what we do in life echoes in eternity

You wore something nice.

He opened the door in a shirt that suggested he had thought about what he was wearing, which from Baelor — who was perfectly capable of answering doors in jumpers and reading glasses with Procopius open in his hand — meant a lot. He looked at you the way he always looked at you when you appeared on his doorstep, like the specific fact of you being there was information he intended to receive properly.

"Hi," you with a smile already adorning your lips.

"Hi," he said, and kissed you once, warm and unhurried, before stepping back to let you in.

The table was set.

Properly set — candles, actual candles, and the good plates that lived in the cabinet you had asked about once and he had said were for occasions, and something on the stove that smelled extraordinary and had clearly been happening for some time before you arrived.

You stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at it.

"Baelor," you said with a warm tone, your eyes betraying exactly the depth of what you felt.

"Sit down," he smiled, stirring something with the focused attention of a man who was not going to be derailed from a task by the fact that you were looking at him like that. "It needs another ten minutes."

"You didn't need to cook."

"I said dinner," he explained, his eyes fixed on the pot.

"You said just dinner," you said.

He glanced at you briefly. "I may have understated."

The food was extraordinary — pasta, something with wine and herbs that tasted like he had been making it for years, which he probably had, and bread that he had made himself which you discovered halfway through and found disproportionately moving for reasons you chose not to examine too closely.

You talked.

This was one of your favourite things about evenings with Baelor — the specific quality of his conversation, the way it moved from thing to thing with the ease of someone genuinely interested in most subjects and genuinely interested in what you thought about them. He asked about your week with the real attention of someone who intended to listen to the answer. He told you about a piece that had come into the museum that morning with the barely contained enthusiasm of someone trying not to be smug about Byzantine artefacts and failing endearingly.

"You're doing the thing," you laughed with warmth in your eyes.

"What thing," he reciprocated the smile.

"The thing where you're excited about something historical and trying to be measured about it."

He looked at you.

"It is a sixth century ivory panel," he explained, with dignity, "in extraordinary condition. My being excited about it is entirely proportionate."

"Tell me more about it."

The measured quality disappeared immediately.

He told you about the ivory panel with his elbows on the table and his hands moving and the specific animation that arrived when he stopped managing his enthusiasm, and you rested your chin in your hand and watched him and felt the fondness so acutely it was almost painful.

After dinner he made tea and you ended up on the sofa — you tucked into his side, his arm around you, the candles burning low on the table and the lamp warm and the city outside doing its quiet evening things entirely without your input.

He was reading.

Not ignoring you — you had a book too, one of his, pulled from the shelf at random while he made the tea. Just — reading, beside you, in the comfortable parallel silence of two people who had become fluent in each other's company.

At some point his hand found yours. Not deliberately. Just the unconscious movement of someone whose hands had made a decision about where they preferred to be, his fingers closing around yours in the warm space between you.

You looked at your joined hands. Then at him.

He was still reading, his lips moving slightly on a difficult passage, entirely absorbed, entirely himself — the silver in his hair catching the lamplight, the warmth of him solid against your side, the specific quality of someone completely at ease.

He turned a page. His thumb moved once across your knuckles. Unconsciously, just present. You looked back at your book and read the same sentence four times and retained nothing and found you did not mind even slightly.

After a while he set his book down and looked at you. "You're not reading."

"I'm reading," you said.

"You've been on the same page for twenty minutes," there was mirth in his tone.

"It's a very good page," you tried to defend.

He looked at you with that expression — warm and fond and the composure entirely unnecessary between the two of you at this point, in this light, on this sofa — and took the book gently from your hands and set it on the table beside his and kissed you slowly, with the unhurried warmth of someone who had nowhere to be and no intention of being anywhere else and found this specific evening entirely sufficient.

When he pulled back he looked at you for a moment.

"Thank you for coming," he said quietly. Like you had done him a favour by being here, which was so specifically him — the genuine gratitude for the ordinary thing, the treating of your presence as something worth acknowledging — that something in your chest ached warmly.

"Thank you for the ivory panel story," you smiled.

Something moved through his expression.

"It is a very good ivory panel," he said.

Sarella was born on a day when a heavy sandstorm moved through Dorne. Heavy winds crashed outside as pain wracked through your body. Luckily, Lemonwood was suited and designed to withstand it, keeping the sand from billowing down the halls. Lady Jena pressed a wet cloth to your forehead as two wet nurses helped you into the birthing chair for Maester Deziel to examine you.

"You are progressing nicely, my lady. It shouldn't be much longer," he said, and you leaned into Jena.

"You're doing wonderful, sweet girl," she praised, kissing your forehead.

"Please, I need Baelor. I need you both with me," you whimpered.

"Go and fetch the prince, please," Jena instructed one of the nurses. She soothingly stroked your hair, and you tried not to crumble completely. You had made your choice, and they both journeyed to Lemonwood to be with you during your labors at the expense of King Daeron's ire. There were consequences to actions, and your daughter would never bear the Targaryen name. She would be a Sand, but she would be loved and cherished above all.

Baelor entered your chambers. Your mother had taken a bit of pity on you after unleashing her anger and disappointment like a scorpion's sting, and allowed you to remain in your home. While Lemonwood had passed to your eldest brother, she ruled with an iron fist, and your brother allowed her to. She could not turn her daughter out nor make a babe suffer for the choices of others. Bastard or not, this child was her blood.

"The maester tells me you are progressing well," Baelor smiled warmly, clad in yellow and violet silks, dressed in the Dornish style while in these halls. Jena was draped in orange silks, making her red hair even more vibrant. While your mother might still be cross with you, she was delighted to host the heir to the Iron Throne and his good lady wife and ensured they were kept in comfort.

"So he says," you smiled weakly, and the maester placed a cup in Baelor's hand.

"Give her some more milk of the poppy, Your Grace, she will be thankful for it when she has to push."

Baelor knelt in front of you, pressing the cup to your lips and helping you take a drink before a strong cramp seized your belly. Pressure spread through your back and pelvis, nearly making you fall from the birthing chair, and blood pooled beneath you. Jena and Baelor stayed by your side as the Maester scurried over and guided you through the process. It was unbearable at times, making you feel like you might be torn in two, but by the end, you ended with a daughter in your arms. Your gaze flickered toward Jena first, bracing yourself to find jealousy, but her face only held the look of pure love and adoration. Unshed tears watered in Baelor's mismatched eyes as he took in the sight of his daughter.

They stayed on a month longer, helping to tend to you and bond with the babe.

"Mmm, she is lovely," Jena cooed, pressing her nose against Sarella's head, breathing in the powdery, milky scent.

Baelor gently grasped her small foot before kissing her tiny toes. "Utterly divine."

You couldn't disagree. An overwhelming love for her surged through your body.

"I do not wish for you to go," you murmured.

Their gazes fell on you, and Jena handed Saerella to one of her wet nurses, who went off, leaving the three of you alone. They took a place on either side of you, each holding one of your hands.

"I know, and I am sorry you must suffer the most from all this," Baelor said gently.

"We all knew there would be consequences. They could have been worse, I suppose," you sighed.

"We would have you at court, if it were left to us," Jena said, kissing your temple. King Daeron had been firm in that decree. However, you could not fault him, as his father's bastards had been paraded freely through the Red Keep, only to lead to further complications and bloodshed in the future. He had banished you from King's Landing for a term of three years, and so you returned to Lemonwood with your tail tucked between your legs. You bore your punishment, the child growing inside of you giving you strength, even on the days when all you could do was weep and hide away in your room.

"I know. Have you and your father mended ways at least?" you asked Baelor. This was the aftermath that weighed heaviest on you: the tension between Baelor and Daeron. Between father and eldest son, you had worried that Baelor would have his inheritance stripped away and be removed from the line of succession. Every morning, you gave Mother Rhoyne thanks that it did not happen.

"Things are still…tense at times. My mother mediates, though coming here did not gain any favors with him, but we could not leave you alone," he replied, lifting your hand and kissing each soft pad of your fingers.

"I hate that I caused such strife."

Jena scoffed. "You were not alone in this tryst. We all participated of our free will, little pet."

"I do not regret it. You are more to us than a simple affair. I would take you as a second wife if I could," Baelor said seriously, and you turned your head to face Jena.

"And I would allow him," she smiled, kissing you sweetly. "You are mine just as much as you are his."

It soothed your fears, calming you a bit. Though you suspected the realm could stomach a bastard easier than two women taken to wife.

"Be strong for us, tend to our girl well. We will return soon," Baelor whispered before drawing you into his embrace.

There was a frustration as you were still healing from your labors; otherwise, you would have taken both to your bed before they departed.

"The king has requested an audience," one of the kingsguard informed Baelor shortly after their return to the Keep.

"Best of luck," Jena said, rubbing her husband's chest and pecking his lips.

Baelor followed the guard to his father's chambers, where he was granted entrance. He wasn't surprised to discover his mother there as well and dutifully kissed her cheek. She had been the shield during Daeron's initial anger, though she had exchanged her fair share of stern words with her eldest son, but she knew his heart and nature. He did not lie with another woman out of a simple lustful folly, and when learning of Jena's involvement, she understood. She had grown up in Dorne, where it was more acceptable.

"Your Grace," Baelor said respectfully, giving Daeron a nod.

"I've heard I now have a granddaughter."

"Yes, she and her mother are healthy and well," Baelor replied, and Myriah gently rubbed her son's shoulders.

"What a blessing," she murmured. "What is her name?"

"Sarella," he said with pride in his voice.

