon. Their support of him was more careful, as if it could be hidden like knives could under sleeves. They believed this sort of loyalty could leave no proof, and could be denied if questioned. 

But now all of you stood on a Targaryen ship bound for Dragonstone, pretending you were guests rather than hostages.

Your uncle’s decision echoed loudly in your mind, with a clarity that would never fade.

You were not a noble sacrifice, as many were before you. You were a calculated exchange. At your younger brother’s passing, your uncle stood to inherit everything. And he chose you as the price for securing his future. Not to preserve your family’s dignity, or to protect your house.

Your brother… too young, too sick, too weak… Left behind and dying in a bed you could no longer reach.

The image of him haunted you. Thin fingers clutching blankets, eyes too large for his pale face. Always trying so hard to smile whenever you visited him. You remembered your last morning together clearly, though you had tried since then not to.

Beren had been propped against too many pillows, his hair damp against his forehead despite the chill in the room. He was three and ten, though the illness had shrunk him smaller than that.

“You are not to cry when you leave.” He told you, with the particular seriousness only a sick child could manage. 

“I am not going to cry.” You sniffled softly.

“You already are close to it.” 

He pointed a thin finger at your face, delighted with himself and what he had seen. 

“Your nose does the thing.”

You could not help but scoff, though tears already welled in your eyes.

“My nose does not do a thing.” You retorted.

“It twitches, like a rabbit’s.”

You had laughed despite everything, and he had looked so pleased with the laugh that you nearly ruined it by crying after all.

“When you come back…” He said quietly. “Will you tell me about the dragons?”

“There are no real dragons left, Beren.”

“There might be.” He replied stubbornly. “You will look for me, and you will write it all down, so I do not miss any of it.”

You gave him your promise, you had meant it entirely. 

And you had been sent away, to rot in fear, surrounded by darkness and the stench of blood.

You swallowed hard.

The princes would hear your case. Surely, they would.  You would beg on your knees if necessary. Pride meant little to you when your brother’s life and future hung in the balance. Perhaps Prince Baelor, famed for his honour, would listen. Perhaps even Prince Maekar, harsh though the stories painted him, might respect your honesty.

You would tell them the truth, that your house had committed no true treason, that your late father and uncle did everything seeking their own gain. That your brother needed help, needed protection, that you were willing to serve them faithfully if it meant securing his future. 

Your fingers tightened against the railing, until your knuckles turned white and ached.

The ship turned into the harbour, the chains of the anchor groaning as they rapidly descended. Torches burned along the docks, painting the black stone in flickering gold. They burned steady despite the wind coming off the water, flames standing upright and untroubled where they should have guttered sideways. You felt no warmth as you passed them by.

Targaryen stewards herded everyone towards the castle. Retainers were separated first, servants directed elsewhere. 

You noticed that several other guests were being watched more closely than you were. The guards barely moved, standing with an unnatural stillness, eyes tracking every gesture. You were certain they knew which names mattered, which bloodlines were useful, what loyalties could be broken.

And which blood was free to be spilled and consumed.

A shudder ran through your spine.

After being shown to your chambers, you were given barely enough time to bathe. Servants appeared almost immediately afterward to dress you for the welcoming feast. Their hands were cold, their smiles were hollow, and their eyes were strangely distant. You recognised what they were. 

Thralls… 

Men and women bound so completely to their masters that little remained of who they once were. Neither fully servants nor fully prisoners, they were living reminders of the power the Targaryens wielded. You wondered whether they remembered their own names, their previous lives.

You had little time to dwell on it before you were escorted towards the great hall.

The feast was too bright to feel real. Torchlight gleamed across polished stone and Targaryen banners hung from black walls. Music drifted through the air, all warmth and gold light, pretending at comfort. The kind of comfort that did not belong inside a fortress carved from volcanic rock.

Laughter echoed carefully, conversations flowing cautiously, as though many wished to test if joy was permitted here.

One by one, new arrivals were presented before the princes.

Baelor and Maekar Targaryen, the Hammer and the Anvil. The princes who had crushed the Blackfyre Rebellion through blood, steel, and ancient Valyrian sorcery.

Your heart thundered as your name was announced.

The crowd seemed to disappear, and only the dais remained. 

Only them.

Prince Baelor stood forward. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair was cropped, and his beard neatly trimmed, threaded faintly with grey. His mismatched gaze, one pale violet eye, the other dark brown, settled heavily on you. He was handsome in a way that seemed effortless. His features were gentle where Maekar’s were severe. Noble where Maekar’s were sharp.

Yet nothing about him felt soft. There was immense power hidden beneath his composure.

Beside him stood Prince Maekar and his beauty was far colder. His face looked carved, every angle precise and merciless. He was tall, unyielding, no strand of white-silvery hair out of place. His cheeks were covered by a neat beard, his expression set in a scowl. His pale violet eyes crawled over your frame.

Both men looked young, younger than the stories claimed. Valyrian blood magic had preserved them and made them eternal. It made them something other than men.

And they were looking at you, measuring you. 

For one terrible moment, you felt as though they could see every thought you ever possessed. And despite yourself, despite your fear, you found them beautiful. Terrifyingly so.

Baelor inclined his head first. Whether in greeting or appraisal, you were not certain.

“Lady…” 

He said your name as though he had spoken it before and found it pleasing.

“You travelled far to reach your new home.”

You found yourself unable to stop looking at them. Their eyes were wrong in ways the stories never properly explained. They were not monstrous, but not human either. There was a stillness in them that suggested patience to be measured differently that mortal men understood.

You realised that neither of them had blinked. Not once, not since your name was called and you approached the dais.

“I had no choice in the matter.” You admitted truthfully, voice trembling despite your efforts. 

A flicker passed through Baelor’s expression, recognition and perhaps something dangerously close to offence. As though he disliked the circumstances that had delivered you here.

Maekar gave an amused scoff.

“She is so frightened.” He said, a hint of mocking in his voice.

Your hands tightened at your sides. 

“I am not-”

“Lying already.” Maekar interrupted you, snarling. “And you are far from convincing, girl.”

Your pulse betrayed you before any words could. Baelor’s gaze shifted to your throat at the sound. Then, he smoothly stepped, not threateningly, but close enough that you became aware of how little space remained between you.

“You are safe here.” He said.

It should have reassured you, but it felt more like a verdict, a decision already made for you. And you hated how little comfort it gave you, because nothing about the way they were looking at you suggested indifference.

Maekar looked at you a moment longer than necessary, like he was learning the shape of your fear.

“The little dove thinks we will bite her.” He observed. “Or worse.”

Your breath hitched sharply. Baelor briefly glanced at his brother.

“That is enough, brother.” He said softly, and yet somehow it carried the weight of command.

Maekar rolled his eyes, as Baelor’s attention returned to you.

“You will join the others.” He said. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“And you will find that Dragonstone is not as cruel as the stories suggest.” 

The gentleness in his voice almost made you believe him. Maekar smirked at that.

You hesitated only once, not because you wished to disobey. But because you realised, with unsettling clarity that you had not decided what you thought of them. 

Only what you felt. And that was infinitely more dangerous. 

You lowered your gaze and curtsied before you forgot how.

Then you stepped back into the hall that was already becoming something you could not escape. Not because of the invisible chains, but because of their attention, which you could feel like heat lingering against your skin.

The feast continued to unfold in waves of gold and shadows. 

Music drifted through the hall, not lively enough to inspire dancing, yet loud enough to soften the frightened murmurs of the gathered nobility. 

You followed the others toward the long tables arranged beneath the high dais.

Servants moved soundlessly through the hall, carrying dark iron platters heavy with roasted meats, spiced vegetables. With figs split open like wounds, their crimson flesh glistening beneath torchlight, and goblets of deep red wine that caught torchlight like garnets.

Everything was rich, everything was plentiful. Yet everything felt wrong.

You could feel them watching. Not just the princes, but the others were watching as well. For Maekar had called you little dove, for Baelor’s gaze had lingered longer than courtesy demanded. People noticed such things.  

In any normal court, attention was currency. But here, it felt more like danger.

A young woman from the Reach slid into the seat beside you, shoulders relaxing in visible relief at finding someone near her own age.

“Lady Elinor of House Ambrose.” She introduced herself with a nervous smile.

You returned the greeting politely and offered your own name.

Across from you sat another noblewoman, older than either of you. She was dark haired and sharp-eyed, despite the fear she tried to conceal.

“Lady Bethany of House Bracken.” She said. “Though I wager names matter here less than bloodlines.”

No one disagreed.

As the food was served, the conversation remained harmless. The three of you spoke carefully, of the voyage to Dragonstone, the roughness of the sea crossing, the discomfort of sleeping aboard a ship. Yet inevitably, like driftwood carried by the tide, every discussion found its way back to the same subject. 

Back to them.

“They do not age.” Elinor whispered after finishing her second goblet of wine. 

“My mother saw Prince Baelor at court in King’s Landing when she was a child. Then again years later, when she visited once more after marrying my father. She swore he looked exactly the same.”

Bethany glanced quickly towards the high table before hissing at her. 

“Keep your voice down!”

Elinor pursed her lips. “You speak as if they cannot hear us.”

Perhaps they could, you thought, your stomach tightening. 

You did not mean to look at the dais, yet your eyes drifted towards them all the same. 

Towards the high table where the princes sat surrounded by their retinue of like-bodied beautiful lords and ladies, like predators gathered beneath a single banner.

Baelor listened patiently as several noblemen spoke to him. His posture remained composed, one hand resting loosely around a bronze goblet. He occasionally offered a quiet reply, earning smiles from those fortunate enough to receive his attention.

There was no plate before him. No food, no untouched scraps. Nothing.

A small knot formed in your throat.

Your gaze drifted towards Maekar, and noted that he had no plate either. His grip around the goblet was tighter, less elegant than his brother’s. He made little effort to entertain conversation. Offering an occasional grunt or dismissive scoff, a scowl was settled permanently upon his sharp features.

Servants replenished both their goblets without question. You noticed, though at first you told yourself you imagined it, that the wine in their cups never quite matched the wine in anyone else’s. Darker, somehow, thicker in the candlelight. No one else at the table seemed to notice, or perhaps no one else dared voice it. 

Baelor drank rarely, with elegant restraint, while Maekar drank more often, lazily almost, his pale violet eyes wandering across the room between sips.

And suddenly you became aware of how often they landed on you. Not constantly, but very deliberately. As though he knew precisely when you would feel them on you. And as though he wanted you to.

He was staring at you like that right at this moment. 

Elinor followed your gaze, and promptly went pale.

“Oh Gods…” She whispered. “The prince is looking at you!”

“Hush now.” Bethany snapped immediately.

But heat rushed into your cheeks regardless, and you quickly reached for your goblet in an attempt to steady yourself. Suddenly, the edge of the serving knife caught against your finger, barely more than a sting. You barely felt it, yet when you glanced down, a bright bead of blood welled against your skin. 

The change was immediate, Elinor froze and Bethany’s expression drained of colour. Stillness spread around your section of the table, and then to the dais.

Slowly, your gaze lifted towards it.

Baelor had stopped moving, unnaturally still, as though every muscle in his body had locked at once. Maekar’s gaze was already fixed upon your hand, his nostrils flared.

Something inside you went cold, for the princes were not the only ones staring. Their companions had gone silent as well. Every pale face at the high table seemed suddenly attentive, as though listening to something invisible.

No, not listening. Smelling... 

Shivers ran up your spine as the realisation struck with horrifying clarity.

They could smell the blood.

Baelor carefully set his goblet upon the table, his composure remaining intact. But beneath his mismatched gaze, strain flickered through it. Maekar made no attempt to hide his reaction. Leaning back in his chair, he watched your injured finger with unsettling focus.

Interest, hunger… something older than manners flickered across his gaze.

You quickly pressed your thumb against the wound, but the gesture accomplished nothing. The metallic scent lingered in the air.

“Lady…” Baelor spoke your name softly. The sound carried effortlessly across the room.

“You are injured.”

Gods, you wanted the floor to swallow you whole. 

“It is nothing.” The answer escaped from your lips before you could think.

Maekar scoffed loudly, and several nobles visibly flinched. 

“It is a small injury, that is true.” Baelor agreed. “But it is not nothing.”

His eyes held yours.

“Not to us…”

A tremour passed through you. Neither prince looked away.

And for one terrible moment, you understood what frightened people most about creatures like them. It was not violence, for men committed violence every day. Knights butchered one another in fields, lords hanged peasants by the dozen. Violence belonged to mankind as much as monsters.

It was attention… their attention.

The feeling of becoming the only thing they could see, the only thing they could think about, the only thing that mattered.

Baelor rose slowly from his seat, the scrape of the chair against stone echoing through the hall. Tension rippled outward like cracks spreading through ice, and whatever conversation was spoken died instantly.

Your heart hammered against your ribs so violently that you were certain everyone could hear it, not just the princes.

He descended the dais without hurry, without taking his eyes from you. He stopped beside your chair, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of smoke and spice lingering on his clothes.

Then he held out a clean linen cloth.

“Please, my lady.” His voice was painfully gentle. “You must clean your wound.”

You stared at the offered cloth, then at him. His eyes remained fixed on yours. And beneath the courtesy, beneath the restraint, beneath the terrifying calm that years had perfected, you could see the hunger suffering itself into silence.

And somehow, that frightened you far more than if he had simply bared his fangs.

The first few weeks at Dragonstone passed as if everything existed beneath deep waters. Time folded strangely within the castle and days vanished before you noticed them. 

Sunlight rarely penetrated the inner halls, and even when it did, it seemed pale and uncertain against the black stone. By dusk, however, Dragonstone awakened fully, following the habits of its masters. Torches bloomed to life along endless corridors, servants appeared from nowhere and vanished just as quickly. Doors opened and closed, footsteps echoed, and whispers travelled.

And somewhere, always somewhere, somebody was watching. 

The castle attempted to resemble a court. Feasts were held, musicians played in the evenings and guests were encouraged to mingle. None of it felt genuine for every step, every conversation, every glance was observed.

People disappeared. Never enough to cause panic, but just enough to ensure nobody forgot where they were. A young knight from the Stormlands failed to appear at breakfast one morning. Then, a lord’s nephew vanished after loudly proclaiming his admiration for Daemon Blackfyre after partaking in too much wine.

No explanation followed and no one dared ask. The castle consumed questions as readily as it consumed people.

Rumours spread through the halls regardless. Gossips about traitors uncovered, and plots exposed. About conspiracies extinguished before they could take root. Some claimed Prince Baelor personally questioned suspected loyalists, others whispered that Prince Maekar preferred less civilized methods.

You never learned the truth. You only knew that each week the court grew quieter and more careful.

You submitted a request for an audience with the princes within days of your arrival. Then another, then a third. All were acknowledged, but none were granted. Your brother remained far away, and your letters home remained unanswered. The princes remained frustratingly out of reach.

You quickly learned that fear exhausted itself eventually, turning into vigilance.

The other honoured guests began forming alliances, however uneasy. Bethany took charge almost immediately. She gathered companions the way some women gathered jewels. Yourself, Elinor, several other ladies from the Reach and Riverlands. A loose circle of friendship born from necessity. Meals became opportunities for whispered conversations, rumours exchanged like coin.

Yet, despite trying to remain apart from them, you sought their company in the end.

A few days later, you found them in a small solar overlooking the eastern cliffs. It was one of the few solars none of the other noble lords and ladies bothered to claim, because the winds howled too loudly for gentle ears and polite conversation. Bethany had claimed it anyway on the grounds that a room no one wanted was the one room worth having.

Elinor was already curled into the window seat when you arrived, a piece of embroidery held up to the light with visible dissatisfaction.

“It is meant to be a rose.” She said, by way of greeting. 

You neared her, watching the embroidery as she tilted it towards you.

“I am told it resembles a boiled turnip.” She pouted.

“It is a very pretty turnip.”

Elinor scoffed dramatically, letting the embroidery fall to her lap before patting the cushion beside her and making room for you.

“Sit. Bethany has wine she refuses to explain the origin of.”

“I made no such claim. I only said I came by some wine.” Bethany exclaimed exasperated. 

She stood and went towards the small table, reaching for the bottle and goblets. You sank down beside Elinor, who immediately reached over and tugged a pin loose from your hair, fixing something you had not even noticed had come undone.

“You did not have to…”

“I know.” She said simply.

It was such a small thing, yet you were not used to people doing small things for you without wanting something after.

Meanwhile Bethany poured the wine and offered the goblets to each of you.

“To surviving the first fortnight.” She exclaimed.

“To surviving.” Elinor echoed.

You nodded and found yourself smiling as you drank, the wine sharp and a little too sweet.

“I must confess, I did not expect to like anyone here.” You said once the silence had grown comfortable.

“None of us did.” Bethany sighed. “I certainly did not expect to like you. You have the look of someone who apologises to furniture when she bumps into it.”

“I do not-” You paused. “Well, truth be told I have done that. But only once!”

Elinor dissolved into laughter, and Bethany’s mouth twitched despite herself. Something in your chest loosened that had been tight since the ship first sighted Dragonstone.

“Well, I am glad of it.” Elinor said, resting her head lightly against your shoulder. “That you apologise to furniture, and that you are here.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” Her voice softened. “It is easier to bear a place like this with someone beside you.”

You would think of that afternoon often, the turnip rose, the mysteriously procured wine, and the comfort of two women who asked nothing but your company.

And all the while the princes’ interest in you growed.

No matter how crowded the hall became, whenever you looked toward the dais, Baelor was already watching, quietly and thoughtfully, as though he was studying something rare. Whenever Elinor managed to make you laugh, his gaze drifted toward you, eyes fixed on your mouth. Whenever you entered a room, his attention followed. More than once you caught him looking at your throat. He always looked away eventually, but he never did it quickly, as though it always cost him to do so.

Maekar was far less subtle than his brother. His attention came like a blade, always sharp and provoking. He enjoyed startling you, relishing at the way your breath hitched and your pulse quickened. 

Once, while wandering through the castle with the ladies, he materialised from the shadows. One moment the corridor was empty, the next he was there. Elinor nearly screamed, and you stumbled backward. Maekar merely smirked.

“You stop breathing every time you realise one of us is close, little dove.” 

He would inhale deeply, grunting, his gaze lingering on you. 

“It is intoxicating.”

Then he disappeared into the shadows before you could think of a response.

Then came the dreams.

At first, you dismissed them as a natural consequence of Dragonstone itself. Of the oppressive heat beneath the stone, the endless roar of the sea, the constant awareness of being watched. Surely your imagination required an outlet, due to living in constant pressure and so far away from your brother and home.

Yet after the third night, you stopped believing they were ordinary dreams.

They felt too real.

Your first dreams were of home. You endlessly wandered the empty halls of your old home, Beren’s wheezing laughter echoing somewhere beyond reach. Every door you opened led nowhere, every staircase twisted into another. Gradually, the dreams changed. Your childhood home began melting into Dragonstone, the familiar becoming unfamiliar. You wandered the endless halls alone, searching for something you never knew what it was.

Then one night you saw him.

Baelor.

He was standing at the far end of the hall, completely still, waiting for you. His mismatched eyes watched you from the impossible distance. 

“My prince!” You called out to him before you could stop yourself. 

You hurried towards him, tried to reach him, heels echoing against the stone. But the hallway only stretched farther, becoming longer and endless. No matter how quickly you moved, he remained beyond reach, waiting.

Until you awoke with a gasp, sweat running down your neck. Your room stood empty, but you could not shake the feeling that someone had been standing beside your bed.

You told nobody of the dreams. And very soon, Baelor was not the only prince who haunted your sleep.

Another dream found you standing upon Dragonstone’s cliffs during a storm. The sea raged below, black waves shattered themselves against stone. There is no way to escape, watching the waves, mesmerised. 

And somewhere behind you stood Maekar. You never saw him at first, only hearing his voice.

“Little dove.” He called out to you. The wind swallowed the rest of the words. 

You instinctively turned, and he stood only a few steps away, watching. Waiting like a hunter who already knew exactly where his prey would run, violet eyes gleaming with hunger.

You awake with a start, heart racing violently, the sound of waves still ringing in your ears.

The dreams continued, night after night. And as you settled into life at Dragonstone, they became impossible to ignore.

Yet what disturbed you most was what followed.

You began searching for them, without meaning to, without daring to admit it. 

Footsteps in a corridor would catch your attention. A familiar voice would make you glance up. You even paid more attention to your appearance before feasts. More attention to your hair, to your gowns, to how you carried yourself. 

You told yourself it was better to be cautious. You wanted the princes’ favour, their goodwill, their protection for your brother. And not that, deep down, you began to crave more than just their attention.

While Baelor maintained his careful distance, and Maekar continued his games, your dreams became more intense. You dreamt of Baelor circling your bed, always watching, but never touching. You dreamt of Maekar, his voice echoing through the darkness around you, before his nose was buried in the crook of your neck.

And then you started dreaming of them both. 

You thought you were alone in the feast hall. Until you noticed a third chair stood between two thrones, smaller than either, empty and waiting. Baelor occupied one throne and Maekar the other.

They simply watched at first, patiently, as though waiting for you to understand something. Hunger consumed their gaze as they descended the dais, each grabbing your arm, pulling you closer to them. You felt their lips press against your neck, your shoulders, your wrists. And just as they were about to bite, fangs pressing steadily against your skin, you awoke startled, pulse racing and warmth spreading across your lower stomach.

Ever since then, you always saw them both. But the dreams where they merely watched disturbed you far more than the others.

Because waking up changed nothing.

Their stares followed you through every day. If you crossed the hall, they noticed. If you laughed, their attention shifted toward the sound. If you entered a room, they knew. Their stares had the intensity of a lover’s touch. 

Yet neither prince ever touched you, and somehow that felt more intimate. 

As nights passed and the dreams plagued your sleep, there was something in you, your deepest and darkest desire materialising into streams of thought. 

How would their hands feel on my neck? Cold and hard? What about my arms? Waist? Thighs? And their lips? Would they taste like honey? Or would I taste the blood they drank?

Each time you awoke, you pushed these thoughts deep down, you did not dare voice them.

Your new companions noticed everything as well.

“They want your blood.” Elinor whispered to you one time when you were gathered with the ladies in the small solar.

Embroideries and books rested half-abandoned at your laps.

“By the Seven!” Elinor continued. “They can barely stop staring!”

You snorted softly. 

“Men stare when they want something.” You tried to joke.

“But they are not men.” Bethany muttered. “Far from it…”

Dropping her embroidery, she leaned forward. 

“How do you remain calm? I saw the way Prince Maekar watched you last night. He looked ready to tear Lord Jasper apart for simply speaking with you.”

“That is absurd.” You retorted softly. “Lord Jasper merely asked about my brother.”

The mention of him brought a familiar ache. Silence was your only reply as letters remained unanswered.

“Is it absurd though?” Elinor asked quietly, while folding the corner of the book page.

No.

You hated how quickly the answer came to mind.

Because you were aware. Even a blind person could discern the situation you were in.

And worse… 

The previous evening, a beautiful lady had spent far too long speaking to Baelor, holding his attention. The memory made something ugly twist in your chest.

You knew the feeling immediately. Jealousy, sharp and humiliating, having arrived so suddenly you nearly despised yourself for it.

What right did you have to feel this for the princes? Princes who terrified you, who fascinated you, who likely wanted your blood as much as they wanted you.

Yet, when the same woman later rested her hand lightly upon Maekar’s arm, your chest tightened all the same. 

You rose abruptly, the feeling overwhelming you suddenly.

“My apologies…” The words came out stained. “I have need of fresh air.”

“I will join you.” Bethany offered.

You shook your head.

“No need, my dear friend.” You said, forcing a smile. “I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”

Before they could object, you slipped from the room.

You wandered aimlessly through Dragonstone, down winding staircases, past towering windows overlooking dark seas. Eventually you found yourself in one of the balconies overlooking the sea. It opened toward the cliffs beyond and salt wind drifted through arched openings. Below, waves crashed endlessly against black stone.

You stepped toward the railing and leaned against it, closing your eyes.

For the first time all day, you were alone.

Your mind drifted towards home, towards your brother sitting beside a window. They drifted towards the gardens, the warmth of your room during summer, the familiar sounds of a place untouched by the Targaryens and their ancient blood magic.

For a moment you allowed yourself to pretend that none of this had happened. That you were still there and that your brother was safe. That the future remained yours to choose.

“You must be careful my lady. We cannot have you slip and fall to the sea.” 

A voice came from behind you.

You gasped and turned quickly, skirts tangling at your feet, the wind catching fabric and breath alike. 

“My prince!” 

You curtsied as Baelor stepped into view, standing close enough that the air between you seemed to tighten. His presence did not announce itself like a man’s should. It simply was, as though the space decided to become his. 

Your heart stumbled traitorously at the closeness, fear tangling with excitement and something far more difficult to name.

“You often walk alone across these halls.” He said.

“You have noticed?” You asked, though you already knew the answer.

“I have.” He answered. “And so has my brother.” 

His head tilted slightly. Those mismatched eyes held you with quiet attention, as though you were a thought he had not yet decided how to finish.

“Dragonstone is a dangerous place to wander alone.”

“Because of you?” You whispered, before you could stop yourself. 

A flicker passed across his expression.

“Because it belongs to dangerous things.”

The answer should have frightened you more than it did.

Instead, your eyes dropped to his hands.

Baelor wore several rings, each one worked with Valyrian designs you did not recognise. His fingers moved over them absently, turning one slowly between thumb and forefinger, as though grounding himself in something familiar.

A strangely human habit. It unsettled you more than it should have.

You wondered, suddenly and unbidden, how those hands would feel if they were not so carefully restrained. If they were simply allowed to be. Cold, perhaps, or worse, carefully warm only when they chose to be.

At your throat, at your pulse.  

The thought struck too sharply. You felt your pulse quicken, and you saw it, the almost imperceptible pause in him. His gaze lowered slightly, lingering at your lips before drifting, inevitably, to your throat where your pulse betrayed you beneath your skin.

He inhaled once, deeply.

Heat flooded your chest, not cleanly fear, not entirely. Something worse for its uncertainty, something that made your thoughts feel suddenly too loud, too exposed.

Baelor seemed to realise what had shifted between you, stepping back half a pace, fingers tightening around his ring. His mismatched eyes were darkened with hunger.

“My apologies…” He said, and for the first time since you heard it, his voice sounded strained.

“No harm done, your Grace.” You whispered.

You should have left then, you knew that. You should have turned away, found Bethany and Elinor, found safety in noise and distance and other people. 

Instead, you remained.

Some foolish, selfish part of you wanted to understand what it meant to stand here without interruption. To be seen by him without the room full of watching eyes.

So you leaned lightly against the railing and turned your gaze back to the sea. It stretched beneath Dragonstone in endless dark motion, moonlight breaking across the waves in shards of pale silver. The tide struck the cliffs below with patient violence, over and over, as though it had all the time in the world.

“Is it true your home is near the coast?” Baelor asked quietly. 

You nodded.

“My brother, Beren, used to love watching the sea.” You said.

Beside you, he stilled.

“He would sit for hours watching the waves from our castle windows. Even when he became too weak to stand.”

The wind took part of your sentence and scattered it into salt and air, but you knew Baelor heard all of it.

“Is he very ill?” He asked gently.

You nodded. “The maesters said he would not survive another winter.”

The sea crashed below you in endless rhythm, filling the silence between you.

“And your uncle sent you here anyway.” He said at last.

Something dark burrowed beneath the calmness of his voice. Not quiet anger, but disgust, towards your uncle, towards men like him. Recognition of a cruelty he had seen often enough to name without effort.

“That was cruel of him, my lady.” 

He moved then, stepping closer to the railing, grasping it. He was close enough that you were suddenly aware of every bit of distance between you.

“You say that as if cruelty surprised you.” You said, looking up at him.

A shadow crossed his expression.

“There are different kinds.” He said. “There are kinds I abhor.”

The way he said it made something uneasy shift within you. Not as a reassurance, but as a conviction.

You became aware again of his hand, so near to yours now, almost touching.

Your heartbeat rose sharply at your throat, and Baelor’s gaze dropped to your there once more. Then returned to your eyes.