"A fine Dornish name." Baelor wondered if perhaps part of her was secretly thrilled he had involved himself with a Dornish woman. While Jena and Myriah were amicable, he knew his mother had always wished for him to marry a Dornish noble.

Daeron stood, balancing on his cane and slowly moving closer. "I do not mean to be cruel, my boy."

"I know."

"I have been conversing with my sister in Dorne. She would accept Lady Dalt into her service, and your daughter would be raised there."

"That is most…generous, Father, thank you."

"I admit that I cannot begin to truly understand, as I have only cared for and loved your mother. The damage my father did still lingers, and I fear what having your daughter here would stir up."

Before your banishment, you were brought before King Daeron and his small council, made to pledge your allegiance to Prince Baelor and acknowledge Valarr as his heir. You had to swear that your child would never lay a claim to the throne, should you give birth to a son. You did it willingly; you had no taste for causing any friction. It had been mildly humiliating, and Baelor held you in his arms as you cried after. It was never easy to admit wrongdoing publicly and then be laid to shame.

The letter with Baelor's seal arrived a week later, and you accepted the terms, moving you and Sarella into Princess Daenerys's service and into Sunspear. Baelor and Jena would visit twice a year, and you cherished every moment. They doted upon Sarella, as did Princess Daenerys, the little one held in high favor and never disparaged for being a Sand nestled safely inside Sunspear.

"I was beginning to worry you would not join us," you teased as Baelor finally entered your quarters, a warm breeze wafting through the open windows and bringing with it the scent of spice and citrus.

"She is very demanding for a two year old," Baelor chuckled, bending down to kiss you and Jena.

Orange silks were draped over your bed. "Oh, I cannot fault her for wanting to keep you in her company," you smiled, head in Jena's lap. Her red hair was loose, as were her breasts, with just a slip of silk hugging her slender waist. Those rosy nipples were swollen from all your suckling, your teeth marks embedded in her creamy flesh.

"She is a darling," Jena smiled, stroking your hair.

Baelor loosened his golden doublet and then removed his boots before getting into bed with his two beloveds.

"One more year, my darling, then you can return to King's Landing."

"Hard to believe such time has passed," you mused as Baelor drew your feet into his lap, his fingers massaging up your calf, then inching toward your upper thigh.

"I wish we had our own oasis, for the four of us to escape to," Jena whispered, reaching down to tug up the hem of your robe to give Baelor easier access.

"If only I weren't the heir," Baelor hummed, his ringed hand dipping between your thighs and stroking your cunt.

"We must manage with the hand we were dealt," you reasoned, biting back a moan. The time in Sunspear allowed you ample reflection and an understanding that the outcome was not as terrible as you once thought. You could have been put to death or imprisoned. You could have never seen them again with your child ripped from your arms, so you were thankful for the fate you had been given. Though the allure to tempt it again made heat swell in your lower belly. "Put another in me."

Baelor's stroking paused, giving you a slow blink of his mismatched eyes as his cock stirred at the request. "Is that wise?"

"I am already tainted, and Sarella and I are well cared for here. I could extend my stay in Doren and put off my return to King's Landing," you reasoned. "Besides, I think you two prefer escaping here to be with our daughter and me.'

"Our daughter," Jena smiled, tracing her thumb over your lip.

"She belongs to all of us," you grinned.

Jena shifted, bracing you against her bare chest and dipping her fingers under your thighs to spread you wide for Baelor. He moved onto his knees, tugging off the ochre tunic before unlacing his breeches. Once he was situated between your splayed legs, he thrust his cock deep inside you and leaned toward Jena to kiss her. Enveloped between them, you closed your eyes and gave your body over to pleasure. It had been too long, and finally, you were finding your spirit again.

Tycella was born within the turn of nine moons, with them by your side again and surrounded by Daenerys's personal attendants. Tycella's eyes were clear as sapphires, reminding you of Jena. There was no logic in it, but you enjoyed the pretense of your fantasies. She adored the girls as much as Baelor did.

"I would like to commission a small palace to be built for you close to Sunspear. My uncle and aunt are in support and will provide guards for your security," Baelor said, holding you and Tycella in his arms. Jena was asleep next to you with Sarella's head tucked under her chin.

"Baelor…that is very generous, but…"

"Would you not enjoy it?"

"I would, I just don't wish to bring the king's ire upon you again."

"I would not be too bold or foolish to do such a thing without discussing it with my father."

"And he agreed?" Tycella squirmed against your chest, in search of your nipple. Baelor rubbed her tiny back to help settle her as she latched onto you.

"He did. He is slowly accepting the importance of you."

"Then I would like it a great deal," you smiled, tears shimmering in your eyes.

He wanted you to have a home, a place for you and the girls to call their own.

Construction began by the Water Gardens, close to the Summer Sea, offering you a private respite and a bit of freedom. It would take a few years to complete, and you'd remain in Sunspear until then. As you grew round with your third child, Baelor wrote to inform you that Valarr and Matarys wished to join him and Jena on their next visit. It took you a bit by surprise, but you agreed. Sarella was five and every inch a proper little lady, having learned much from Princess Daenerys, who was very fond of her. She greeted her half-brothers sweetly, while Tycella, a mere child of two, was only interested in Matarys's long, fiery hair, which resembled Jena's. He was quite patient and let her weave white roses in his hair. His wife, Lady Alerie Tyrell, had accompanied him.

"It seems you have turned the Targaryen dragon into a proper Tyrell flower," she teased Tycella before kissing her cheek.

Baelor and Kiera were with Sarella at the sea's edge while you walked with Jena and Valarr. You counted it as a small victory that Baelor and Jena's sons were here. Another consequence of the fallout was that Valarr had been furious and had secluded himself on Dragonstone with his wife. You'd never forget the cold stare he fixed you with the day King Daeron called you before the small council to swear your allegiance toward the prince as Baelor's heir. It had made your legs and stomach feel like jelly. For some reason, it felt worse than the fire raining down by the usually docile King Daeron. You shook your head, trying to chase away the memories. There was no point in dwelling on the past.

After the children and guests had been settled for the evening, the three of you joined together. You wiggled free from your violet silks, rubbing your swollen belly. You were about five moons progressed.

"Another girl, do you think?" Baelor hummed, dropping down to kiss your stomach.

"The odds are in that favor," you smiled. Not that you minded, having daughters kept you safe. You knew King Daeron would not wish for you to produce a son. "Jena, I have a gift for you."

"For me, sweet pet? That is most thoughtful of you," she smiled, pouring chilled wine.

"It is in the red sandstone box," you smiled. It sat on the desk by the golden ewer of wine. Baelor's mouth and hands on your belly kept you firmly seated.

Jena took a swill of the red wine before opening the box, a smirk spreading over her rosy mouth. "You remembered."

"Mmm, these things are easy to find in Dorne, I am learning."

Baelor's curiosity got the better of him, and he moved to his wife's side, peering into the box. He gently cleared his throat. "And what need do you have for such…things?" He waved his hand toward the box.

"A woman has needs and desires, but I do not wish for a paramour," you replied simply.

"Wise decision," Baelor replied, jealousy thick in his eyes.

"These apparatuses prove useful. I can pretend I'm riding you. They even make one in the shape of a dragon's head."

"You'll have to demonstrate for me," Baelor mused.

"Help me put it on," Jena instructed her husband.

You watched while your fingers skimmed over your inner thighs as Jena rolled the orange silk around her hips and Baelor dropped to his knees to help get her into the contraption. The leather phallus was smooth and packed tightly with cotton to keep it erect, with elegant stitching to keep it intact. The harness was made of buttery-soft leather, with a metal ring for the phallus to slip through. Baelor's skill from dressing in armor made it easy for him to get Jena into it. The leather cock proudly protruded between her thighs, snug against her mound.

"It is very fitting," Baelor smiled, running his fingers over it.

"I thought we could play pretend this evening. We can imagine this babe is yours," you purred.

Baelor slipped a couple of olives between his lips, crunching them beneath his teeth before washing them off at the basin and slipping his hand between your thighs. Those ringed fingers stroked you expertly, gathering your wetness, and once his hand dripped with your arousal, he smoothed it over the leather phallus.

"You'll want it wet," he told Jena. "Our little pet is already well prepared."

You reached for a green silk pillow and shifted onto all fours, using it to cradle your belly, as lying on your back was too uncomfortable at this stage. Jena's mouth watered at the sight, her delicate hands kneading your fleshy arse and soft hips. The bed shifted with the weight of your paramours.

"Line up, then sink in slowly," Baelor whispered in Jena's ear before nuzzling the spot just below her ear.

Jena licked her lips before following his advice, watching your cunt swallow up her cock. "Seven Hells, I understand the appeal," she groaned, wetness gathering between her thighs.

"Get used to the feeling, then set a pace."

Jena slowly rolled her hips, thrusting deeper inside of you and making your moans fill the candlelight room.

"Feels good," you whimpered.

Baelor's hand skimmed down Jena's back, two fingers delving between her arse to dip into her cunny. While she fucked you, he finger fucked her. It was a salacious sight to watch her take you as he would. Her hips would be sore by the morning, but she didn't mind. It was an exhilarating feeling. Her hands moved up your sides, and you pushed up with your hands, allowing her to cup your stomach.

"Our babe grows strong, sweet pet," she murmured.

"Indeed, she does," you panted, clenching around her cock.

Jena's movements grew slower as Baelor's fingers danced her closer and closer to pleasure.

"Can my girls release together?" he hummed, the tip of one finger circling Jena's swollen pearl.

"Anything for you, dearest," Jena purred, rocking her pelvis against your arse and sending you toppling over the edge just as she did.