And you could see it, the restraint.

He wants to touch me, you understood that with sudden clarity.

His desire sat between you like a third presence in the air. And the horrifying thing was, you wanted to know how it felt. Your small finger brushed against his.

Baelor closed his eyes briefly, sighing deeply. When he opened them again, there was control there, but only just. He said your name like it pained him, caught between warning and plea.

“You should not look at me like that, dōna riña.” 

“How am I looking at you?” You asked.

“Like you have stopped fearing me.” 

The words settled heavily between you. But they were not quite true. 

You still feared him, you were certain of that. And yet, something else had begun to grow beside it. Something far more dangerous for how quietly it had arrived. Because fear made you careful. But this… 

This made you stay.

Your encounter with Baelor lingered beneath your skin long after. You returned to your chambers, shaken in a way you could not explain. Not frightened truly, not in the same way you felt when you arrived at Dragonstone. This was different. 

Worse. 

For it was tangled with longing. 

You could still hear his voice if you closed your eyes. Still feel the weight of his attention as though it had not fully left you, as though it settled somewhere beneath your skin and refused to move on. And with it came the unbearable thought that you wanted him to touch you.

The realisation followed you like fever.

Sleep did not come easily. And when it did, it did not bring relief. The dreams returned in fragments, disjointed and restless, leaving you breathless in the dark. Eventually, unable to endure the stillness of your room, you rose.

A walk will do me good, you told yourself.

The castle at night was still dangerous, still strange. But by now it was familiar enough that you knew its rhythms. 

You moved carefully through stone passageways lit by low-burning torches. Lost in thought, you did not notice the presence behind you, not until you reached the battlements.

The wind there was sharper. It came off the sea in long gusts that pulled at your cloak and threatened to drag thoughts from your mind before you could hold them.

You stepped closer to the stone edge.

“You have a talent for standing exactly where you could be thrown over easily.”

The voice came from behind you. You spun sharply, heartbeat already betraying you.

Maekar leaned against the archway, as though he was carved into it. His silver hair caught the torchlight in fractured strands, and his violet eyes gleamed with something far too aware for comfort. Where Baelor was composed stillness, Maekar was like violence loosely draped over elegance. 

His mouth was curved slightly.

“You are far too entertaining when frightened.”

Embarrassment burnt hot within you as you tried to steady yourself.

“I am not frightened.” You said quickly.

Maekar exhaled through his nose, irritated rather than amused.

“I fucking detest liars, little dove.” He said, pushing off the archway and beginning to close the distance between you. “So do not lie to me.”

Your breath caught as he approached. Closer than Baelor had, closer than anyone else had any right to be. His presence pressed against the air itself, making it difficult to think past him, around him, away from him.

“You do hide it better than when you arrived.” He added, gaze flicking briefly to your throat. “But it is still there.”

“I thought you enjoyed fear.” You whispered.

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

“I do.” He agreed. “Even if it makes the rest of the sheep stupid.”

His eyes sharpened.

“But there is something else in you…” He tilted his head slightly. “I find it intoxicating.”

You swallowed hard. 

“I do not know what you mean.”

A low chuckle escaped him, dark and unkind.

“Lies again, little dove.”

Before you could retreat, his hand moved and he caught a handful of your hair at the back of your head and tugged. Not enough to truly hurt, but enough to force awareness into every nerve in your body at once.

Your breath hitched sharply. Instinctively, you steadied yourself against his arm, as though your body had decided before your mind could object.

Lightning split the sky over the sea. For one brief moment, its flash caught his face in something inhuman, something predatory.

“There it is.” Maekar said softly. “That expression.”

His grip tightened slightly in your hair, possessively enough that your heartbeat betrayed you completely.

“The moment you remember what we are.”

“You are enjoying this.” You whispered, your eyes not leaving his.

“Immensely.” He tugged once more. “But so are you.”

Your eyes widened. He leaned closer, studying you as though your thoughts were no longer hidden at all.

“Is this what you thought it would be?” He murmured. “Standing here alone with one of us?”

His expression sharpened suddenly.

“Tell me, did you hope it would be my brother instead of me?”

“No.” You said at once. “Not just him.”

Maekar’s mouth curved into a smile. 

“Good girl.”

The words struck something in you far deeper than they should have.

“The first honest thing you have said to me all night.” He added.

His thumb brushed briefly against the edge of your hair where he held you. 

“You are beginning to understand.” He said quietly, leaning in, his breath brushing the side of your neck before his nose brushed against it.

“You want us.” He murmured, voice low against your skin. “Just as much as we hunger for you.”

Your breath faltered as his tongue darted out, licking the skin where your pulse thundered..

“My prince…” You barely managed, voice unsteady.

“I cannot wait to taste you properly…” He hummed, stepping back and relishing your current state. His eyes lingered on you a moment longer.

“Let’s see who gets to you first.”

Then he turned.

And left you alone on the battlements with the sea roaring below and your pulse refusing to slow.

⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬

Once more, your sleep was not a sanctuary. You were pinned between the two princes in a way that made your mind and body scream for more.

You were pressed firmly against Baelor's chest, the fabric of your shift a pathetic barrier between you. His nose was buried deep in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply before pressing open-mouthed kisses. His large hands kneaded your breasts with a fervent, bruising grid, thumbs rolling over your nipples and twisting them into hard, aching peaks that throbbed in time with your heart.

A sharp gasp ripped from your throat as Maekar’s fangs sank into your inner thigh. The bite was a warning, a reminder that while Baelor held your upper body tonight, he claimed everything below.

“Do not tease her, brother…” Baelor groaned, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your spine. 

He forced your head to turn around him, his eyes dark with a predatory lust. 

“She has been so good to us.”

Maekar grunted in agreement. His slick fingers prodded at your entrance, feeling how wet you were for them. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the mark he had left on your thigh, before his tongue swirled over the bruised skin.

“The little dove has indeed.” Maekar rasped, his voice thick with need.

“Tell us what you want, dōna riña.” Baelor commanded, his breath hot against your lips. 

You could feel it then, his hard cock pressing against your backside.

“I- oh!” 

A loud moan shattered your words, as Maekar dove between your legs. He gripped your thighs tight and devoured you like a starved man. His tongue lashed against your swollen clit, swirling around it with a rhythmic and punishing pressure.

Baelor’s hand slid down to grip your throat lightly, tugging at your lower lip with his teeth.

“Speak, sweetling.”

“I want… I want you both.” You almost sobbed, your hips bucking uncontrollably against Maekar’s mouth.

“To do what, dear?” Baelor whispered.

“To take me! To bite me…” Your hand travelled to Maekar’s head, pushing him closer. “Please, just take me! Make me yours!”

“Good girl…” Baelor growled, before crashing his lips onto yours in a hard kiss.

You awoke with a violent start, your heart hammering against your ribs. The silence of your chamber was deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged, heaving breaths. You were drenched. Not just in sweat, but in a flood of arousal that left your shift clinging to your thighs.

Gods preserve you, you never wanted that dream to end. Your inner walls throbbed painfully around nothing. Every instinct, every lesson drilled into you by your septa, vanished beneath a wave of need.

Your hand moved instinctively, sliding beneath your small clothes. You had pleasured yourself before, but never like this. You were never consumed by a hunger so vast it felt like it would swallow you whole. You were not craving only one man, you were craving both of them.

A sharp gasp escaped you the moment your finger pressed against your swollen clit. You rubbed it slowly at first, before trying to mimic the way Maekar’s tongue had ravaged you in the dream. You let out a whimper as you pushed a finger deep inside you, the sound of your own wetness echoing in the quiet room.

You bit down hard on the back of your other hand to stifle another moan, your body arching off the bed. You closed your eyes, imagining Baelor’s weight on top of you, Maekar’s mouth between your legs, wishing that it was their fingers, their lips, their fangs, their breath, their skin on you.

“Baelor… Maekar… oh…”

You did not take long to reach your peak after that, your hips bucked into your palm, your fingers moving faster. Softwhines and gasps filled the room, as your release crashed over you, your body shuddering in pleasure. 

When the high finally faded, leaving you limp and trembling beneath the sheets, the reality of what you had just done washed over you. 

You whispered their names in the dark.

A part of you clung to the hope that somewhere, in the depths of the castle, they actually heard you calling for them.

Join the taglist

Baldwin

As Baldwin paused to straighten his cuffs and assess his appearance in the full length mirror in his walk-in wardrobe, an unfortunate thought occurred. The suit he was wearing was one he normally wore for business dinners or meetings with politicians. 

This was not that sort of dinner meeting. The last thing he wanted was to remind Miranda that he was her employer. 

He was further disgruntled with the next option he tried. The sleek monochrome suit was too severe, he decided. Worse, it was typical of what he wore when he was trying to intimidate someone.  

That was not his goal either.

He finally settled on something decidedly modern, but perfectly acceptable for dinner at a five-star restaurant.

However, Alain still found him in the kitchen minutes later, frowning at his reflection in the glass door of the state-of-the-art wine tower. 

Softly clearing his throat, Alain placed the key fob for the freshly detailed Bentley on the island bench next to a bouquet of flowers whose fresh fragrance perfumed the entire kitchen. 

Baldwin muttered his thanks and continued to fuss with his tie knot. His fastidiousness was the only indication he gave that this evening was anything out of the ordinary.

“Do you need the tie?” Alain wondered aloud, studying Baldwin with a critical eye and well-practiced benign objectivity.

“It’s dinner,” Baldwin retorted, mildly scandalized by the suggestion. 

Modern fashion allowed men to forgo ties on certain occasions, but he could not fathom such informality when taking a woman he wanted to woo out for an upscale meal. He may not have asked a woman out in decades, but there were basic standards that needed to be upheld.

The flowers, for example, were a given. He’d never known a woman who did not enjoy receiving flowers, so he’d personally made the foray to the nearest florist on his way home from work. 

It was the first time he’d entered a florist’s shop in years. As soon as the tinkling bells tied to the door handle announced his arrival, he remembered why it was a task he usually delegated. The smell of that many fresh flowers packed into one storefront was overpowering, the salesgirl was on the nervous side, and Baldwin was forced to admit he did not know which type of flowers were appropriate.

Marthe was his primaryadvisor on the language of flowers, but he did not want to call on her expertise in the middle of a shop when there was any risk of Ysabeau answering the landline at Sept-Tours. His sister Freyja was his second choice, but she would take far too much interest in the matter and pester him incessantly afterwards.

In the end, a nosy elderly woman examining the orchids happened to intervene. She claimed lavender roses were unique and symbolized new romance. Since that was Baldwin’s ultimate goal, he took her advice over the quaking shopgirl’s suggestion of daises. A blue-haired octogenarian with orchids seemed like the more reliable source, especially one who smiled fondly and wished him luck on his way out.

Luck had nothing to do with it. Courting required as much strategy as any other kind of campaign.

Satisfied his tie was as straight as it could be and his hair had not gone rogue, Baldwin gave his cuffs a final tug and turned around.

“Should I expect you back this evening?” Alain asked dutifully.

“Of course. It’s only dinner,” Baldwin said, pocketing the car key fob and gathering up the flowers.

Alain bobbed his head, but offered no comment other than a mysterious smirk.

‘Only dinner’ had been Baldwin’s decision after carefully considering the alternatives. Taking Miranda to a bar or wine tasting was too risky so soon after the summer party - she may be leery of alcohol. He knew she liked coffee, but coffee shops were always too crowded and overstimulating. A private setting would make open conversation easier, but it was too soon to invite her back to his place.

Dinner out was the obvious choice. The restaurant was quiet and he’d reserved a private table that wasn’t completely isolated from the other diners. Even if he would not eat much, a meal gave Miranda something else to focus on and the smell of the food would distract him from the smell of her.

Smoothing his tie once more out of habit, Baldwin gave Alain a mock salute with the flowers as he headed for the back passage leading to the garage.

“À bientôt.”

Miranda

My bedroom looked like a disaster area.

The backpack I’d taken to Brighton had spilled its contents at the base of my dresser when I tripped over it earlier. I kicked it out of the way rather than sort it properly. Half of my too small closet covered the entire surface of my queen-sized bed in haphazard heaps, with one pile cascading onto the floor like a lumpy rainbow waterfall.

The nerves I’d been steadfastly ignoring all day spiked when I realized how dangerously close Baldwin’s impending arrival was. Yet there I stood in nothing but my bra and knickers, futilely surveying the wreckage of my wardrobe. 

Why on earth had I thought food shopping was more important than figuring out what to wear when I returned to London that afternoon?

After hanging up with Baldwin, it was only when I returned to my accommodation in Brighton that I began to question the exact nature of this dinner, along with just about every other detail of it. 

Was it a follow-up to make sure I was really trustworthy? Or some sort of due diligence welfare check?

If so, all I had to do was show that I was capable of interacting with him and the rest of society without babbling like a nutter about non-human creatures. That should also prove I was fit to return to work.

Easy.

Except…

Something in the way he’d asked…with that disarmingly sexy voice telling me to wear something nice and we’d go nice restaurant…

Every time I replayed it in my head, my cheeks flushed and I came to a different conclusion.

What if it was a date?

Baldwin had been pretty damn blunt about his interest in me. He knew I fancied him.

An ancient vampire asking me out would have seemed absurd before Saturday night’s party. Now…it was still absurd, but not outside the realm of possibility.

Or I was completely wrong on all accounts.

Truth be told, I tended to not read these situations very well when there was genuine attraction involved.

Back and forth, I argued with myself all day. Regardless of what this evening was, the prospect of unrestricted time alone with Baldwin Montclair left me breaking a sweat after I showered, spending way too long on my hair and makeup, and fretting over what to wear in the eleventh hour.

In a remarkable oversight on my part, I failed to ask Baldwin where we were going. A ‘nice, safe public restaurant’ could be anywhere by human standards, but what kind of place - other than a blood bank - served a vampire-approved menu?

Since cooked food was unpalatable for him, maybe sushi? A steakhouse with a raw meat option?

One thing I was sure of, wherever we went was guaranteed to have one of the best wine lists in town. That meant it was going to be somewhere expensive. Even if he wasn’t a certified wine snob, Baldwin oozed expensive tastes with his luxury cars and immaculately tailored suits.