The three of you curled together in the aftermath, with you between them. You savored the warmth of their skin, the taste of their lips, and the thrum of their heartbeat against your ear, imprinting each sensation deep in your muscle memory.

Obella was born with blue eyes, just a shade darker than Tycella and Jena.

In the span of ten years, you had given birth to four daughters with a fifth growing inside your belly as your palace was completed next to the Water Gardens. Baelor and Jena also became grandparents when Matarys and Alerie welcomed a son this past winter. Sarella held her father's hand, her inky hair spilling down her back as they walked together to inspect the new space. She possessed so many of his features that it would be hard to deny she was his. Tycella skipped ahead, her hair a shade lighter than her older sister's, and dragged Obella behind her. Jena held three-year-old Arella on her hip, bending the small girl down to let her smell the jasmine that filled the vases throughout the palace. A lemon and orange tree had been planted in the gardens, and both were in bloom.

"It needs a proper name," Baelor turned to smile at you before lifting Sarella into his arms and kissing her cheek.

"He's right," Jena smiled, shifting Arella in her arms.

"Hmm," you contemplate, gazing around the pale marbled halls, then landing on your dark-haired daughters before taking in Baelor and Jena. "Sandfire."

"Very fitting, my sweet girl," Baelor said, kissing you softly. A chorus of the little girls' giggles echoed through the halls.

Blankets were spread on the sandstone floors, and an embroidered violet cloth was draped over a small table as you enjoyed a lazy supper as a family. There were olives, stuffed peppers, flatbreads, chickpea spreads, roasted lamb, lemon soup, and plenty of strong wine and Dornish red. There were fresh figs and cream swans for dessert. Your heart fluttered as you watched Baelor loom over the three elder girls, helping them to get their food and eat. Arella was happy to stay attached to Jena, soaking in the attention she lavished on her. Your fifth had not even entered this world, and you were now considering a sixth. You loved having his children. None batted an eye at the last name Sand here in Dorne, for there were many. Even Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys had their paramours. The banishment, lifted nearly seven years ago, no longer seemed a punishment. You were free here, well looked after by Baelor and Jena, and with four amazing daughters, their silky dark hair keeping you company.

The babe growing inside you craved spice, so you nibbled on stuffed dragon peppers, oozing with melted cheese and a dash of snake sauce. This one was truly a dragon; soon, you suspected you might be breathing fire. When you gazed over at Baelor, you observed his brow knitted in contemplation. Something plagued his mind, and you would press later, wishing for him to enjoy the time with his daughters. He was an attentive and loving father. The three of you put the girls to bed, and after the telling of three adventurous tales, they all succumbed to slumber.

"Something is weighing on your mind, dearest. Care to unburden yourself?" you asked him gently. A warm breeze from the fragrant gardens wafted through your open windows.

"My father's health is failing; every day might be his last." Jena rubbed his shoulders.

"I am sorry to hear that." Any bitterness or hatred you felt toward King Daeron faded long ago. "But there is more, I suspect."

"He and my mother wish to meet the girls before he passes."

That made you go as still as the marble statues in the garden. "I see."

"It would mean a great deal to me if you would allow it, sweet girl."

You glanced down at your hands, studying the rings that hugged your fingers. Each one was a gift from Baelor and Jena.

"Our daughters must be protected from the vipers at court."

"Maekar has already promised to cut out tongues." It had surprised you when you discovered Prince Maekar had been so accepting until Baelor informed him that it delighted his youngest brother to discover his brother's imperfections.

You couldn't help but smile. "Then I suppose we should ready to head back with you. I want to be settled in one place before the babe comes."

Baelor stood and held your face in his warm palms. "Thank you, sweet girl." Appreciation and gratitude bloomed through his kiss.

At the end of the week, you boarded the ship, Breakspear, and journeyed to King's Landing. You were not surprised to discover there was no formal greeting when you arrived at the gates, but you did not care. You instructed your daughters to hold their heads high as you were shown to rooms inside the Holdfast, close to Baelor and Jena's. You brushed their dark hair until it gleamed and dressed each in vibrant hues: Sarella in yellow, Tycella in violet, Obella in blue, and Arella in green. Baelor and Ser Roland Crakehall escorted you and the girls to the king's quarters. The five of you curtseyed in respect.

King Daeron had aged a great deal; his hair was a shocking white, and he looked weak. Queen Myriah, bathed in orange silk, circled the girls, cupping their chins with her golden ringed hand. Golden bangles hung from her wrists and chimed with her movements.

"They are beautiful," she whispered.

Each girl politely introduced themself, even Arella, who stumbled over her words, but did not let it deter her. A faint smile crossed Daeron's face.

"I had always hoped for a daughter, but the Gods blessed us with four sons instead," he murmured, covering his mouth to conceal his phlegm laced cough.

"I thank Mother Rhonye every day for my blessings, and pray I receive her mercy when I deliver this babe, Your Grace," you said kindly.

"My son will be king soon."

The room fell eerily silent.

"There is no reason to dance around the subject; it is a simple truth. He will be a good king. Your fate is no longer in my hands, Lady Dalt. Baelor may decide how to handle this situation. You may go." He weakly waved his hand in dismissal.

"Your Grace," you said, bowing before leaving with the girls, with Baelor trailing behind.

"Lady Dalt." Queen Myriah's warm voice echoed behind you, and you turned to face her. "Might the girls be brought to my chambers? I wish to visit with them."

You exchanged a look with Baelor. "I will be with them," he assured you, hand grazing over your lower back. You noted the invitation did not extend to you, but it mattered not. It mattered more that your daughters were treated kindly. You would bear a sling of arrows to keep them protected.

"Of course, Your Grace." You instructed your daughters to be on their best behavior before letting the ladies take them, as you were eager for a rest. The sea's waves had made your stomach queasy.

You were rather quiet as you supped with Baelor and Jena that evening in the Tower.

"Are you alright?" Jena inquired.

You nodded with a soft smile. "I'm just tired."

"You worry," Baelor noted.

"That, too," you admitted.

"I would bring you to Dragonstone," Baelor offered.

"No. When you are king, that seat is Valarr's. I swore never to cause tension, and I will not take what is his," you replied sharply.

"My desire, my wish, is to have you and our daughters close."

"Sandfire is the safest place for us to be. Kept away from court, please," you insisted.

Jena gently rested her hand on top of yours, her gaze falling on Baelor. "I want them close as well, but this might be the best arrangement for all. You will be scrutinized even more once you take the Iron Throne."

"I made my bed long ago, and know the consequences could have been far worse. I see no need to rock the boat when you are king," you reasoned.

Disappointment hung heavy in his eyes as he considered yours and Jena's words. "I am lucky to be surrounded by two such wise women," he smiled. "However, I would ask you and our daughters to visit at court from time to time, do not hide forever in Dorne."

"I can agree to that," you grinned, sipping on your wine. "The food is bland here; this one craves spice."

"Is she to be our headache?" Baelor teased.

Jena laughed. "I will have them bring up some dragon peppers from the kitchen." She kissed your temple before fetching a servant.

Darella was born in King's Landing the night before King Daeron succumbed to his illness. Baelor wished to honor his father by choosing her name. You and the girls remained in King's Landing for the coronation, as you would not miss the crowns placed upon Baelor's and Jena's heads. They were a perfect vision of a king and queen. Nearly a year and a half passed as you remained at court before you grew restless and wished to return home, though your girls had thrived here with their tutors and lessons.

"We will come in six months' time," Baelor promised, his mouth leaving searing kisses all over your skin.

"You best, or I will hunt you down," you teased, trailing your nails down his chest, sprinkled with the dark and gray hair.

"Is that any way to speak to your king?" he scolded.

"Mayhaps our pet has grown too brazen and forgotten her place," Jena purred.

"The insolence still lingers; you did not beat it all out of me."

"Well, let us rectify that."

You squirmed over his knee as his palm blazed a fire across your vulnerable backside. Each strong, precise slap sent a throb to your pearl and made heat lick in your lower belly.

"Please, might my king show mercy?" you whimpered, tossing a pathetic look over your shoulder.

"He might," Baelor murmured, stroking your abused flesh marked with his fingertips and ring imprints.

"Mayhaps he'd like to fill me with his seed once more so I might bear him one more," you pleaded.

"Is that what you desire?"

"More than anything."

"'Tis your desire as well, husband. You enjoy watching her grow with your seed. Well, both of us do," Jena hummed, squeezing Baelor's thigh.

"One more, to keep you company until we join you in Sandfire," he smiled.

You rode him, sweat dripping down your back and your breasts bouncing with him spread naked beneath you.

"Jena," you whispered, needing her against you as well. It never felt right when it wasn't the three of you. She crawled over, kissing your sweat slicked shoulders before cupping your breasts and toying with your nipples. Then she pressed you down against Baelor's chest, drinking in the sight of his cock nestled deep in your cunt, heavy stones full and flush against your skin. She rubbed against you, cheek pressed against your shoulder, the three of you melding together and toppling into pleasure simultaneously.

You returned to Sandfire, full of Baelor's seed and with your five daughters in tow. When they came to visit in six months' time, you were pleasantly round, belly partially exposed by the red silk draped over your skin. The girls fluttered around their father, eager to tell him all they had been up to. He never minded as they grasped his hands and clothing, pulling him off to keep them for themselves, leaving you with Jena.

"You are glowing as usual," she smiled, a few more lines around her sapphire hued eyes and just a touch of white around her temples.

"Simply enjoying this pregnancy for it will be my last. I will have my hands full," you grinned, looping your arm through hers.

"Our daughters have brought Baelor great joy; he thinks about them often."

"I'm glad you both love them so."