Like hell was I going anywhere with Mr. Posh Vampire and not be appropriate dressed.

But I was rapidly running out of time to get dressed at all. Greeting him in my knickers would certainly send a different kind of message.

“Get it together,” I berated myself as I hastily flipped through the remaining hangers in my closet yet again. Nothing new had magically appeared by sheer wishful thinking.

With a grumble of frustration, I dug through the discarded clothes on the bed and yanked out a dress from the bottom of the mess. It was the very first dress I’d tried on and decided 45 minutes ago was a solid maybe. 

It was a deceptively simple but classy navy blue wrap dress that flattered my curves without being too tight. Most importantly the flutter sleeves sufficiently covered what remained of the ugly bruising on my shoulder. I’d never worn it to work because the v-neckline showed a little too much cleavage to be considered professional.

It was now the winner because I was out of patience and I hadn’t even thought about shoes yet. Fortunately, I knew exactly which dangling silver earrings and matching necklace I wanted to wear.

I was just poking the second earring through my earlobe when a sharp knock rang like a gunshot from my flat’s front door. Whirling around, I glared at the digital clock on my bedside table. 

Baldwin was five minutes early. And he had somehow managed to enter the building without buzzing for me to admit him.

Muttering a curse under my breath, I trotted out and did one last check in the mirror over the credenza by the front door.

Acceptable, I decided, fluffing my hair and adjusting a wayward bra strap. Too late to change anyway.

My heart rate had kicked up like I was about to give a presentation at work. It was accompanied by the same usual rush of giddiness. The only difference was I was going to be presenting myself instead of market assessments.

As ready as I could be, I opened the door.

I was not at all ready for Baldwin to be standing on the other side looking as mind-meltingly handsome as I’d ever seen him.

I momentarily forgot to breathe. His bespoke inky blue suit was like a sexy, after-hours cousin of his daily workwear. The way it perfectly moulded to his tall, athletic frame ought to be illegal. To top it off, he’d traded his standard stark white dress shirt for a black one, with his tie matching his suit. He may as well have stepped out of a GQ magazine spread.

How the hell was this devastatingly good-looking man on my doorstep?

When I came to my senses with a tiny jerk of my head, I realized I wasn’t the only one silently ogling. Baldwin’s eyes were sliding down my body from head to toe with open appraisal. When those amber-brown eyes landed on my bare feet, the corner of his mouth twitched upward before his attention returned to my face.

“I’m early.”

There was not a single hint of apology in his tone, but for some reason I said, “It’s okay.”

It took me entirely too long to notice I was standing in his way and he was waiting for me to invite him in.

“Come in,” I recovered with a stiff sweep of my arm. My gaze landed on my bare feet again and I grimaced at the ridiculousness. Thank god I’d at least taken the time to repaint my toenails after I showered.

Baldwin’s hands had been clasped behind him but once he was inside and I closed the door, he pulled an exquisite bouquet of lavender roses wrapped in brown paper from behind his back. 

“These are for you,” he announced, presenting them to me.

“Oh,” I whispered in wonder. Bewildered, I accepted the roses, unable to tear my eyes away from them. “Th-thank you.”

Who turned up with the world’s most beautiful flowers and looking like pure sin for dinner unless…

This was definitely a date.

Ooohhh boy.

A few less ladylike phrases crossed my mind as I mentally scrambled to recalibrate.

Unfortunately, Baldwin had already clocked on to my poorly concealed reaction.

“You’re not allergic, are you?” he asked with a slight frown.

“Uh, no,” I replied quickly. “Not at all.”

“You don’t like roses,” he guessed.

“No! They’re beautiful!” I insisted, already possessive of them. “Just—er—unexpected.”

Baldwin’s severe expression relaxed, but his thick brows remained low over his eyes. My answer had not fully appeased him.

Before he could continue interrogating me, I buried my nose in the gorgeous bouquet. With a deep inhale, their fresh, heady fragrance helped ground me. 

“Let me find something to put these in,” I said, turning to bustle into the kitchen.

Unwilling to set the roses down, I stood on tiptoe to rummage one-handed through the upper cabinets, peripherally aware that Baldwin had followed me and was loitering in the doorway to my minuscule kitchen. I sincerely hoped he was not comparing his palatial kitchen to mine, though it struck me as oddly funny that a vampire who didn’t eat solid food had a kitchen six times the size of mine.

As I moved from one cabinet to the next in search of something sturdy enough for the flowers, I caught Baldwin’s eyes flicking up quickly from the vicinity of my backside and legs. I suddenly doubted he’d noticed the size of my kitchen at all.

The best vessel I could come up with was a spare enamelled coffee canister left behind by my former flatmate. It would make a mockery of the splendid bouquet, but it would have to do.

As I gave it a good rinse in the sink, I risked another sideways glance at Baldwin. His eyebrows were drawn together and his head tilted curiously as he studied the coffee canister.

“You don’t have a vase?”

“Uh, no,” I replied, setting the half-filled canister on the stainless steel worktop before gently freeing the roses from their paper. “I don’t really buy flowers.”

That earned me an even more puzzled look. “What about when someone gives them to you?”

“That doesn’t happen either.” My laugh was a little too cynical as I transferred the flowers to their new home.

“Never?” His tone was deeply incredulous.

“Not since my grandparents when I graduated university,” I said with a shrug. I decided not to share the fact that those flowers had been grocery store carnations. 

Still focused on the canister, Baldwin made a soft mystified “huh” sound. 

“These are gorgeous though,” I said, repositioning a couple of the blooms. A silly grin spread across my face as it fully hit me that a hot man had shown up on my doorstep for a date and actually brought me flowers. “I’ll have to find something to better show them off tomorrow.” 

Ducking me head to hide my blush, I quickly excused myself to go find a pair of shoes.

Without the luxury of time, I grabbed the first pair of heels I saw that would go with my dress, a  reliably comfortable pair of nude pumps. They were on the tall side, but given Baldwin’s impressive height, I doubted I’d hear any snide comments.

As I did one final check in my bedroom mirror, I fixed the clasp on my necklace before meeting my own eyes.

What was I getting myself into, heading out on a date with a vampire?

My reflection failed to provide an answer.

Purse in hand, I marched back to the entryway credenza to grab my keys from their dish and turned to find Baldwin studying me far more intently than he had the coffee canister. In a reverse of his inspection upon arrival, his eyes took in the new addition of my shoes then travelled up my legs and the rest of my body before landing on my face. 

“You look very nice,” he said, voice low and sincere.

“Thank you,” I said. I gave him a quick scan and a bashful smile. “So do you.”

Baldwin’s pleased smile was not at all smug as I expected. It softened his eyes and relaxed his normally stern features in a way I’d never seen before. The effect was stunning.

My stomach gave an odd little flip in response.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” he said, stepping closer and speaking quietly as if we weren’t the only two people in the room.

My smile dropped at being called out. “I’m not—“

“Your heart rate’s been up and down like a swing since you answered the door,” he informed me matter-of-factly.

I silently cursed my vital signs for their betrayal. With his super keen senses, he’d no doubt also noticed the fact my face kept catching fire every two seconds.

“I’m only pointing it out in case there’s something specific worrying you.”

“No,” I replied with an emphatic shake of my head. Fiddling with the strap of my purse, I decided honesty was the best policy. “I—er—I was not entirely sure what tonight was.”

No longer smiling, Baldwin’s head cocked suspiciously. “What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know.” I blew out a breath. “A wellness check? Due diligence?” I gulped down my rising embarrassment. “A date.”

Thankfully, Baldwin did not laugh in my face at my confused confession. He gave one ponderous nod, his expression carefully composed.

“I suppose it is all of those things,” he said slowly, “although I was leaning more toward the latter.”

“I guessed that by the flowers.”

“That’s why you were so surprised.”

Nibbling my lower lip, I nodded.

Masterfully in control of his reaction and not giving anything away, he clasped his hands behind his back.

“How about this?” he proposed, defaulting to a familiar business-like tone. “How about tonight is two people sharing a meal and getting to know each other better?”

Between the oddly formal delivery and what he was asking, I could not help my sharp, skeptical laugh.

“Some people call that a date,” I pointed out.

“You may call it a wellness check, if you prefer,” he retorted, arching a mocking eyebrow at me.

I was smiling again in spite of myself. He continued to peer down at me without smiling, but there was a warm glint in his light brown eyes that was anything but neutral.

A week ago, I was dreaming of what a date with Baldwin Montclair would be like. Here he was politely asking me out. 

I had a strong feeling that if I told him ‘no thanks’ he would respect that. 

But I didn’t want to say ‘no thanks.’ Not when we were both all dressed up and ready to go. 

“No, I think I prefer the other one,” I said decidedly.

“As do I.” Baldwin’s genuinely pleased smile returned, making my heart rate swing up again. ~~~ French translation: À bientôt = See you soon

With all the care you always showed the little prince, you slowly lowered Matarys until both tiny slippers met the polished marble floor.

One hand remained beneath his arm. The other steadied his back as he found his balance upon uncertain legs.

The little boy wobbled, recovered, and then looked up at you.

You bent down until your faces were level.

Soft strands of carefully arranged hair slipped loose near your cheek as you leaned closer, whispering something only he was meant to hear.

Whatever the words were... They made him smile.

It was small, Proud; Almost mischievous.

You answered with one of those smiles Baelor had seen countless times inside the nursery. The sort of smile that never demanded success.

Only courage.

Then... To everyone's surprise...

Matarys turned away from you. His bright eyes searched the crowded ballroom until they found only one person.

His father.

Tiny arms lifted instinctively for balance.

One uncertain foot moved forward, touched the floor. His body swayed.

Several ladies watching drew quiet breaths through parted lips as another step followed; Still unsteady.

His little fingers opened and closed against the empty air as though trying to grasp something invisible.

You instinctively leaned forward; your hands twitched. You were prepared to catch him should he stumble.

Every instinct within you urged your body to move, to reach him; To keep him safe.

Then you stopped yourself.

Your fingers curled back into your palms and your hands lowered once more. Yet your heart remained firmly lodged somewhere inside your throat.

This moment... This belonged to father and son.

You would only steal it if you intervened.

So you stayed where you were.

One step. Then another.

What began as uncertain little shuffles gradually became something steadier.

Confidence slowly replaced hesitation.

His tiny legs still wobbled, and His balance still faltered. Yet every successful step seemed to encourage the next.

Around the ballroom... Conversation had disappeared entirely.

The musicians, sensing attention had drifted elsewhere, allowed the melody to soften until it became little more than gentle strings floating through the silence.

Even the servants stood still.

No goblets were filled. No plates collected.

Hundreds of eyes followed one impossibly small prince taking his first independent journey towards his father.

Baelor had forgotten where he was.

The ballroom no longer existed. The nobles. The music. The whispers.

The expectations placed upon the Crown Prince.

All of it dissolved.

Only one thing remained. His son... Walking. His own son... Walking.

A smile spread slowly across his face before he even realised it. It reached his eyes.

His entire expression softened with a joy so pure that those closest to him almost failed to recognise the man standing before them.

He gently lowered Valarr back onto his own feet without once looking away from Matarys.

"Come, little dragon..." he whispered so quietly that only those nearest heard the words. "You can do it."

Another tiny step, then another.

Matarys giggled. Whether from excitement or simple determination, no one could say. He continued onward with stubborn resolve, wobbling dangerously once before catching himself with a delighted little squeal.

The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath.

One more step.

Then one last tiny stride carried him close enough.

Baelor reached forward immediately. Strong hands, so often wrapped around swords and shields, now moved with remarkable gentleness as they lifted the little prince into the safety of his arms.

Matarys burst into delighted laughter. His tiny hands clapped together repeatedly, impossibly pleased with himself.

Baelor laughed too. Like a father who had just witnessed something he would remember for the rest of his life.

His forehead rested briefly against his son's. "...Well done."

His voice cracked just enough for Maekar to notice. The youngest prince quietly looked away.

Next to him, Rhaegal smiled openly. Even Aerys' teasing grin softened into something warmer.

For several heartbeats... No one spoke as no one wished to disturb the moment.

It belonged entirely to the little family standing before them.

Then Matarys, still nestled happily within his father's arms, turned his head.

His bright little eyes searched until they found you.

His arms stretched towards you without hesitation. A soft little sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a call.

You smiled.

Not proudly because he had walked, but proudly because he had done it.

Because weeks of scraped knees, wobbling legs, tiny tumbles, patient encouragement and endless praise had brought him here.

Your eyes glistened beneath the torchlight. You clasped your hands together to stop yourself from reaching for him immediately.

The rest of the world quietly disappeared.

That was... Until Valarr slipped beside you once more.

Without a word, he reached for your hand. His small fingers wrapped naturally around yours, giving it one gentle squeeze before beginning to pull.

You hesitated, only for the briefest heartbeat.

Your eyes lifted, Meeting Baelor's.

The week of distance. The unanswered questions. The almost-kiss.

Every unfinished thought suddenly stood between you.

Valarr, blissfully unaware of the storm he was walking straight into, tugged again; more Determined than ever before. He remained patient, patient only by the standards of an eight-year-old.

And as though it were the most natural thing in the world...

He began leading you towards his father and little brother, gently but insistently drawing the distance between the two of you closed at last.

With slow, measured steps, you moved closer.

More than once, hesitation crept into your chest as the distance between you and Baelor steadily shrank.

Every instinct urged you to stop, to remain where you were among the crowd and let the children run ahead on their own, yet your feet continued forward.

The polished floor beneath your slippers reflected the warm glow of countless candles, each careful step carrying you deeper into the sea of nobles.

Around you, conversations slowly resumed after your entrance, though not with quite the same liveliness as before.

Curious eyes still followed your every movement. Some openly. Others from behind jewelled fans or raised goblets.

"...Who is she?"

"The princes' nurse, I believe."

"The nanny?"

"A foreign woman."

"I heard she came from the Stepstones."

"No... Dorne."

"I thought she was a battlefield healer."

"Whatever she is..." an older lady murmured quietly to the woman beside her, "...the little princes seem unwilling to leave her side."

Another noblewoman's eyes drifted toward the copper gown before returning thoughtfully to Queen Myriah. "A nurse dressed by the Queen herself?" she whispered. "How... unusual."