"Just as we love you," she reminded.

You walked with her through the gardens, feeling the babe shift in your belly while Baelor doted upon the girls inside. Darella, just barely two, wiggled herself close into his arms. A lock of her chestnut hair pressed against his bearded cheek. Sarella and Tycella danced together after supper as you all gathered in the main hall. Though your eyes were on Baelor, wearing the loose tunic and breeches preferred in Dorne, swathed in cream, gold, and sand with a long golden chain dangling from his neck and nestled against his chest hair. Obella played her harp, a lilting song filling the air.

"Hard to believe how much they've grown," Baelor sighed, chin resting against his palm. "Sarella will be a young lady in just a few years."

"If you wish, you can bring her to court to have her closer by. She will be old enough to handle it," you said.

"Kiera would gladly take her as one of her ladies," Jena said.

"She would have to be acknowledged then," Baelor reasoned.

"Enough time has passed; you are king now. That decision is yours. I do not think people would fear your daughters trying to claim the throne," Jena said. "This is not another Blackfyre rebellion in the making."

"We still have a few more years to prepare for the situation, but if you wish to acknowledge our daughters publicly, then I will not stand in your way. Nor would you be the first Targaryen king to have bastards."

The girls finished their dancing and playing and were met with applause.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" Baelor cheered.

The once golden sky faded into violet before turning an inky, velvety black as night settled over Sandfire with the girls nestled safely in their beds apart from Darella, who was bundled against Jena's chest. The two fast asleep with Jena's fiery hair spread across the orange pillow, making her whole head appear to be engulfed by flame. You rested between Baelor's strong thighs, his hands roaming over your stomach. His touch calmed the restless babe, soothing her to sleep.

"Maerella for this one, if you approve," he whispered in your ear.

You nodded before wrapping his arms tighter around you. In this moment, all was well. Despite the rocky waves of the past, you managed to create a smooth foundation, and your life blossomed in unexpected ways.

The maester read the terms of the arrangement over supper, as though he were reading a list of household accounts. Even now at the Red Keep, after quite the travel from your home, your father sat across from you with his hands folded on the table and his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, and you sat very still and still thought of nothing at all, because that was the only way to keep yourself from doing something foolish.

You had the urge, briefly and vividly, to stand up from the table and walk out the room and keep walking, out of the Red Keep entirely, out through the gates and down to the harbour and onto the first ship that was going somewhere your father hadn’t already arranged. But you knew better than that. They would drag you back before tide turned. They always found a way too.

“The betrothal will be formalized within this moon period,” the maester said, glancing up from his scroll to look at you with the mild apologetic expression of a man delivering weather. “The wedding is to follow swiftly after. Prince Baelor has agreed to it, so I do not see why it shouldn’t go forward without trouble.” 

Without trouble. As though trouble were something that lived in logistics. As though the trouble had nothing to do with you sitting in this room and being talked about like a parcel to be sent on.

Prince Baelor. You had heard the name your entire life. Everyone had. You grew up on the stories the way other children grew up on songs. Baelor Targaryen, who had held the line at Ashford when lesser men had broken and run. Baelor Targaryen, who had ridden through a burning village to pull three smallfolk children from a collapsed roof, and emerged the other side with his cloak in flames and not a word of complaint about it. Baelor Targaryen, who had put down the Blackfyre Rebellion with cool efficiency that men still talked about at feasts, their cups raised and their voices hushed with something that sat right at the border of reverence and fear. 

They called him Breakspear. They called him that because no one had ever broken him. 

You thought about that even after the maester excused himself and your father finally looked up from the tablecloth with the expression of a man who believed he was being generous. 

"You'll be a princess," he said. "You understand what that means."

"Yes," you said, and your voice had no happiness in it, no solace, nothing that could be mistaken for either of those things. "I understand."

He took that as agreement, because he always took silence and stillness as agreement, and perhaps that was your fault too.

You lay awake in the guest chambers they had assigned you, the ones you would occupy until the wedding made you someone’s wife, and you turned your father’s ambition over in your mind like stones you already knew the shape of. He wanted children from this union. Heirs who carried Tyrell blood and Targaryen blood. Not giving any mind that Baelor already had two sons by his first wife, the one who had died in her labours years ago, giving birth to Prince Baelor's youngest son. Your father made it clear to you that he wanted his blood in the line of succession. He wanted to be able to look at the Iron Throne one day, and say, somewhere in that, there is something of mine.

You did not want that. You did not want any of it. You did not want to be near the prince, did not want to give him heirs on top of the ones he already had, did not want to spend your life in service of an ambition that had never once asked what you wanted from your own. 

Two sons was enough for any man. 

That night, sleep did not find you. 

You saw him for the first time in the courtyard of the Red Keep, three days after your party had arrived. He was speaking to two knights in riding gear, his back half-turned to you, and your first thought was that he was taller than you had expected. Your second thought was that he looked like a man who had never in his life needed to raise his voice to make a room go quiet. 

He turned when your footsteps scraped the stone, and you caught the full measure of him at once. The grey decorating his beard in patches. The broad set of his shoulders, built for armour even in plain clothes. The mismatched eyes, one brown and one blue, that settled on you with an attention so direct it was almost physical.

"My lady of Highgarden," he said, and there was a small smile on his lips, something measured and polite, as he tilted his head slightly down to look at you.

"Your Grace," you answered, almost too quickly, and kept your eyes down for a beat longer than you needed to, studying the worn stone at your feet like it might offer you something useful.

He waited for you to look up. You got the sense he was patient at waiting. You got the sense he had waited out many things larger than this.

"You've come a long way," he said.

"Indeed," you said, because you had to say something. "The road was kind. We had good weather, by the gods' grace."

"Did you."

"Yes."

A silence settled between you that felt less like discomfort and more like he was simply observing you, cataloguing something at a pace you couldn't rush. You smoothed your skirts with both hands, a nervous habit, and hated yourself for it almost immediately.

"I hope you are pleasant with having to wed me," he said, pausing briefly, watching you twist your fingers together in front of you. "Are you?"

No. The word arrived in your mind before anything else did, clean and immediate. No, I am not pleased, I am frightened and resentful and I have not slept properly in two weeks and every story I have ever heard about you ends with someone not getting back up.

But you could not say any of that. Your father would have your tongue before the sentence was finished.

"Do not do that to your fingers, my lady," Baelor said, interrupting the spiral before it could swallow you whole. "You'll do harm to them."

You stopped instantly. The command was not unkind, but it was a command, and your body obeyed it before your mind had finished deciding whether to. The smile that had been on his face when he first turned was gone now, though the faint softness underneath it remained, held carefully in place.

"I'm starting to wonder if you aren't pleased with the match," he said, his voice entirely calm, the way deep water is calm. "You still haven't answered."

"I apologize, Your Grace." The words came out smooth and easy, rehearsed without meaning to be. "I am pleased. It is my duty to be, and if our union strengthens the bonds between our houses, then I am glad of it."

A lie. A very good one. You had been practicing variations of it for weeks.

He looked at you for a moment longer than felt comfortable, long enough that you wondered if he knew, long enough that you felt the specific heat of being studied by someone who was accustomed to reading situations accurately and quickly. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and looked out across the courtyard, giving you the small mercy of his profile instead of his full attention.

"A diplomatic answer," he said.

"I've been told I give those."

"I don't doubt it." He glanced back at you, brief and measuring. "I've been told you paint."

The change of subject was abrupt enough to unsettle you, which you suspected might have been the point. "I do," you said carefully. "Sometimes."

"What do you paint?"

The question was so plain and without ceremony that it caught you off guard. You had been braced for something political, something that required a careful answer, and instead you got this. "Flowers, mostly. And the water. We have a lake at home, on the south side of the grounds. I've painted it perhaps a hundred times."

"And it still interests you?" Not sarcastically. Genuinely curious in the way of someone who finds focus in other people interesting rather than puzzling.

"Every season it looks different," you said. "Every hour of the day. I don't think I could exhaust it."

Something shifted in his expression then, small and real, the faint softening of a face that held itself deliberately composed as a matter of long habit.

"I have kept you long enough," he said, and inclined his head to you. "I'll see you at supper, my lady."

He walked past you back into the keep, and you stood in the empty courtyard with your hands still at your sides and tried to decide what you made of that, and found that you couldn't. The wind came through and lifted the loose edge of your sleeve, and somewhere above you a bird crossed the grey sky, and you stood there until the sound of his footsteps had faded entirely.

Then you went inside, and sat with your ladies, and smiled, and said nothing at all. Because that’s the order of the way things were here.

The feast was loud and long and you drank your wine too fast and smiled until your face ached. Baelor sat at the head of the table to your left in the same dark cloth he had been married in, the three-headed dragon embroidered at his chest, and you had been a wife now for approximately six hours and you could feel the full weight of it settling over you like armour you hadn't been measured for.

You had married a man who had killed people.

Not cruelly. Not without cause. But he had, and the stories were very clear on that, and they did not try to soften it, not even for the women who were being handed to him. He had done what needed doing and done it well and the realm had benefited and all of that was true and none of it made a difference to the part of you that was sitting at this feast watching the candlelight move across his hands and thinking about all the things those hands had done before they had touched your jaw this morning.

You did not know how much wine you had drunk. Enough. Not enough. Somewhere in between. You had lost count around the third cup and stopped caring around the fourth, and the noise of the feast pressed in from all sides, laughter and music and the scrape of chairs on stone, and somewhere in the middle of all of it you sat very still and rethought your entire life from the beginning. 