"No queen clothes a servant without reason."

Those quiet observations drifted through the hall like smoke before dissolving beneath the music once more.

Valarr, either sensing your hesitation or suspecting your reaction, squeezed your hand faintly. Without saying a word, he continued guiding you towards his family.

His chin remained lifted proudly, his posture almost amusingly straight, walking with all the confidence expected of the future heir. Yet there was a seriousness upon his young face that made your lips twitch ever so slightly.

As though he had been entrusted with a mission of utmost importance.

As though the fate of the realm somehow depended upon making certain you reached his father.

You allowed yourself to follow.

The faint squeeze of his tiny fingers grounded you each time your courage threatened to abandon you, reminding you that no matter how overwhelming this room felt, no matter how many eyes rested upon you, you were not walking into it alone.

Little by little, the distance disappeared.

Until finally... Valarr stopped.

You had to force yourself to halt as well, lest another step carry you into the prince's personal space.

Your throat suddenly felt dry.

For the first time in an entire week... You truly looked at him.

Baelor.

The prince who had somehow found his way into your waking thoughts as easily as your dreams.

For a heartbeat, the music around you seemed strangely distant as your mind betrayed you.

It carried you back to that quiet evening beside the fire and to the silence neither of you had wished to disturb.

To the warmth radiating from his body as he had stepped closer.

Close enough that you had noticed every shade hidden within his mismatched eyes. Close enough that your own breath had become uneven.

You still remembered the feeling... Safety.

A quiet certainty that if he reached for you, it would only ever be because you wished him to.

You remembered the way his eyes had searched yours, silently asking permission he never voiced aloud.

The way your own lips had parted without your noticing. The way time itself had seemed to pause between you.

Then... Nothing.

The memory lingered for only a few heartbeats before you gently pushed it aside.

Now was neither the time nor the place.

Drawing in a slow breath, you lowered yourself into a respectful bow.

Proper enough to honour the Crown Prince and yet noticeably lacking the effortless elegance noble ladies possessed after years of courtly lessons.

It remained practical, honest, and Unpretentious.

Almost...

Exactly like the bow you had offered him upon the battlefield all those weeks ago, when blood still stained your hands and armour had weighed upon your shoulders instead of silk.

As you straightened once more, the memory quietly settled within you.

Thinking back to that fateful day, you realised just how little time had truly passed since then.

Barely a month... Perhaps a handful of days more.

Yet somewhere along the way, the Red Keep had stopped feeling unfamiliar.

Its endless corridors no longer confused you. The nursery had become home.

The children had become part of your daily rhythm. Their laughter greeted your mornings. Their sleepy embraces often ended your evenings.

Deep down... It felt as though you had lived within these walls far longer than a single month.

"Your Grace," you greeted softly, still blissfully unaware that you continued addressing him by the wrong title.

No one had corrected you, and so you had never questioned it.

Nearby, Baelor's brothers exchanged subtle glances between themselves.

At least Rhaegal and Aerys did.

Maekar remained exactly as he always seemed to be, arms folded across his chest, his expression carved from stone itself.

Yet even from where you stood, his narrowed eyes lingered upon the exchange with unmistakable attention.

You finally lifted your gaze.

Meeting those beautiful mismatched eyes that had stared back at you so many times before...

And that you had begun seeing every single day reflected within the eyes of his eldest son.

Baelor remained quiet.

Even surrounded by his brothers, even with Matarys resting comfortably in his arms, his gaze never left you.

From the very moment you had entered the ballroom, clothed in that copper gown that seemed to capture every flicker of torchlight, the world around him had steadily faded into little more than distant noise.

The conversations, the laughter, the music drifting through the hall, even the endless procession of nobles bowing before his father—they all blurred together into something barely worthy of notice.

There was only you.

For an entire week, he had denied himself your company.

A week of deliberately choosing different corridors. Different meal times. Different hours for visiting his sons.

The Red Keep was vast enough for a man determined not to cross another's path, and Baelor had discovered that avoiding someone required far more thought than simply seeking them out.

Yet despite the distance he had forced between you, you had never truly left him.

You lingered instead within the quiet corners of his mind.

He remembered your hair, usually gathered with little concern for appearance, several loose strands forever escaping by midday as Matarys reached for them with curious fingers.

The plain dresses you favoured, practical above all else, nearly always carrying some tiny reminder of the children.

A smear of fruit where Matarys had proudly fed himself. A damp mark left by little hands still drying after washing. Wrinkles from kneeling upon nursery floors to build wooden castles or comfort scraped knees.

He remembered the soft smile you reserved for Valarr whenever the boy proudly recounted yet another impossible adventure, speaking with such conviction that even the most outrageous tale somehow became believable beneath your patient attention.

He remembered the warmth in your voice whenever you praised them. The quiet laughter that escaped you before you realised it. The peacefulness that always seemed to settle over the nursery whenever you were there.

And then... His thoughts returned, as they always had these past seven nights, to that evening.

The fire burning low. The silence neither of you had wished to interrupt.

The way your eyes had darkened, only slightly. The way your lips had parted, silently inviting him to come closer.

The way you stayed and waited, instead of fleeing away... The way you trusted him to behave, and he did, but at the cost of his sanity and his sleep.

He had replayed those final moments countless times.

Sometimes wondering whether he should have closed the distance. Sometimes thanking the Seven that he had not.

Never reaching a different answer.

Now... Here you stood before him once again. Only this time, you seemed almost unreal.

Presented before the court as a beauty that no embroidered gown nor precious jewel could hope to surpass; not in his eyes.

His gaze wandered despite himself.

Your hair, usually hidden beneath simple braids or practical pins, had been arranged with remarkable care.

Soft curls framed your face, catching the candlelight each time you moved, while the intricate style somehow managed to make you appear every bit as graceful as the noble ladies standing throughout the hall.

Then there was the dress.

The rich copper silk embraced your figure with effortless elegance, its delicate beadwork shimmering each time the light found it.

It suited you so naturally that, for one impossible moment, Baelor found himself wondering how he had ever imagined you wearing anything else.

Without thinking, his eyes shifted towards Queen Myriah. His mother had not once looked in his direction since your arrival.

She remained engaged in quiet conversation with one of the ladies seated nearby, every inch the composed queen.

Yet... The smallest hint of a smile curved the corner of her painted lips.

It lasted a heartbeat, scarcely, but it was Enough for Baelor to understand precisely whose idea this had been.

Of course. His mother. To know she had her hand on this... On you.

His attention drifted back almost immediately.

He would have been lying to himself more than anyone else; had he claimed the gown did not suit you.

It did... Painfully so.

The warm colours seemed made for your complexion, while the careful tailoring framed your body in ways his eyes helplessly followed before his better judgement could intervene.

The graceful line of your neck. The soft skin left uncovered at your shoulders. The gentle rise and fall of your breathing beneath the embroidered bodice.

His thoughts betrayed him.

He imagined his fingers tracing that exposed skin, lazy circles as you lay bare beside him; body half covered by soft furs.

His fingers. The thought arrived so suddenly, so vividly, that it struck him like cold water.

A faint warmth crept beneath the collar of his tunic and spread steadily towards the back of his neck.

Seven, save me... He forced himself to blink, to breathe, to remember where he stood. Only then did he realise several painfully long moments had passed since you greeted him.

Long enough that silence itself had begun drawing curious attention.

He cleared his throat quietly. A faint pink hue coloured the back of his neck. "I see you have attended... I am pleased to see that."

The words sounded almost painfully ordinary the moment they left his mouth.

Normally, conversation came easily enough when duty required it.

He had negotiated peace between feuding lords, addressed armies before battle, and spoken before councils without hesitation.

Yet one simple greeting to the woman standing before him had somehow robbed him of every eloquent phrase he had ever learned.

Behind him, Aerys' lips twitched ever so slightly.

Rhaegal wisely lowered his goblet before the smile threatening to betray him grew too obvious.

Even Maekar's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. He had known his brother all his life.

This was not the composed Crown Prince who addressed courts and commanders. This was simply Baelor.

Something about his awkward attempt eased the tension that had quietly settled between you.

The uncertainty that had followed you across the ballroom loosened its grip ever so slightly.

Your smile returned, Gentler now. No longer forced by courtesy alone.

"I had not originally planned to attend, but..." Your eyes lowered naturally to Valarr.

His little hand was still wrapped around yours, refusing to let go despite having already completed the mission he had unknowingly given himself.

The boy stood proudly between the two of you, blissfully unaware that he had just succeeded where two grown adults had spent an entire week failing.

The boy puffed out his chest proudly, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours as though afraid someone might disagree with him.

"But she will be my dancing partner," he declared with all the confidence only an eight-year-old heir could possess. "I taught her how to dance."

A quiet chuckle escaped more than one person standing nearby.

Baelor's eyes drifted from his son back to you, silently seeking confirmation rather than questioning the claim.

Your answer came as a small nod, accompanied by an amused smile that softened your features all over again.

It was impossible to deny him.

"Indeed," you admitted gently. "Prince Valarr has been most... determined in his lessons."

Valarr beamed. Had he possessed a tail, you were certain it would have been wagging proudly behind him.

Truthfully, it had been Dyanna who had spent hours patiently teaching you the dances of court, despite your repeated insistence that you had no intention of attending the ball.

"It is good for a lady to know how to dance," she had argued more than once.

"Perhaps you will not need it tonight... but there will always be another dance."

You had never quite believed her. Nevertheless, you had allowed yourself to be persuaded.

Whenever Lady Dyanna grew tired after repeating the same steps again and again, Valarr would eagerly replace her, determined to prove he knew every movement by heart.

Daeron had joined on several occasions as well, turning lessons into little more than laughter whenever he intentionally exaggerated each step to make his younger brother giggle.

Aerion... You found yourself smiling faintly at the memory.

He had only been asked once.

Rather than answering, the silver-haired boy had crossed his arms with an indignant huff and quietly stationed himself against the nursery wall, watching every lesson with all the practised indifference he could muster.

Yet more than once, you had caught his eyes following the steps.

Every now and then, one foot shifted almost imperceptibly upon the floor before pride quickly reminded him to stop.

Deep down... You had always suspected he wished to join.

He simply could not bring himself to admit it.

The memory lingered only briefly before another voice gently drew your attention back to the present.

"You dance..." Aerys mused aloud, his tone thoughtful rather than surprised.

Unlike Rhaegal, whose curiosity often found its way directly into conversation, Aerys' mind appeared to wander somewhere else entirely, quietly piecing together observations before speaking.

His violet eyes rested upon your hand still enclosed within Valarr's, then upon Baelor and last briefly towards Queen Myriah; Only for the faintest smile to touch his lips.

"So," he said lightly, more to his brothers than anyone else, "Mother truly did expect this evening to unfold exactly as it has."

Baelor resisted the urge to sigh.

His brother noticed far too much; always had.

Queen Myriah, seated across the ballroom, continued speaking with the ladies around her without so much as glancing in your direction.

Yet somehow... Aerys had still reached the same conclusion Baelor himself had only moments earlier.

Nothing escaped him.

A gentle laugh escaped Rhaegal. "I was wondering how long it would take you to realise."

"I realised the moment our mother refused to look at Baelor after our guest arrived," Aerys replied with complete innocence.

Rhaegal blinked. "...I did not notice that."

"I know."

The answer came so matter-of-factly that even Maekar let out something dangerously close to a snort before disguising it beneath a cough.

The exchange drew an involuntary smile to your lips.

There was something strangely comforting about seeing the princes behave less like the fearsome dragons sung about across the Seven Kingdoms and more like brothers teasing one another as though no one else existed.

For a fleeting moment... they almost seemed ordinary.

"Big brother," Aerys spoke again at last, turning fully towards Baelor while keeping that same pleasant smile upon his face. "Won't you introduce us properly?"

Only then did you become painfully aware of your surroundings once more.

Your smile faltered ever so slightly.

Ellyn's endless lessons echoed inside your mind as one realisation chased another.

Baelor. Rhaegal.

Aerys. Maekar.

Every prince stood before you. Every son of the King.

And... For the better part of a minute... You had spoken to only one of them.

Heat rushed into your cheeks. How dreadfully rude.

"I am Aerys Targaryen," the prince introduced himself with a polite incline of his head, his warm expression immediately easing some of your embarrassment before it had the chance to settle.

You quickly extended your hand, introducing yourself in return, still struggling to believe your own circumstances.

Barely a month ago, you had been patching wounds upon muddy battlefields.

Now... You stood in the middle of the royal family, speaking freely with princes whose names filled history books.

It still felt impossible.

For weeks, you had kept yourself deliberately small.

Now, the walls you had unknowingly built around yourself seemed to disappear one introduction at a time.

You expected nothing more than a brief handshake.

Instead, Prince Aerys gently accepted your offered hand before bringing it towards his lips. His kiss against your knuckles was feather-light.

Around you, several curious eyes immediately took notice.

"A prince?"

"He kissed her hand..."

"The nanny?"

The whispers returned almost instantly, quieter than before, yet infinitely more interested.

From the corner of your eye, you failed to notice Baelor's gaze settle upon his younger brother.

It lasted only a heartbeat, A single warning.

Subtle enough that no one unfamiliar with the princes would ever recognise it, but Aerys did.

Without so much as looking away from you, the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.

The gesture was gone before anyone else noticed. But Baelor had. And judging by the almost invisible satisfaction in his brother's expression... That had been entirely the point.

After the introductions to the dragon princes, you found yourself remaining in their company far longer than you had expected.

What you had imagined as a brief exchange of names and courteous greetings naturally stretched into a quiet conversation, one introduction leading to another until, before you realised it, you were standing amongst almost the entirety of the royal family.

Soon enough, you were introduced to their wives as well. Each remarkably different from the next.

One possessed a softer disposition, speaking gently and smiling often, while another carried herself with quiet confidence, every word measured yet warm.

 They greeted you not with the guarded politeness you had expected from noble ladies, but with genuine curiosity.

It surprised you.

Perhaps because you had spent the past month expecting judgment from every noble you encountered.

Instead... You found kindness.

Not from everyone, certainly.

There were still curious glances drifting your way, whispered conversations that stopped whenever you happened to look in their direction.

But standing amongst the dragon family itself...