Merry found you eventually, your cousin with her pretty laugh and her gift for making any room feel smaller and warmer. She dropped into the seat beside you and took your hand under the table and squeezed once, and you squeezed back, and neither of you said anything about it.

"He keeps looking over," she said quietly into your ear, after a while.

"Does he?"

"He's been watching you all evening."

"He's probably worried I'll knock something over," you said. Merry laughed. Across the table Baelor said something low to the man beside him and did not look up from his cup, and you watched him for one unguarded moment before you looked away.

You watched him sometimes, after that, in the spaces between conversations. When he wasn't looking. You tried to read him the way you read the lake, the way you looked at a thing from different angles until it gave you something. He did not gesture when he spoke. He did not laugh loudly. He listened more than he talked, which among men of his station was genuinely unusual, and when he did speak the people around him leaned in without seeming to realize they were doing it. Like plants toward light. Like something involuntary.

What surprised you, later, was the bedding ceremony. Or rather, the absence of one.

Baelor had refused it. Quietly, without spectacle, in the way he seemed to do most things, and the court had no choice but to fold around his decision and pretend they had never expected otherwise. You heard it from Merry, who had heard it from one of the Kingsguard, and you stood there absorbing the information with a feeling you didn't immediately have a name for. Relief, you decided. It was relief. Strange and unexpected and slightly humiliating to feel so strongly, but there it was.

Even so, when the door to your new chambers clicked shut behind you both and you heard the latch catch, your chest tightened all the same.

The room was full of candles, dozens of them, casting everything in soft shifting gold. Someone had arranged fresh flowers near the window, roses among them, and turned down the bed with the kind of careful attention that made the whole thing feel more deliberate, more inevitable. You crossed to the window and stood with your arms folded loosely at your waist and looked out at the dark city below and tried to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like.

Then he said your name.

Not my lady. Your name, and it sat differently in his mouth that it did in anyone else’s. Lower, somehow. More considered. 

You turned from the window. He was watching you with that same quality he always had, the direct unhurried attention, but there was something else underneath it now. Something careful. Like a man approaching a problem he didn't want to make worse.

"You don't have to worry so much," he said, and moved to the table across the room, pouring wine with his back half-turned to you. His hands were steady. Of course they were. "We won't consummate it tonight."

The words landed and your stomach dropped, but not from relief. From something closer to dread, the specific crawling dread of a daughter who could already hear her father's voice somewhere in the back of her skull telling her she had failed before she had even begun. It had only been a couple hours of being a wife and you already failed short. You dropped your gaze to the floor. Your fingers found each other, and you started pulling at the skin around your knuckles without meaning to.

"Did I do something, my prince?" The words came out smaller than you intended. Quieter.

He set the goblet down. You heard him turn.

"You don't have to keep calling me that," he said. "We're married now."

"What would you prefer?"

"My name," he said. "Just my name."

You pulled in a slow breath. "Have I done something wrong, Baelor?"

His name in your mouth felt foreign and right at the same time, like a word in a language you had been studying a long time and had only just spoken aloud.

He crossed the room toward you, not quickly, not with any urgency, just steadily, and he stopped when he reached you and put two fingers under your chin and tilted your face up. His touch was warm. Dry. Unhurried.

You were not expecting the kiss he pressed to your forehead. Soft, brief, almost nothing, and yet it stayed on your skin after he pulled back, like the impression of something.

When you looked up at him your lips were parted and you had nothing to say.

"No," he said, simply. "You haven't done anything wrong." He searched your face for a moment, his mismatched eyes moving between yours. "I don't want my wife drunk and anxious the first time. I'd rather you come to it because you trust me enough. Not because the court expects it of you before morning."

A silence opened up between you. Outside, the city murmured on, indifferent.

"That could take a long time," you said, and you meant it lightly but it didn't come out quite that way.

"I know," he said. And then, without any particular weight to it, like a man stating a fact he had already made peace with: "I can wait."

You looked at him standing there in the candlelight, large and steady and entirely serious, and you thought about all the stories, all the things they said about him, the battles and the efficiency and the men who had not gotten back up, and you thought: none of them mentioned this part. None of them thought to.

In the weeks that followed, you learned that baelor woke before dawn, every morning, and could be found in the training yard before the light had fully come. You learned that he ate simply and without fuss and that feasts bored him, that he tolerated them because they were required and endured them the way another man might endure a long sea voyage.

 You were still frightened of him. Not in the way you had been that first night, with your arms crossed and your heart hammering. You didn’t know how he made you feel. 

Baelor noticed your distance, of course. How could he not. You were always in bed before he came to the chambers, feigning sleep or close enough to it that he never tested the difference. You declined his invitations to share supper with excuse after careful excuse, a headache, correspondence from home, fatigue from the afternoon. He accepted each one without comment, and somehow that was worse than if he had pressed you. You were grateful, most of all, that he had not yet commanded the marriage to be consummated. That was the thing you held onto.

You felt guilty about it sometimes. In small quiet moments, when you were honest with yourself. But guilt was a feeling you could set down and pick back up. Fear sat differently in the body.

Every other day there was a new rumour. Your ladies brought them to you the way birds bring things back to a nest, little bright pieces of nothing that accumulated into something. You had no choice but to sit and listen, just as you were doing now, in the small solar off the main hall where the afternoon light came in sideways and made everything look warmer than it was.

"He is a great man," said Elayne Hightower, in the tone of someone conveying information she believed you were too simple to already possess. She was one of the ladies assigned to you upon your arrival, and in the weeks since you had arrived at a quiet and absolute conclusion: you did not like her. Not even a little. She was the kind of woman who delivered cruelty with a smile and then looked confused when anyone minded. "A great man in every sense of the word, if you take my meaning."

She let the last words hang there and looked at you sideways, watching for a reaction.

You took a slow sip from your goblet and gave her nothing.

"Surely you've consummated the marriage by now," she said, leaning forward slightly, dropping her voice in the conspiratorial register of someone who wanted an audience but pretended otherwise. She set her goblet down on the table and smiled at you with all her teeth. "Do tell. How was it?"

The bluntness of it made your eyes go wide before you could stop them. "I do not wish to speak of such matters with you, Lady Hightower."

She rolled her eyes, the gesture practiced and a little bored. "No need to be so shy about it, princess. Virgins always get so delicate when someone brings it up. It's rather sweet, really." The word sweet landed the way a small blade lands, point first. The other ladies around you had gone very still, a few of them hiding their mouths behind their goblets. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, not knowing what you're about."

"Mind your tongue," you said, and you meant it to come out firm and it came out soft, which was worse.

She made a small sound with her teeth, a dismissive little tsk, and waved her hand as though you'd said something tedious. Then she tilted her head at you, her smile going thin and sharp at the edges.

"Well. If you won't share, I suppose I'll simply tell you how he spent the remainder of the evening. Once he was done with you, that is." She paused for effect. Let the silence do its work. "He came to me."

The room went very quiet.

You sat completely still. You were aware of every person in that room, every averted eye, every carefully controlled expression. You could hear the city outside the window. You could hear your own pulse.

You thought about the night of your wedding. Baelor helping you out of your dress without making anything of it. Baelor sitting with you until you had went into a dreamless sleep, after the many wines you had that evening. You had thought, lying there in the dark, that whatever he was, he was at least that. Decent. Trying.

But then. A man of his station and appetites, refused by his new wife night after night. It was not hard to imagine. It was, in fact, very easy to imagine, and you hated how easily the picture assembled itself.

You felt the anger arrive before you'd decided to feel it. It was different from the distant background dread you'd been carrying for weeks. This was sharp. Immediate. Something with edges.

Your brows pulled together without meaning them to.

"I can tell you the particulars if you like," Elayne said, pleasantly. "He talks you through it, I'll say that much. Very thorough. He did write me this morning, actually, to say he'd be visiting again soon." She glanced at the other ladies with a little lift of her chin, a performer acknowledging her audience. "I suppose things between you two haven't quite found their footing yet."

You stood up.

It happened before you had finished deciding to do it. One moment you were sitting and the next you were on your feet, and the room seemed to go even quieter somehow, the way rooms do when something shifts.

"That is my husband you are speaking of," you said. Your voice was very even. You were rather proud of how even it was, given that your hands were trembling slightly at your sides and you could feel the humiliation pressing up behind your eyes like water behind a dam. "Whatever the circumstance, whatever your history with him, you will not speak his name to me in this manner again. If you do, I will take the matter directly to His Grace the King. Do you understand me?"

Elayne looked up at you from her seat with that same thin smile, and said, "I've hurt you. I'm sorry for it, truly," in a voice that contained not one single grain of apology.

The lady beside her pressed her lips together to hide something that was almost certainly a smile.

You did not say another word. You turned and walked out of the room, and you did not wait for your knight to fall into step behind you. You walked until the corridor bent and the solar was out of sight, and then you stopped and pressed your back against the stone wall and breathed and looked at the ceiling and thought about absolutely nothing at all, which was very hard to do, and which you forced yourself to manage anyway.

You stayed there until you trusted your face again. Then you went back to your chambers and sat at your window and watched the world outside until the light faded, and you did not want to think about Elayne Hightower, and you certainly did not want to think about Baelor. 

You didn't hear the door open. Your eyes were distant, fixed on nothing in particular beyond the glass, and your meals had come and gone untouched all day, the chambermaids cycling in and out like tides, and you had let them. Appetite required a kind of presence you did not currently have.

Without meaning to you, as Baelor spoke your name, as you turned to face him you glared at him, a pouty look on your face. 

"Is it true?" The words left your mouth before you had decided to say them. You didn't know where the nerve came from. Only that the jealousy had been sitting in you all day like something swallowed wrong, and underneath it the thing you had been less willing to look at: that somewhere in the weeks of distance and avoidance and careful politeness, you had grown fond of him. Quietly. Without meaning to. You had been seeking him out even as you pulled away. Maybe that was why he had gone elsewhere. Maybe the fault was yours and you hated that thought most of all.

You hated her. You were certain of it now. 

Baelor looked confused. More than confused, actually. Surprised, in the specific way of a man who had learned not to expect much and was recalibrating in real time. You were always the one who waited to be spoken to first, who answered in half-sentences and agreeable nods. You speaking first, and like this, meant something was wrong. His brows drew together. "What's true, princess?" he said quietly, his eyes moving over your face.

"Do not make me say it." Your voice was unsteady and you resented it. "It hurts enough to think about. Let alone say it to your face."

He took a step toward you and you looked down and that was when he noticed your hands, your fingers picking at the skin around your nails the way they always did when you were trying not to cry.

"How many times," he said, and his voice was very calm, "have I told you to stop doing that."

"Do not act as though you care," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word and you hated yourself for it. You looked up at him. "Did you care when you went to Elayne Hightower on the night of our wedding? Did you think of me at all? People call you honourable. They say it like it is the truest thing about you."

Something moved across his face. Something small and quick. He pressed his lips together and the corner of his mouth shifted, barely, the suggestion of something that in any other moment might have been amusement.

"What is funny about this?" You stared at him. "Do you know what it felt like, sitting there while she told me in front of everyone. While they smiled behind their goblets and thought I couldn't see."

He closed the distance between you. "What did she say." Not a question. A quiet command.

"Vile things. Things I don't wish to repeat." Your voice broke properly then and you turned away and walked toward the window because you needed something to look at that wasn't his face. You could feel the tears and you refused them, crossing your arms over your chest.

You startled when his hands found your shoulders. His fingers gathered your hair and moved it aside, and then the scratch of his beard against the slope of your neck, the press of his lips there, warm and deliberate, and his hands settling at your waist, drawing you back against him. You let him, because you were tired and hurt and his hands were warm, and some part of you had been wanting something like this for weeks without knowing how to say so.

"Tell me what she said," he said against your hair.

You told him all of it. The smile on Elayne's face. The details she offered without being asked. The letter she claimed he had sent that very morning. Your voice stayed mostly level and only broke once, near the end. His hands did not move from your waist the entire time.

"She said you'd promised to see her this evening," you finished. "It was humiliating. I never want to see those women again. You have made me friendless in a court that was never mine to begin with."

You pulled away and turned to face him. He looked down at you with an expression so steady and intent it was almost hard to hold.

"Were they laughing," he said.

"Smiling. Murmuring. Close enough."

"Then why would you call them your friends."

You opened your mouth and closed it. He had a point and you hated that he had a point and you were not going to let it distract you. "That is beside the matter. You still haven't answered me." The next words came out low and laced with something that surprised even you. "Whether you truly found comfort between her legs on the night you wed me."

You lifted your chin at him. "If you promised to see her this evening, then go. I won't keep you."

He held your gaze for a long moment. And then, very quietly, "do you think I would do that to you."

You stared at him.

The question sat between you, very quiet, and he did not move while he waited for you to answer it. He just looked at you the way he always looked at things, with that patient undivided attention that had unnerved you from the beginning and unnerved you still, though differently now. Less like standing in the path of something and more like being seen.

"She said you did," you said finally. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "She said it very plainly."

"And you believed her."

It was not an accusation. It was not even a question, quite. 

"I didn't want to," you said. "I tried not to. But I sat in that room and I listened to her describe you and I thought about all the nights I've gone to bed before you came in, and all the suppers I've refused, and I thought—" You stopped. The words felt too honest. Too much of something you hadn't meant to say out loud.

"You thought what," he said.

"I thought that you would have every reason to." You lifted your eyes to his. "I have not been easy. I know that. I have not been what a wife is supposed to be to you and I have known it every day and done nothing about it because I was frightened, and I—" Your voice broke on the last word and you pressed your lips together hard and looked at the ceiling and refused to cry in front of him. Absolutely refused.

His hand came up and curved around your jaw, tilting your face back down toward his. His thumb moved once across your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, the way you might steady something fragile.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. You had no choice when he held your face like that.

"I have not touched Elayne Hightower," he said. "Not on our wedding night and not since. I’ve never done so, and I have no intention of doing so ever." He held your gaze, not blinking, not letting you look away. "I don't know what she told you or why she told it, but it was a lie. Every word of it."

You searched his face the way you searched paintings, looking for the thing that was not right, the detail that would give the lie away. There was nothing. There was only Baelor, steady as he always was, telling you something plainly and without performance, the way he told you everything.

"Why would she say it then," you said. "She had details. She said you wrote to her."

"She is a woman who enjoys the particular power that comes from making other women feel small," he said, without heat or drama, as though he were noting the weather. "And you are new here, and a princess, and a considerable threat to people who were comfortable before you arrived. She said it because she could and because she wanted to see what it would do to you."

Your mouth was dry. "And what did it do to me."

Something shifted in his expression. Softened, in that way that still caught you off guard when it happened. 

"It made you speak to me," he said. "First. Without waiting to be spoken to."

You hadn't thought of it that way. You hadn't thought of much of anything clearly today. You became abruptly and uncomfortably aware of how close he was, his hand still at your face, the warmth of him in the cooling room.

"I made a fool of myself," you said quietly.

"You were jealous," he said. "That's not foolish."

You felt heat climb your neck. "I wasn't—"

"You were." And there was that near-smile again, the one that lived at the very corner of his mouth and barely made it further than that. "I'm not saying it to embarrass you. I'm telling you because I'd rather you know that I noticed and that it mattered to me. That you mattered enough to be jealous over."

You didn't have anything to say to that. You had prepared for denial and deflection and a polite dismissal, you had not prepared for this, for him standing in the candlelight holding your face and telling you plainly that you mattered, without ceremony, without asking for anything back.

"You should have told me," you said finally, because you had to say something and it was the truest thing left. "If she had said those things to you about me you would have told me. You wouldn't have let me believe it."

"No," he agreed. "I wouldn't have." He studied you for a moment. Then: "I'll speak to her."

"Don't." The word came out quickly. "It will only make it worse. It will only give her more to say."

He shakes his head in a silent no. “She won’t, I’ll make sure of it.” 

"Baelor, please." You moved after him as he turned, reaching for his arm without thinking. "I'm asking you not to. She will humiliate me further for it. She will talk about me behind my back to anyone who will listen, she'll make my life a living—"

He kissed you.

Not gently. Not the way he had kissed your forehead on the wedding night, careful and brief and almost impersonal. This was something else entirely. His mouth pressed to yours with a kind of fierce certainty, one hand cradling the back of your neck, his thumb tilting your jaw up, and the sheer unexpectedness of it emptied your mind of every word you had been about to say.

For one stunned moment you simply stood there. Then, without deciding to, your eyes closed and you leaned into it. It was not a polite kiss. It was not the kind of kiss a man gives a woman he is merely fond of. It was hungry and deliberate, all heat and pressure and the slide of his tongue against yours, the faint graze of teeth at your bottom lip, his beard rough against your skin, and it tasted like wine and something underneath it that was just him, and it stole the breath from your lungs so thoroughly that when he finally pulled back you had to remind yourself how lungs worked.

You looked up at him. Your mouth was still parted. You had nothing at all to say. He did not step back. He did not look remotely apologetic. He simply watched you absorb what he had done.

A faint thread of warmth lingered between your lips when he pulled away, and his thumb came up to swipe it from your skin almost absently, eyes never leaving yours.

“That is what you were afraid of,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “Of being kissed?”

“No.” His thumb pressed once against your lower lip. “Of wanting it.”

Heat climbed your neck.

Before you could answer, he leaned in again, but this time the kiss was slower. Not an interruption. Not a silencing. His mouth moved over yours with intent, coaxing instead of claiming, and when you softened beneath him, when your hand tightened at his chest and your body leaned into his without instruction, he made a low sound of approval in his throat.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your mouth. “That is honest.”

His hands slid down from your shoulders to your waist, broad and steady, and then lower, settling at your hips. He pulled you flush against him, slow enough that you felt the full press of him between you, solid and unmistakable even through layers.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

“You feel that,” he said, not asking.

“Yes.”

“And you thought I had no appetite.”

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly.

(*) indicates smut

jealousy. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. lyonel

first meeting. ⊹ baelor/lady stark (baelor's pov)

a cooling hand. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

"you choose them. you always do." ⊹ aerion/lady stark

protection. ⊹ baelor/lady stark/maekar

just friends. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

blackwind. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. blackwind

family. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. maekarlings + papa maekar

the bronze fury. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. verminthor (dragons survived the dance!au)

a hug. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

in another life. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark/baelor

always for you. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

a hedge knight. ⊹ dunk/lady stark (platonic)

meaning in death. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

the baby test. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. verminthor (dragons survived the dance!au)

a sick day. ⊹ baelor/lady stark/maekar

"your man." ⊹ lady stark ft dunk, baelor, lyonel, aerion, maekar.

hair. ⊹ maekar/lady stark

'come to bed.' ⊹ baelor/lady stark/lyonel

'come to bed.' ⊹ aerion/lady stark

house colours. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

'may i have this dance?' ⊹ aerion/lady stark

kiss goodnight ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

today with you. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

forever undone. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

stop before i kiss you. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

where is my wife? ⊹ maekar/lady stark

modern!aerion ⊹ aerion/lady stark

the kidnapping. ⊹ daemon blackfyre/lady stark

wolf's wrath. ⊹ aerion/lady stark ft egg

beach day. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft valarr && matarys

'i do not want it.' ⊹ maekar/lady stark (*)

can you put that out on me? / explicit version (*) ⊹ aerion/lady stark (modern au)

cracks and pieces. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft aerion && maekar

devour me. ⊹ aerion/lady stark/daeron (LS born later au)

go back to pretending. ⊹ maekar/lady stark

what attracts them. ⊹ lady stark ft dunk, baelor, lyonel, aerion, maekar.

laughter. ⊹ aerion/lady stark ft egg

'you're playing with my patience.' ⊹ baelor/lady stark

currently accepting headcanon/drabble requests and discussions for this series, feel free to send something in!