You felt strangely welcomed.

For a little while, you almost forgot how many eyes surrounded you, almost.

Then, without meaning to, your attention wandered.

It found him almost immediately.

Baelor.

He stood only a short distance away, surrounded by familiar faces. Lords approached him one after another, each eager to exchange words with the heir to the Iron Throne, each carrying another matter worthy of his attention.

Nearby, Rhaegal leaned comfortably towards his wife, smiling faintly at something she whispered only for him to hear.

Not far from them, Aerys listened with quiet amusement as his own wife recounted some story from earlier in the evening, his sharp eyes occasionally wandering around the ballroom even while giving her his full attention.

Even Maekar... For all his perpetual reluctance toward celebrations...

Never strayed far from Dyanna.

She would drift into conversation with another lady only to return naturally to his side moments later, touching his arm in passing or resting her hand briefly against his sleeve as though neither of them had consciously decided to close the distance between them.

It simply happened. As naturally as breathing.

Baelor alone remained apart.

Whenever one conversation ended, another lord stepped forward. Whenever one ally departed, another noble arrived.

Every exchange appeared courteous, yet there was something strangely lonely about it.

He smiled when expected, and He listened attentively, only to answer thoughtfully in the end.

Always the prince. Always the future king.

Never... Simply a husband standing beside his wife.

Your chest tightened before you even realised why.

The sight lingered with you far longer than it should have.

You watched him. Your eyes quietly followed his path through the gathering.

His shoulders remained perfectly straight beneath the embroidered doublet he wore, every inch the Crown Prince expected by the realm.

Yet now that you knew him... Truly knew him...

You noticed things you once would have missed.

The slight stiffness settling across his shoulders whenever another lord stopped him.

The faint weariness lingering beneath mismatched eyes despite the composed expression he presented to the world.

The way he unconsciously rolled one shoulder ever so slightly between conversations, almost as though trying to ease a weight invisible to everyone else.

He looked tired, not physically but Something deeper.

The sort of exhaustion carried by people who had forgotten what it felt like to exist without responsibility pressing constantly against their backs simply.

It stood in sharp contrast to the man you had slowly come to know behind closed doors.

The man who shared quiet suppers with you long after the castle had fallen asleep.

The man whose voice softened whenever conversations drifted away from politics and towards places beyond the Narrow Sea.

The man who eagerly asked about your village, your family, your customs, listening with the sort of genuine fascination that made you forget you were speaking to the heir of an empire.

You remembered the evenings spent laughing over stories neither of you expected the other to believe.

The moments he disappeared briefly into his library only to return carrying yet another book, insisting you might enjoy this one because it mentioned a distant land you had once described to him.

Even though, judging by the towering stacks waiting upon his desk, he barely possessed enough hours in the day to read half of them himself.

You remembered how naturally he excused himself whenever Valarr interrupted supper, never once sounding annoyed by his son's endless stories.

Instead, he listened.

Whether the tale involved imaginary dragons living beneath castle staircases or heroic battles fought against armies of wooden soldiers, Baelor always listened until the very end before asking another question that encouraged the boy to continue.

He never hurried him. Never dismissed him. Never reminded him that grown men had more important matters to discuss.

And somehow...

He always found time to check on Matarys before the evening ended, quietly lifting the sleepy little prince into his arms if he had fallen asleep somewhere inconvenient, carrying him back to the nursery with a gentleness that never ceased to surprise you.

That was the man you had come to know.

Not the prince standing before half the nobility of Westeros. Not the celebrated commander whose name soldiers still spoke with admiration. Not the heir expected to carry an entire kingdom upon his shoulders.

Just... Baelor.

The man who smiled at you whenever you made an observation he had never considered before.

The man who asked about your family and about the stories that had shaped the woman standing before him. All that before quietly offering pieces of himself in return, little by little.

Exposing himself to you... One scale at a time.

A gentle tug against your hand pulled you away from your thoughts before they could wander any further.

You blinked once, the ballroom slowly returning around you.

Looking down, you found Matarys staring up at you with determined little eyes.

The young prince had twisted his tiny fingers around your hand and was now attempting to lead you somewhere entirely of his own choosing.

His newly discovered ability to walk had become, perhaps unsurprisingly, his greatest source of pride.

Ever since taking those first steps towards his father, he seemed convinced every destination should now be reached upon his own two feet.

Even if those two feet still wobbled. Even if every third step threatened to send him tumbling into whoever happened to be nearest.

You smiled to yourself.

It had barely been a quarter of an hour since his triumphant walk across the ballroom, yet already he appeared determined to demonstrate his newest achievement to absolutely everyone.

Valarr noticed his brother's mission almost immediately.

"Oh..." he laughed quietly, already recognising the stubborn expression settling upon Matarys' little face. "He's going somewhere."

"So it would seem," you replied, allowing the little prince to continue tugging at your hand.

His pace remained painfully slow by any adult's standards.

Tiny legs shuffled across polished marble one uncertain step after another, his free hand stretching instinctively away from his body each time he momentarily lost balance before recovering it again.

You matched his pace without complaint.

Valarr did the same.

Though judging by the increasingly exaggerated sighs escaping him, it required considerably more patience than he usually possessed.

The future heir rocked gently from one foot to the other whenever Matarys paused to admire something particularly fascinating; a passing servant carrying silver goblets, the colourful embroidery decorating a nearby lady's skirts, or simply the reflection of candlelight dancing across the floor beneath his feet.

Even so... Valarr never complained, not truly.

Instead, he simply smiled every time his little brother managed another successful step.

Following the determined route chosen entirely by Matarys, your attention gradually shifted towards one side of the ballroom.

Lady Dyanna sat there alongside her children. Or rather... Attempted to keep them sitting.

The distinction mattered.

Daeron occupied his chair with admirable patience, though the boy's thoughtful gaze wandered endlessly throughout the hall, quietly observing nobles, servants and musicians alike.

Now and then he absent-mindedly smoothed the front of his carefully tailored doublet as though reminding himself he was expected to behave with all the dignity of the heir to Summerhall.

Beside him sat Aemon. Or... better say, Half sat.

The chair proved entirely too large for his tiny body. His little legs swung several inches above the floor without hope of ever reaching it, forcing him to kick the empty air whenever he forgot himself absent-mindedly.

Every few moments his small fingers wandered towards the embroidered collar of his tunic, rubbing thoughtfully against the unfamiliar stitching before letting go, only to repeat the same little habit again moments later.

Across from them, Aerion appeared determined to convince the entire ballroom he was enduring unbearable suffering.

His arms remained folded dramatically across his chest. One boot tapped impatiently against the chair's wooden leg.

From time to time, he tugged irritably at the stiff collar around his neck before huffing beneath his breath, thoroughly offended that noble clothing possessed so little consideration for climbing trees, chasing dogs or engaging in considerably more worthwhile adventures.

Not one of the boys wished to be there. That much was painfully obvious.

Yet... Each tried in their own way.

Daeron remained composed because he understood he was expected to.

Aemon because he rarely caused trouble to begin with.

Aerion...Well... Aerion behaved largely because both his parents currently occupied the same room.

You suspected that if only one had been present, matters might have unfolded rather differently.

Dyanna caught sight of you first, and almost immediately, her face brightened.

The smile she offered carried none of the practised courtesy exchanged between ladies throughout the ballroom.

It was genuine. The sort of smile reserved for someone whose company had become unexpectedly dear over the past several days.

Without hesitation, she rose gracefully from her chair.

Maekar noticed. His eyes followed the movement before settling briefly upon you. The familiar roll of his eyes arrived right on schedule.

You nearly laughed.

It had become almost comforting in its predictability.

If Maekar greeted you without looking mildly inconvenienced by your existence... You might have begun to worry that something was terribly wrong.

Dyanna, naturally, ignored him completely. She would deal with her husband's perpetual grumpiness later.

Preferably somewhere considerably quieter and certainly away from curious noble ears.

"My, don't you look lovely?" she said the moment she reached you.

Her lavender eyes travelled appreciatively from the delicate embroidery around your shoulders to the flowing copper skirts before circling you with slow, almost theatrical admiration.

She looked less like a noble lady inspecting another woman's gown...

And far more like a delighted friend proudly admiring the finished results of a plan that had succeeded beyond expectation.

"I knew Queen Myriah had a plan in mind," she continued, shaking her head with quiet amazement, "But I would have never imagined such a dress."

Warmth immediately rushed into your cheeks.

Almost instinctively, your fingers sought the delicate beaded embroidery decorating the front of your gown, gently rolling one tiny bead beneath your thumb in an attempt to give your suddenly restless hands something to occupy themselves with.

"I do not think I have ever worn something so beautiful..." Your voice softened almost without meaning to. "...or expensive."

The confession escaped more quietly than you had intended, almost embarrassed.

As though admitting aloud that you still had not entirely grown accustomed to silk instead of rough linen somehow revealed more of yourself than you wished.

Dyanna's smile widened. It was the smile of a woman who had just heard exactly the answer she expected.

"Oh, I think," she said thoughtfully, reaching forward to smooth an almost invisible crease near your sleeve, "From now on, you should become accustomed to it."

Before you could object, she stepped back once more, studying you from head to toe with the same careful attention an artist might give a finished painting.

She tilted her head slightly.

"Hm..."

Your stomach tightened. "What?"

"I was right."

You blinked. "About what?"

"About this colour." She smiled triumphantly. "I told Queen Myriah copper would suit you better than crimson."

You stared. "You... discussed me?"

"Naturally." The answer came with such effortless confidence that it left you momentarily speechless. "As though I would allow Her Grace to prepare you for your very first royal ball without offering my opinion."

You could not help but laugh.

The sound escaped before embarrassment had the chance to stop it.

Dyanna laughed with you. "There..." she said softly. "That smile is much better."

Before you realised what she intended, she reached up and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

It was such an ordinary gesture. So familiar. So sisterly.

That, for one fleeting moment, you forgot you stood surrounded by some of the most powerful families in Westeros.

You simply stood beside your friend.

"Well," Dyanna continued, taking half a step back once she appeared satisfied with your appearance, "I think you should wear beautiful dresses more often."

Your cheeks warmed even further. "I would have nowhere to wear them."

"Nonsense."

"I work in the nursery. I spend my days chasing children."

Dyanna laughed. "Then you shall chase children while looking magnificent."

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling. "I do not think silk survives Matarys very well."

"No..."

She glanced briefly towards the youngest prince, who had already discovered a fascinating piece of embroidered carpet and was attempting to determine whether it could be picked up.

"...perhaps not."

The two of you shared another laugh.

It felt... Easy.

The sort of conversation that required no effort because neither woman felt obliged to become someone else.

It reminded you unexpectedly of home.

For just a little while... The Red Keep stopped feeling so impossibly large.

Dyanna's expression shifted ever so slightly... She leaned closer until only the two of you could hear her.

"And..." Her lavender eyes sparkled with unmistakable mischief. "...the men have not stopped looking at you."

Immediately, your smile faltered, and your eyebrows lifted. "What?"

"Oh, yes." She nodded with exaggerated certainty. "Quite shamelessly, in some cases."

Heat rushed into your face so quickly that you became painfully aware of it.

Your hands instinctively returned to the tiny decorative beads stitched across your bodice, fingers quietly twisting one between your thumb and forefinger simply to have something to do.

Being noticed by men... That part did not surprise you.

You had experienced wandering eyes before.

Even during the campaign. Even covered in dried mud, blood and travelling leathers instead of silk.

Soldiers had still looked, some respectfully while Others... Less so.

It came with simply existing as a young woman amongst too many lonely men.

But... Dyanna was still smiling as though she had not yet reached the real point.

"...Neither," she continued gently, drawing the moment out just enough to make your curiosity bloom, "...has Baelor."

You looked up so quickly you almost forgot to breathe. "Baelor?"

The name escaped you before you had the chance to soften your surprise.

Your thoughts stumbled over one another.

You had been the one watching him. Watching him drift between lords. Watching him stand alone while every one of his brothers naturally returned to their wives. Watching him carry himself with that quiet dignity which somehow made him appear even lonelier.

When... When had he found the opportunity to watch you?

You searched your memories, and yet not once had you caught his eyes upon you.

The bewilderment written so openly across your face proved too much for Dyanna.

She raised one elegant hand to cover her painted lips as A quiet laugh escaped despite her efforts to suppress it. "There it is," she murmured between amused breaths. "The exact face I hoped for."

Your own expression only grew more flustered. "You are teasing me."

"A little." She admitted it without shame. "It is difficult to resist."

You narrowed your eyes ever so slightly. "I trusted you."

"And wisely so." She smiled. "I simply never promised to behave."

You could not help it, and you laughed again.

Shaking your head as though that alone might protect you from becoming the target of her playful schemes in the future.

For the past several days you had come to learn that beneath Lady Dyanna's elegance rested a woman who enjoyed harmless mischief perhaps a little more than she ought to.

And lately... You had become her favourite victim.

Or... So you believed... Because unbeknownst to you...

Several yards away, Baelor had done precisely what Dyanna had accused him of.

While Lord Westerling spoke of trade routes and autumn harvests, the Crown Prince's attention drifted almost involuntarily across the ballroom.

Only for a heartbeat. Only long enough for his eyes to find you again.

He saw you laughing.

The sound never reached him above the music and conversation, yet somehow he imagined it all the same.

His gaze lingered. It travelled, almost guiltily, across the graceful line of your shoulders before settling upon the open back of your copper gown.

The flickering torchlight painted warm gold across your skin. Beautiful.

His eyes remained there one heartbeat too long. Then duty reclaimed him.

With the discipline expected of the heir to the Iron Throne, he turned back towards Lord Westerling as though nothing had happened, answering whatever question had just been asked of him.

Yet... A few moments later... When the conversation naturally paused...

His eyes wandered again.

Just for a moment. Just long enough to reassure himself that you were still there.

Before once more returning to the discussion, determined that this time...

This time... He truly would pay attention... or so he thought.

In as little as eight moons, your life had become carefully controlled and surveilled. The little things you had enjoyed doing before your condition were limited, such as going down to the city with a royal fleet for fresh pastries in the square, which your husband had frowned at and had told you was just “too risky,” especially considering the amount of crime there as of late.