His office door was half open. You knocked on the frame and he looked up from whatever he was reading and the specific sequence of things that happened in his expression — you, the coffee, that dress, back to you — took approximately two seconds and communicated everything.

"Hi," you smiled.

"Hi," he mimicked, and took his glasses off, which he only did when he had decided the reading was finished.

You set the coffee on the desk and settled into the chair across from him with the ease of someone completely comfortable in this room, which you were. His office had become one of your favourite places in the city, all books and warm lamplight and the particular quality of a space that was used thoroughly and loved. You had spent two hours in this chair last month while he finished a report, reading one of his books, and had left feeling inexplicably content.

That visit had been less eventful than this one was going to be. You'd made sure of it.

He picked up the coffee. Drank it. Set it back down. Looked at you over the desk with those eyes that had never quite mastered neutrality where you were concerned and said nothing, which from Baelor said quite a lot.

"I was in the area," he raised a curious eyebrow at your words. "Taking the scenic route," you explained.

The corner of his mouth moved fractionally. He glanced at the dress and back to your face and stood up.

He crossed to the door and locked it.

The sound of the lock was specific. Immediate. You watched him do it with the calm deliberateness he brought to everything and felt the cheerful composure you had arrived with become something more complicated.

He came back to the desk. Did not sit down. He stood in front of you and looked at you sitting in his chair in the dress with the coffee you had brought and the smile that was, second by second, conquering your whole face.

He offered you his hand.

You took it and he pulled you up and kissed you, and the kiss had six days in it and the specific warmth of finally, and your hands went to his lapels and you stopped thinking about anything more.

He lifted you onto the desk.

His hands — those hands, large and certain and spanning you completely — and then his mouth at your throat and the papers he had been working on somewhere beneath you.

"I gather we have to be quiet," you said softly, against his hair.

"Mm," he replied, against your throat, which was not a commitment exactly but was all you were getting.

His mouth bit specifically that funny point Baelor knew too well and you made a sound immediately — involuntary, too loud for the context — and his hand came up and covered your mouth with the calm efficiency of someone implementing an obvious solution.

You bit his palm and passed your tongue a few times across it. He pulled back and looked at you and you could see there was little of his usual restraint in his eyes.

"You absolute menace," he whispered amused, which earned him an extra pair of swipes from your tongue. You pressed a smile to his hand and he descended again to your throat.

Baelor decided that kissing you was the better solution instead of stating the thing your eyes, completely lewd looking back at him from behind his hand, was doing to him.

Six days made it fast and necessary in a way that your previous times had not been — urgent in the specific way of something that had been waiting and was done waiting, his hands on your hips with a certainty that left no ambiguity and his mouth finding every place he had apparently been thinking about with the focused efficiency of a man working through a list he had been maintaining.

He pushed his cock inside you and went completely still — that moment, always that moment — his forehead dropping to yours, jaw tight, every muscle held.

You moaned against his palm. A rough exhale from him. His hands tightened. Then he moved and both of you made sounds that were immediately muffled — yours into his palm, his into your throat — and the specific quality of trying to be quiet together, the shared effort of it, was somehow more intimate than anything that did not require the trying.

Footsteps in the corridor and you both froze for a moment.

His eyes found yours in the stillness — wide, slightly stunned, and then something else moved through them that was the contained version of what you were also feeling — and you pressed a smile against his hand again and felt his chest moving against yours with the suppressed laughter of someone who not only found the situation equal parts amusing and risky, but that was also getting turned on by the perspective of getting caught by one of his colleagues.

The footsteps faded. He exhaled, pressed his mouth to your temple and resumed the thrusting of his hips against your core.

You came quietly with your face pressed into his shoulder and his name breathed so low it was barely sound, and felt him follow with your name muffled into your throat and his whole body shuddering through it with the specific effort of containment.

The room settled. Both of you worked to find your breaths again, his forehead against yours and a smile sitting on his face. After a moment you became aware of the crumpled papers on which you had been sitting the whole time, now a crumpled mess underneath you.

"Those seem important," you mentioned.

"They were," Baelor simply stated, pressing soft kisses against the column of your neck.

"You seem strangely calm about it," a smiled tugged at your lips.

"I find that the tradeoff was entirely worth it," a swipe from his tongue.

Heat crept up your face again. You laughed. "You are impossible."

"I'm actually rather pleased with myself," he smiled, and kissed you once before he started dealing with the mess.

You watched him straighten with his shirt untucked and found yourself thinking that this was one of your favourite versions of him — the composure not quite reassembled, the warmth of the last twenty minutes still sitting visibly in his expression while he sorted some papers with the focus of a man who was pretending to be entirely normal. The slight trembling of his hands that you saw when he straightened and fixed his shirt told you that he was far from feeling normal.

He picked up the coffee and drank the rest of it cold without comment. Looked at you still sitting on the edge of his desk.

"So," his tone was openly teasing in a manner that you were getting pretty used to, "how was the scenic route?"

"Absolutely worth it," you replied with an open grin as you ogled the dip of his neck, a few of his chest hairs adorning the skin.

The air in the royal chambers was so thick it seemed to require physical effort to breathe. You stood by the fireplace, your fingers buried in the velvet of your skirt, your knuckles as white as the marble of the statues in the gardens. You were not Dornish , you did not possess the desert fire in your blood; you came from a lineage of silences and duties, raised to be the gentle breeze that would soothe Maekar 's temper. Targaryen .

But the breeze had become a vacuum.

"Where is she?! Where is my wife?"

His scream echoed down the corridor, making your shoulders heave in a spasm of silent agony. You closed your eyes, but the image of that night refused to leave you. The banquet, the wine, the lights... and that excruciating moment when you, seated beside King Daeron the Good, heard the monarch sigh as he looked at you.

"It's a miracle of mercy," the King had said, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Looking at you, my dear, is like seeing my Dyanna return from the grave. Maekar has finally recovered what death stole from him. You are the mirror of his happiness... you are Dyanna herself reborn."

Those words were the knife that finally pierced his armor of caution.

The door was flung open. Maekar entered, the aura of a warrior prince emanating from him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you once called love, but now recognized as possession.

"What was that?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously hoarse tone as he closed the door. "You rose from the royal table without a word. The King was confused. I was... humiliated. What troubled you, wife?"

You didn't answer immediately. You turned your back to him, staring at the mirror. In the reflection, you saw a young, beautiful, and pale face—the face he had handpicked from among so many other noblewomen in the kingdom.

"Your father complimented me today," you said, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the embers. "He said I'm a miracle. That I'm Dyanna 's return ."

Maekar stood motionless. The silence that followed was a silent confession. "My father is an old and sentimental man. He sees what he wants to see."

"And you, Maekar ?" You turned slowly, your eyes filled with a deep sadness that seemed ancient. "What do you see? Because I spent months being the perfect wife. I accepted the jewels that belonged to her. I accepted the rooms she decorated. I even accepted you calling me by nicknames that, now I know, were exclusive to her."

"I gave you my name!" he exclaimed, trying to regain control of the situation, approaching with heavy steps. "I treated you with honor. What more do you want from me?"

"I want to exist!" The word exploded from within you, a cry for help you had kept inside for too long. Caution shattered like glass under the weight of your despair. "I want to be seen! I am not a receptacle for the soul of a dead woman! I am not a painting you can retouch to feel less guilty about her leaving!"

You began frantically tearing the diadem from your head, tears finally overflowing, hot and bitter. "I wondered why you insisted so much on keeping me in the shadows at night. Why your hands seemed to grope my face as if searching for features that aren't there. Today I understand. You don't love me, Maekar . You love the ghost that inhabits my flesh!"

"Shut up!" Maekar lunged forward, his pain transforming into a defensive rage. "You have no right to dig up what I tried to bury so I could live again!"

"But you won't live again!" you screamed, recoiling until your back hit the cold stone wall, your chest rising and falling in spasms of pure suffering. "You're just trying to steal my youth to feed your grief! I'm barely older than your eldest son! I should be your new life, but I'm just your macabre consolation!"

The distress on her face was so raw that Maekar seemed to hesitate for a second. He tried to reach out and touch her face, a gesture that would once have been affectionate, but now seemed like a profanation.

"Don't touch me with the hands that seek her!" You pushed him away, your voice faltering, despair draining your strength. "You destroyed my chance to be loved for who I am. You condemned me to compete with a woman who never makes mistakes because she no longer breathes!"

Maekar lost what little patience he had left. In a sudden movement, he grabbed his arms, pinning them against the wall above his head. The impact was sharp, and his body—massive, hot, and oppressive—crushed his against the rough stone.

"You're my wife," he hissed, his face millimeters from hers, his breath mingling with her sobs. "I chose you. I brought you to my bed. Do you think I could bear to look at you every day if there wasn't something real here?"