For the first three moons, you could handle it. It was a fun challenge to find new things everyday to keep yourself preoccupied. By the eighth, you had exhausted all interests and were beginning to collapse in on yourself like a dying star.

That is why the opportunity of attending the tourney at Maidenpool was one you had to jump at if you wished to retain any amount of sanity by the end of your term. 

“I heard there will be a tourney in a fortnight,” you say softly to your husband over the breaking of fast in his chambers. You rub the forming bump beneath your gown as if to soothe the increasingly very active babe beating against your ribs.

Your husband sits across from you in a velvet-lined chair, his mismatched eyes sweeping across a pile of letters placed haphazardly across his desk. He drums his hand against his gold goblet in quiet contemplation.

“Yes, there will be one,” he replies curtly. His eyes flicker to yours.

You look down at your plate of food in order to escape your husband’s inquiring gaze, even though most of it you can’t even pretend to enjoy at the moment. Lately, the babe has been very picky and anything it deems unworthy it forces you to suffer for. Perhaps the picky appetites of dragons started as early as in the womb.

“What is it to celebrate again?” you ask coyly. You already knew–of course you did. Your ladies-in-waiting had been quick to inform you along with all the other little details. 

Your husband frowns as he peers down at a piece of parchment on his desk. “I believe it is the Lord Mooton’s son whose marriage is being celebrated.”

“Will Prince Daeron, Aerion, or Valarr be travelling to participate in the joust?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies, pausing to take a sip from his goblet. His eyes move from his plate to yours, focused and as sharp as a dragon’s.  “I suppose there is not any particular reason for your questions about the tourney?”

You startle a bit at the question. For a moment, you can scarcely believe that you had forgotten how easily it is that your husband can read you. The answer to his question hangs like sandpaper on your tongue. You debate how to phrase it, trying each version in your mind and weighing the potential risks.

“I’m sure our young dragon would be quite happy to get some fresh air,” you finally settle on saying, “it seems all it wants to do as of late is run.”

Your husband’s eyes dart to where your hand rests on your bump. A small smile curls on his lips before it flits away. He stands from his seat and draws over to where you sit. He leans against his desk and places a chaste kiss against your forehead. His dark beard scratches familiarly against your skin. 

Your heart sinks. You are quite certain now that rejection is forthcoming.

“I am not sure it would be a good idea,” Baelor replies, moving to stand beside you as he rubs your shoulder with one ringed hand, “Maidenpool is quite far and the roads may be treacherous due to the recent storms.”

“I would have you, wouldn’t I?” you say. You reach out to grab his arm as he goes to move, commanding his attention in the only way you know how, drawing his hand to rest upon your swollen stomach. “You would protect us. Just as you have so brilliantly thus far.”

You do not wish to add the other part wherein you have grown quite suffocated by his protections as of late, not if you do not have to.

A ghost of a smile flits across Baelor’s mouth as he begins to stroke the spot where the babe is currently kicking incessantly. “As much as I appreciate the compliment, I know you are not in earnest. You do not enjoy my hovering. Was it not just last week that you tried to run away from your guard?”

You pull away from his hand and frown as stubborn tears immediately spring to your eyes. You duck your head to try to avoid the shameful well springing forth from them. It is in vain, for your husband tilts your head to face his with a finger underneath your chin. 

“Why are you crying, my love?” he asks, his voice patient and gentle and with a loving tone just makes you all the more emotional. “Surely it is not just about this tourney. I did not know you even liked jousting.”

You shake your head as more tears fall. “You must have realized how bored I have become, my prince. I spend every day the same as the last”--you pause to sniffle–“I have not been outside the castle walls in five moons. I cannot even remember what the sweet pastries of the markets taste like.”

Baelor reaches forward to catch a tear as it streaks down your cheek. “You want pastries?” he tells you in reverence, “I will have them gotten for you, all you have to do is ask.”

“It is not…” you begin to say, voice defeated, “it is not the pastries. It is not the jousting or the hovering, even. I just want to experience some semblance of normalcy before the babe is here.” You swallow back a fresh wave of saltwater tide springing to your eyes. “Before I am no longer just a princess, but a mother, too.”

Prince Baelor has experienced more in his lifetime than any one man should. He fought in the infamous Blackfyre Rebellion and had the scars to prove it. He’s currently perhaps the most experienced man alive with diplomacy and negotiation. He’d fathered two sons and helped raise his copious nieces and nephews. But at the end of the day, Baelor is still a mortal man. And within every mortal man exists an inherent weakness when it comes to one’s wife.

Your husband closes his eyes and tilts his head back for a brief moment. You dry your eyes with a nearby handkerchief as you watch him.

“I fear you will be the death of me by the year’s end,” he says quietly, a small, fond smile on his lips. 

He turns to face you, his face growing serious. “I will consider making some arrangements for the Targaryens to attend the tourney if”—he puts a heavy emphasis on the word as he notices your jump in excitement—“if you agree to stay near your kingsguard at all times. It will not be a negotiation. You will not sneak away or scheme or wander. It is for your safety as well as the babe’s. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course I understand,” you reply giddily. You can’t help a huge smile from taking over your features.

“Thank you, my love.” you say, standing to give him a soft kiss. He smiles into it as you pull away. You keep a hand on his cheek as you speak, narrowing your eyes to convey your seriousness, “I will do everything I can to keep our dragon safe. I would never intentionally put them in harm’s way.”

“Good,” he replies, “and yourself?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Myself?”

“Will you do everything you can to keep yourself safe?”

“Oh,” you say with a light laugh as if the notion itself is ridiculous, “of course, my prince.”

As you take your first steps outside the carriage, you speak to the little dragon resting against your ribs. Your two kingsguards follow closely behind you as you begin to walk.

“And this is Maidenpool,” you tell it, your own eyes alight at the new scenery around you. Colorful pavilions signal each house’s presence and you begin to list them off as you pass them. “There’s House Baratheon, House Fossoway, House Beesbury…”

You perk up when you hear the sound of clomping hooves against the cobble paths, but you do not turn your head. “House Tully with the fish, of course…”

“Getting our dragon acquainted with his lords?” you hear your husband’s voice come from beside you. You turn your head toward him and grin at the handsome figure riding slowly up on his black stallion.

“It is very important for a little prince or princess to know their history,” you inform, face entirely serious but voice in jest. “How else will they be prepared to answer all the maester’s serious, intellectual questions?”

Prince Baelor grins, but it quickly fades when he notices your slow movements. “Why have you exited from the carriage so soon? The castle of Maidenpool is still quite a bit away. Surely your feet will grow tired.”

You smile up at him. “Getting some fresh air, remember?”

Your husband simply shakes his head at your sarcasm. He goes to say something else when his brother sides up next to him on his own horse. They begin to speak in hushed whispers and so you tune them out.

Your eyes stretch across the tourney grounds with wonder. Perhaps you are too easily impressed, but you think it is more likely that you had forgotten the beauty of the Seven Kingdoms in your time hidden away. People mill around you in a way that would never happen in King’s Landing. In King’s Landing, you stand out like a sore thumb. There are still a few people watching the Targaryen fleet, but most go about their own lives. 

“It’s the princess!” you hear a small voice from one of the people gathered.

You turn your head to see a young girl that could hardly be more than nine, her eyes wide as she stares straight at you. You give her a smile and a sly wink. She giggles with delight.

By the time the Maidenpool castle is within reach, you observe with mild annoyance that your husband has been entirely correct in his estimations. Your feet hurt like they never have before. Your back, too, but you would never admit it for it was exactly in line with what the maesters had told you about physical activity.

Your husband has retaken his spot at your side as you are welcomed into the castle by the Mooton house and led inside. He wraps an arm around your waist and you accept it to alleviate some of the weight you are carrying, leaning into his warm side.

The Lord Mooton begins to explain the historical significance of the castle in great detail as he walks toward the dining hall, and you notice Baelor’s arm tightens as the time goes on without any purposeful progress being made.

“Perhaps,” Prince Maekar cuts in. You look over with surprise. “We could be shown to our rooms before your riveting tour. Your lord hand’s lady wife has been on her feet all afternoon.”

You give your brother-in-law a small smile of appreciation, to which he nods curtly. Prince Maekar, the big softy.

“O-Oh, of course, My Grace,” the shrewd man stutters out. He gestures to a few stewards standing by. “Show them to their rooms.”

The stewards nod and the Targaryen family begins to follow them through the halls. As you walk beside your husband, your eye gets caught on your step-son, Prince Valarr, talking with his youngest cousin, Prince Aegon “Egg.”

“I hear there will be a puppet show in town tomorrow,” Prince Valarr tells the young boy with a small smile. “It will be a retelling of Jonquil and Florian the Fool and their meeting in Maidenpool.”

Your attention perks at that. A puppet show? Had you ever seen one of those before? You could not recall. Surely it would be the most amazing thing to see.

“I’m much too old for puppet shows,” replies Egg, his wispy white hair falling into his eyes.

Prince Valarr grins at his youngest cousin’s attempt at playing older. “Truly? Well, I was planning on going…”

Egg’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at that. You stifle a laugh at the admiration clear on his face for his older cousin. 

You meet Baelor’s gaze and squeeze his arm. You nod toward the interaction occurring between Egg and Valarr. “I hope our child looks up to their siblings and cousins just as much,” you tell him softly.

Prince Baelor hides his grin by ducking his head. He leans over to place a kiss upon your cheek. “I’m sure their family will teach them everything they know,” he pauses, mulling over his words, “a frightening notion.”

You stifle your laughter with your hand.

“Prince Baelor and his lady wife will stay here,” one of the stewards says, gesturing to the closest door to them. “Prince Maekar across the hall…”

You tune the rest of the sleeping arrangements out as you break from the group and go inside the room. It is not the most grand place you have ever stayed. Actually, it is quite homely. You think you spy a leak in the corner of the room. The bed is narrow, but the quilt looks sufficiently warm.

You look over at your husband, whose eyes sweep over the room with a slight frown. He turns to you, drawing close.

“Will these arrangements be suited to you, my love?” he says, eyebrows furrowed, “perhaps the Lord Mooton has more comfortable quarters…”

“It is just fine, my prince,” you reply with a soft smile. “It actually quite reminds me of the chambers I grew up in.”

“Hm,” Baelor says as his eyes rove over the cobwebs in the corner of the room, “I must talk to your lord father about that.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I assure you, husband, it was not a problem then nor is it now. When it is all you know, it is actually quite comfortable.”

Your husband closes the door softly behind him as he steps inside. He drags his hand across one of the tables in the room and it comes away covered in dust. He shakes his head, but does not utter a word. That is just how your husband is. He does not express his contemptuous thoughts if he does not see that you share them. 

You slide off your heavy coat and hang it on one of the bedposts. You go to remove your gloves and shoes, but your husband stops you with a hand on your wrist.

“Are you not planning on joining us for dinner?” he asks, stroking the lace of your glove with a single thumb.

You give him a soft smile. “Of course,” you reply, “I just need to relax for a little while. The babe has been restless today.”

“You are growing a dragon,” Baelor says with a grin, “they can be quite fiery.”

You continue to smile as you slip out of your shoes and gloves, placing them in a neat pile by the bed. You sit on the blanket, then swing your legs up to rest on it. You can’t help letting out a soft sigh at the instant relief of the pressure gone off your feet. Resting your hand upon your belly you look up at Baelor, who watches you with a softened expression.

He turns his back and begins to stride toward the door.

“Perhaps…” you say, your voice testing the waters before sinking in. Baelor’s head turns in your direction. “Perhaps arrangements could be made for me and the babe to see the puppet show on the morrow.”

You notice your husband’s jaw clench underneath his salt and pepper beard, a muscle jumping underneath his skin. “I do not think…”

“Then perhaps if not that, I could go see some of the things being offered at the stalls,” you offer, inflection hopeful. “I saw an ironwork stall that had the most beautiful necklaces…”

He strides toward your side of the bed and you fall silent as you watch him. His eyes do not meet yours until he takes a seat at the end of it. He reaches forward to grasp your ankle.

“How about you rest now,” he says, “and then we will talk about it on the morrow.”

You swallow thickly. A part of you knows what the answer will be, but you decide you will not give your husband any more undue worries. You nod curtly and your husband excuses himself from the room.

You look down at your bump and at the baby who seems to have finally calmed down and you release a heavy sigh.

“You are a lot of trouble, you know that?” you whisper to it, “I think your father is going to die of stress the way you have been running him ragged and you are not even here yet.”

The baby punctuates your statement with a sharp kick to your ribs as if to say: it’s not me stressing him out, it’s you.

By the time the light begins to break over the hills and bathe the tourney in swaths of amber rays, you are already awake. You stare at the tiny people milling about below, going from their tents to the market to the stables, each moving with a purpose unbeknownst to you. You clutch the fabric of your shift within your hand, trying to prevent yourself from doing anything hasty.

You listen to the soft snores of your husband beside you and mull on the consequences of sneaking away. It could be so easy to escape for just a few hours. Your husband will not wake until the horns blow at the crest of the morrow, and you could leave and be back before he’d ever wake. You know that the kingsguard will be changing shifts soon, which means that you could theoretically slip out without anyone knowing.

As you sit there for a moment longer, counting your husband’s shallow breaths, you think of what you promised before the tourney. That you would not try to escape to the market, that you would not try to undermine your husband’s word. But you also wonder, what is the point of attending a tourney if you are going to spend it locked inside?

You continue to stare out the window even though you know deep down that your mind has already been made up. Now it is just about the follow through.

You are able to get out of the castle much easier than you had been expecting. Most of those inside are still sleeping, and those that are awake are indentured to service to the Mooton house and therefore are not within their rights to ask you where you are headed. The cloak you put on over your head also dissuades a lot of stares and conversation as most do not care to look at you long enough to decide which Targaryen you are. 

The only slight resistance you face is when Egg turns the corner right as you begin to make it to the door. You pull the hood closer to your face, but the damage has already been done.

“Princess?” he says quietly, his violet eyes wide. The boy, only seven years, looks so much younger standing there in the foyer, enveloped by large shadows of the light coming from the windows.

You put on your most believable smile as you turn to face the young boy, your hands shaking beneath your long cloak. “Egg, what are you doing up so early?” 

The boy lifts his hand, where a pastry filled with jam covers his fingers. “Eating.”

Despite your nerves, you cannot help a small smile from curling up on your lips at the innocent answer. You tilt your head toward the door out of the castle and know that you must leave now or the whole plan will be ruined.

“I will be out for a little while,” you tell him, “so if anyone asks, you tell them I will be right back, okay?”

Egg’s light eyebrows furrow. “Uncle Baelor does not know you are leaving?”

The lie slips through your lips before you can properly process it. “Your Uncle Baelor is still sleeping. No need to wake him for this.”

Egg’s young visage looks conflicted, but he knows better than to argue with adults. “Are you going to see the puppet show of Florian the Fool and Jonquil?” His face is filled with delight as he recalls the tales his older cousin had spun of the performance.

You smile gently at the boy. “Perhaps,” you reply, “I am sure your cousin Valarr would be happy to take you to see it later. We will have to discuss it once I return.”

The boy nods excitedly before he darts off, apparently having forgotten the unease at which he felt at seeing you sneak away.

And so you continue out the door and down the hill to the tourney without any more delay. Despite the slow start in the castle, the tourney is wide awake. You are able to fit in with the crowd easily, either that or people are too kind to say anything, and you are able to joyfully appraise markets selling handmade wares and street performers that vie for your time.

The dragon begins to stir underneath your breasts when you feel a jolt of excitement like a child as you come close to a beautiful stall stocked to the brim with elaborate cakes and breads. You gasp when you spot a perfectly cooked slice of your favorite.

“See somethin’ you like, dear?” an older woman asks, her footsteps hobbling toward you.

You point at which baked good had caught your eye with a giddy grin. “Oh, how much is a slice of this? I used to have it so often in my youth…” 

You begin to rifle through your change purse when the older woman places a wrinkled hand on yours. You look up, startled.

“Dearie, don’t you know not to show how much money you are carrying?” she asks, her milky eyes wide, “not everyone is as nice as me here… I would hate to see a lady like you taken advantage of.”

You feel your skin crawl underneath your cloak. You had not thought of that. You pull a couple of silvers out of your coin purse and tuck the rest away. You look around at the faces around you, but do not feel anything immediately wrong.

You place two silvers in her outstretched hands. Her eyes widen at the coins, but she does not correct your estimation of the cost.

You grab your sweet treat with a smile and tuck it into your satchel. The older woman waves you away with a huge, appreciative grin.

You spend the better part of the morning strolling around the market, bouncing from stall to stall collecting goods with eager hands. 

You do not realize how much time has passed until you notice a band of kingsguard passing by, their swords clanging against their sides and their heads on a swivel. One near you stops a young man and talks to him in soft whispers.

Your heart drops to your feet. Your little dragon gives you a kick as if to say: I told you so. 

The Kingsguard begin to head your way and you duck into a small alleyway to get out of their path. You lean against the cobble wall, trying to calm your breaths. You tell yourself that there is still a chance they did not know you were missing, but even you had seen how high the sun was in the sky. Your husband was surely up by now, how had you missed the morning horns?

You stand there for a moment longer before you go to leave. Before you can exit back into the light, a figure jumps in front of you. You go to let out a surprised scream when the assailant claps his hand over your mouth. Your satchel drops to the ground with a clatter and your hood falls from your face in the struggle.

You fight against him, but he is a large man with wild eyes that makes your blood run cold. When you almost escape, a knife is placed at the base of your throat. Your eyes go wide and you instinctively clutch at the wrist holding it.

“I haaave watched you,” the man’s hot breath slides across the side of your face and it smells distinctly like cheap ale. He’s drunk, you realize, but with your condition, he would still be difficult to overpower. You recoil, but that only brings you closer to the man behind you so it does not exactly help the situation. “You… are a Targaryen.”

Your breathing quickens. Your stilled movements must give you away for he chuckles.

“Everyone can tell,” he says, “they are juss too polite.” He pauses. The blunt of his blade catches your skin. “Unfortunately for you, I am not.”

“Please,” you manage to say, “please let me go. I… you will not be arrested. I vow to you.”

“Your family has been the bane of my exis…existence for years,” he continues, words slurred and nearly indistinguishable as common tongue, “after the rebellion, I lost my family, my home… I do not see reason why I should let you roam free.”

“I… I am with child,” you plea, “you would be committing two murders in the eyes of the sept and for that the only result would be execution.”

You are surprised at your ability to negotiate even under the circumstances. However, despite your words, the man does not let up.

“Do not give me even more reason to end your life, whore,” he grits out. “Every child born to you white-haired bastards is a stain upon the Seven Kingdoms. I would be doing the realm a favor.”

You realize then that you have only added fuel to the flame. What should have sparked empathy, only stoked malice. You close your eyes as a tear escapes, protective hands clutching your belly. Just as you begin to think it is the end, you hear a stampede of hooves clattering against the ground in your direction. 

The man behind you freezes, as if the impropriety of his actions were just catching up to him.

“She went that way,” you hear a familiar voice call. As the horses break through the darkness of the alley, you realize it is the old woman from earlier. She gives you a wink and slips away. Your chin wobbles as more tears leak from your eyes, a rush of shame and gratefulness and fear mixed into them.

The kingsguard that halt in front of you part to make way for a familiar black stallion at the lead. You can see your husband’s face as clearly as you remember it from this morning, even through the darkness, and the slight tremble to his hands as he takes in your position.

Baelor slides off his steed and begins to walk toward you.

“O-o-one more step and I-I’ll slit this whore’s throat,” the man behind you calls out. 

More tears escape your eyes, a sob building in your throat.

“Are you injured, my love?” Baelor calls out, his voice powerful but undercut by a deep concern. 

“No,” you can barely manage to say through your tears.

“She will be,” the man says, “if you do not give me enough silver and a horse to leave this damned tourney unscathed.”

You do not think the man, in his altered perception, realizes there will be no situation wherein he is allowed to walk free. 

“You will let go of the princess before we give you anything,” Baelor says, his once-gentle voice now deadly. He takes a step forward.

The man’s grip on you tightens and you let out a whimper. From behind you, you think you hear the sound of soft footsteps landing against cobble, but you do not dare to look and confirm in case it is.

“I want to see it,” the man says, “I want to see the horse and the money.”

“I have money in my bag,” you say, voice tremulous and weak. The footsteps inch closer. You are sure someone is behind you now. 

“And the horse?” he says.

“You may have my horse,” Baelor says, pulling the reins of his beautiful black stallion toward the man. “Just let go of her.”

The man, in that instance, makes a choice. His grip on your waist wavers as he decides. 

At the same moment the knife clatters to the ground and the man steps away from you with an inebriated stumble, a sword pierces through his back to his chest and he lets out a gasp that turns into a gurgle as blood spills from his mouth. Prince Maekar pulls the blade from your assailant’s back and he crumbles to the ground.

You feel a rush of relief mixed with anguish at the sight. You nearly drop to the ground when your husband’s hands dart out to catch you. You turn your face into your husband’s chest and let out a sob. His ringed hands stroke over your hair, his other curled around your waist so tightly that you think he might never let you go again.

You pull your head back enough just to look in his eyes. Tears obstruct your view of his face in its entirety until all you can see is his soft gaze. “I-I’m so sorry,” you manage to say, “I’m so sorry.”

Your husband’s face softens as he reaches his hand up to wipe away the wetness clinging to your cheeks. “It is okay, my love,” he whispers. He bends his head to reach your ear as he continues: “but never again.” 

The ride back to the Wooten Castle is cloaked in a heavy silence broken only by your soft tears. Despite the fact that the altercation is far resolved, your hands still tremble and the tears keep coming. Your husband keeps his arms around you from behind like a wrought iron cage, his eyes fixated on the castle ahead.

He does not move to comfort you in the way you expected he might when he helps you off his horse. You continue to wipe the tears away with your thick cloak, a well of shame and fear harbored in your chest.

“Do you need anything else, brother?” Maekar says as he gets off his own horse and thrusts the reins into a wide-eyed stable boy nearby.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes dart to his brother’s violet ones. He shakes his head.

Maekar’s eyes dart to look at you and a flash of pity rips across his face before he nods at his brother and turns his back. 

Your husband begins to walk away from you and toward the castle, but he does not take two steps before looking back over his shoulder to ensure you are following behind. You swallow thickly and nervously thread your hands in the tight fibers of your cloak as you follow behind him. 

The inside of the castle is dark as you step inside. Near the entrance, Egg stands wide-eyed, peaking around a door. He looks incredibly frightened and small standing against the cobble walls. Your heart skips a beat and a rush of shame steals your breath. You had caused that. 

His father notices him and grabs the back of his tunic, gently leading him away from the commotion. 

You take careful steps up to your room. The entire castle feels like it is trying to swallow you whole. The baby has been quiet through the whole ordeal, as if even it realized the gravity of the situation.

Baelor moves to the door of your shared chambers and opens it for you. You bite your lip when he avoids your gaze and step on through.

The door shuts behind Baelor as he drags himself behind you. He takes a seat on the side of the bed and stares silently out the window.

Inside the room, you carefully shrug off the cloak, finally revealing the bump you had so carefully hidden from the rest of the world’s prying eyes. You put the fabric down on the back of a nearby chair and remove the slice of the dessert from one of the pockets. It is nothing but crumbs now. Smushed against your side in the struggle for your life. You expect tears to come, but none do. You put the ruined slice onto a nearby table.

You flinch when your husband’s voice comes out in a low, rasping tone. “Was it worth it?”

You follow his eyes to the sweet you had bought and you feel your hands tremble.

“I’m sorry?” you croak. 

“The sweet bread,” he repeats calmly, slowly, “was it worth it?”

Your throat bobs as you attempt to swallow past the saltwater forming in your throat. “I did not… I did not intend for…”

“--And what did you intend?” your husband interrupts. Your eyes jump to his as they narrow. “Because it seems to me that you went out to get yourself killed for a slice of sweet bread.”

“Please,” you plead, “I am exhausted.”

The bed lets out a loud creak as your husband stands up from it. His footfalls reverberate in your skull as he draws nearer. You close your eyes and duck your head, trying to escape his disapproving gaze.

“I told you,” he says, “I told you that you will not run away. You will not put yourself into danger. And what do you do?”

You shake your head. 

“You are not a young girl anymore,” he continues, unperturbed by your silence, “you are a princess. And you are carrying an heir to this realm. You cannot…” he trails off, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips.

Your eyes go to meet his. You startle at the sight of his eyes beading with tears. He drags a hand over his face, trying to hide from you. You reach forward, grasping his cheek before he can.

His mismatched eyes dart between yours as if searching for some kind of regret, some kind of understanding. A single tear trails down his cheek and you catch it with your thumb.

“You are my heart,” he says, his voice now quieter, “can’t you see that I cannot live without you?”

“I am…” you start, “so sorry, my love.” You sniffle, a similar pressure building behind your own eyes. “I was foolish. I am foolish. My father always said so, but I can see it clearly now.”

A few wrinkles form in between Baelor’s dark brows. A frown tugs at his lips. “You are not foolish,” he says, “but you are incredibly stubborn and you must listen when I warn of these things.”

“I know,” you tell him, “I knew it was wrong. I did it anyway.”

“Why?” his voice is weak when that word floats off his lips. “Have I not given you everything you have desired and then some?”

“You have,” you reply softly, “you have. I just…” you frown, trying to parse together the sentence that sits on the end of your tongue. “Have you ever been on a royal hunt before?”

Your husband shakes his head at the abrupt change of topic, but he obliges. “Yes, of course.”

“When I am within the walls of King’s Landing, doing my embroidery and my painting and strolling the gardens not some days but every single day and I look around and I see nobles vying for my attention and wishing they were in my shoes, I sometimes feel like a fox cornered between hounds. Like wherever I look I am being hunted, I am trapped and I cannot escape.” 

Your husband suddenly looks incredibly regretful, so you continue. “And I know it is probably difficult for someone like you to understand this, someone that has much more stressful duties as the Lord Hand than I and that I am quite foolish for wanting something new, but I…”

“Do not…” he starts, lifting your chin up so you will look him in the eyes. “Do not apologise for this. I… admit I did not fully understand the gravity of the situation…”

“But that does not mean I can just… run away,” you tell him, “I was incredibly foolish. I almost died. I could have died. Our child…” you avert your eyes, tears welling up again.

“Yes, you could have.”

“Or I could have been robbed or injured…”

“Yes, that too.”

“I’m so very sorry,” you say again, because you have to do something to make up for this grievance. “I will never do this again.”

“You will not,” he agrees.

A silence lapses between you. Your husband’s eyes trace across your face as if trying to memorize the slight contours of your face. He blinks several times and looks up to the ceiling.

His voice is a deep rumble as he speaks next. “We will leave on the morrow,” he tells you simply.

Your heart drops even though you knew logically that it was the only option given the circumstances.

“But… I shall be more lenient to your requests from now on,” he continues. Your eyes dart to meet his, wide and startled by the admission. He is quick to continue, “as long as they are within reason, of course.”

“Of course.” 

His eyes soften as he looks over your face. “You nearly died today,” he says, “do you know how devastated I would have been?”

Tears leap to your eyes. 

Your husband softly strokes your cheek. “I love you so much,” he says, his other hand reaching to stroke your bump. “I am sorry I have kept such tight reins on you as of late.”

“...Kiss me,” you whisper in response.

Baelor’s lips quirk up without his conscious approval. “You are ridiculous,” he says, “I am trying to be serious.”

“I’m sorry I cannot focus when you are this close to my face,” you say with a teasing grin. 

He rolls his eyes but his lips stay in the same position. He leans forward and you close the distance, reaching forward to gently cup the back of his neck.

Your husband continues to kiss you, drawing circles across your cheek and a hand warm around your waist, when you break away with a sharp gasp. You reach forward to grab your stomach and your husband’s eyes follow the moment.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head with furrowed brows. “Just felt a pain–”

Suddenly, you feel a strange sensation between your thighs. Liquid. Your hands dart down to clasp at your dress, frantically feeling for the moisture. Your hands come away coated in a clear liquid.

“Oh gods,” you say. 

“Is that…”

“The baby’s coming.”

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.