"What's real, Maekar ?" you whispered, your eyes locked on his, challenging him through the haze of tears. "Say my name. Now. Without thinking of the mother of your children. Without thinking of the woman Dayne gave you. Say MY name and convince me you know who I am."

His silence was the cruelest answer he could give. The grip on her wrists tightened, not from desire, but from the agony of a man caught in his own lie. He held her there, immobilized, while the weight of the substitution hung over them both, heavier than the walls of the fortress itself.

How do you cope with the fact that, even now, in his rage, you can see the reflection of another person in the depths of his pupils?

His silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving you dizzy, suffocated by the realization that, for the man who held your destiny in his hands, you were a blank page on which he insisted on rewriting an old poem.

Maekar kept his wrists pressed against the cold stone. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the ice of the wall, creating a symphony of sensations that made your stomach churn. You could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest, but you knew, with a bitterness that burned your throat, that this rhythm wasn't for you. It was the gallop of a man chasing a ghost.

“Say it …” you pleaded, your voice faltering, tears tracing hot paths down your pale face. “Please, Maekar … say my name. Just once. Claim the woman who is here, bleeding before you, not the memory you hold in your chest.”

His eyes, as dark as the sea before a storm, scanned every inch of her face. He analyzed her forehead, the curve of her nose, the trembling line of her lips. For a second, you saw the conflict—the agony of a man who wanted to love her, but who was chained by a grief that had become his very skin.

“You don’t understand,” she finally hissed, her voice hoarse, laden with a pain so dense it felt palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who suffers? Every time I look at you, it’s like a wound is reopened. I try to find you, I swear I try … but fate was cruel enough to give you the same light in your eyes, the same tilt of your head…”

“So it’s a punishment?” you interrupted him, your distress exploding into a desperate sob. “Am I your punishment, Maekar ? Am I the torture you chose for yourself so you wouldn’t forget what you lost?”

He released one of her wrists, but only to bring his hand to her neck, not to choke her, but to hold it with a possessiveness bordering on delirium. His thumb caressed her jaw, and for a moment, the touch was almost tender, if it weren't for the shadow of another person lingering between you.

“I wish it were different,” he murmured, drawing his face closer, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “I wanted to walk into this room and see only you. But when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the similarities become chains. I see her movements in you. I hear the echo of her laughter in yours. How can I love you for who you are, if everything about you screams at me what I can no longer have?”

That confession was the final blow. You stopped fighting his grip. Your body felt heavy, the will to resist draining away along with the tears. Despair was now a calm, deep sea, where you were sinking with no intention of surfacing.

“So you admit it…” you whispered, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t see the denial he was still trying to maintain. “I’m just a shadow. An echo of flesh and blood. You brought me to this castle to be a living tomb.”

Maekar released her other wrist and, instead of pulling away, he pulled her into a violent embrace, burying his face in her neck. You felt his body tremble—a tremor that came from the depths of his tormented soul.

“ Don’t leave me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin, sounding less like a prince and more like a man lost at sea. “Even if it’s a lie, even if you’re just a reflection of her… I can’t lose her again. I wouldn’t survive burying that face a second time.”

You felt his hands slide up your back, gripping the thin fabric of your underwear, a mixture of desperate desire and a morbid need for confirmation. In that moment, in the oppressive silence of the royal bedroom, you understood the extent of your tragedy: you loved a man who could only love you through the lens of his own loss.

You were both his cure and his disease. And, as he held you tightly as if his life depended on it, you wondered if there would ever be anything left of you to save, or if you would end up disappearing completely, consumed by the ghost of the woman you never knew, but whom you already hated with all the strength of your broken heart.

Maekar 's hands , once iron claws, now tried to find in you a refuge you no longer had the strength to offer. His embrace was heavy, an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an ocean of melancholy. But, inside you, something had died the moment he confessed that you were merely a reflection of an absence.

You didn't hug him back. His arms hung limply at his sides, useless, like those of a porcelain doll whose strings had been cut.

“Let me go…” you whispered, your voice devoid of any warmth, cold as the crypts where Dyanna lay.

“No,” he growled, squeezing her even tighter, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re my wife. Your place is here, with me, in our bed.”

“This bed was never mine, Maekar, ” you said, and the sound of your own voice, so hollow, startled her. “I’m just an intruder occupying a ghost’s space. I smell her scent on the sheets, I see her trace in your eyes when you look at me… I’m dying here. Every touch of yours takes a piece of my soul.”

With a desperate effort, you broke free. The separation wasn't violent, but it was definitive. You walked to the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight didn't reach, wanting to disappear into the shadows so he could no longer use your face as a source of comfort.

(...)

In the days that followed, the castle became a silent mausoleum. You began to dress only in gray and pale colors, rejecting the vibrant silks he so loved. You stopped wearing her jewelry, let your hair fall straight and unadorned, and avoided parties, banquets, and, above all, his gaze.

You became a ghostly presence in the Red Keep. You ate little, spoke even less, and when Maekar entered a room, you left as if his presence were poison. Maekar , in turn, began to crumble under the weight of your silence.

At first, he tried to act with the arrogance of a prince. He ordered your presence, demanded that you dine with him, but you remained there, an ice statue, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single word or a glance of affection. His desire, which had previously been fueled by resemblance, had transformed into a dark and painful obsession with you—with the woman he was truly losing.

One night, he broke into your private chambers. He smelled of strong wine and a despair that stifled the air around him. You were sitting by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.

“Look at me!” he roared, grabbing his chair and turning it violently. “I’m your husband! I demand you look at me!”

You looked up. But there was no gleam in them. There was no "light" he so desperately sought. There was only a gray emptiness, an abyss of indifference that struck him harder than any sword blow.

“What do you want, sir?” Her voice was a monotonous whisper. “Do you want me to smile? Do you want me to bow my head as she used to? I’ve forgotten how. I’ve forgotten who I was supposed to imitate.”

“I don’t want you to imitate her!” he shouted, falling to his knees before you, his large hands gripping your thighs, squeezing the fabric of your dress with trembling strength. “I miss your voice… your laugh… I miss when you looked at me and I felt there was something alive in this castle.”

“You killed that woman,” you replied, and a single, solitary tear rolled down your cheek, not of anger, but of mourning for yourself. “You suffocated her with the weight of a dead woman. Now, all you have is what’s left. The body you so longed to inhabit. You can use it if you want. I’m no longer inside it.”

Maekar let out a broken sound, a sob he tried to stifle in her skirt. He realized, too late, that in trying to reclaim the past through you, he had destroyed the only future that could have made him happy. He missed your genuine touch, your spontaneous affection, the unique woman you were before he tried to mold you into someone else.

He began kissing her hands, desperate, almost feverish kisses.

“Please…” he pleaded against her cold skin. “Come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll burn the portraits, I’ll move to another castle, I…”

“You can’t burn what’s etched in your mind,” you said, pulling your hand away with cruel slowness. “And you can’t bring me back. I’m not Dyanna , I can’t be resurrected.”

You stood up and walked towards the bed, lying down and turning your back to him, leaving him there, on his knees on the cold floor, a powerful prince reduced to a man begging for a crumb of attention from the woman he himself had broken.

The room was utterly dark, but his suffering was almost visible, a black shadow enveloping him as he realized that he now had two dead women in his life: one buried in the earth and the other lying beside him, alive, but forever out of his reach.

(...)

Night crept like a wounded animal along the walls of the Red Keep. Maekar could no longer bear the silence you had erected between them—an ice wall more insurmountable than any fortification he had ever besieged.

He entered the room, the sound of his boots echoing like the beating of an anxious heart. He found her standing before the fireplace, her eyes lost in the flames, her body enveloped in a white linen nightgown that made her look like a specter. She didn't move. She didn't recognize him.

“My sons asked about you today,” he began, his voice low, trying to find a way through the fog of indifference that surrounded her. “ Daeron is drinking more than he should, Aerion is growing increasingly cruel, and even little Aegon misses you… Aemon tried to explain his sadness to me with maester ’s words , but none of them understand why the light in this house has gone out.”

You remained motionless. The names of his children—the four princes Dyanna had left as his inheritance—hung in the air. You loved them, in a melancholic and distant way, but every time you looked at them, you saw the traces of the one you could never overcome.

“They are her children,” you finally said, your voice devoid of emotion. “They have her blood. They don’t need an echo to comfort them.”

Maekar growled, a sound of pain and frustration, and lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist with an urgency bordering on desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with a hunger that seemed to devour her soul.

“I want children of yours ,” he whispered against her skin, his warm lips tracing the outline of her ear. “I want daughters who have your spirit, not hers. My sons are a disappointment, but my daughters, I know they will be glorious. I saw them in my dreams, beautiful girls. Beautiful like you.”

His hands moved up, bold and possessive, squeezing her breasts through the thin fabric, trying to rekindle the flame that once burned so easily. He turned her forcefully, pressing his body against hers, his muscular thighs trapping hers. His desire was evident, a rhythmic and dark pulse that demanded surrender.

He kissed her with desperate violence, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands feverishly exploring her curves. He wanted to possess her, he wanted pleasure to make her forget, he wanted her moans to drown out the screams of his own conscience.

But you remained rigid. Your arms lay limp at your sides. Your lips didn't move beneath his. Your eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, cold and empty like those of a corpse. You were marble beneath his fire.

Maekar stopped. He stepped back only a few inches, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps, his face flushed with lust and growing anger.

“React!” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Scratch me, hit me, hate me if you have to, but be here !”

“You wanted a dead woman, my prince,” you replied, your voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Here I am. You may use my body. It is yours by right, by law, and by conquest. But do not ask me to participate in your fantasy. Do not ask me to pretend you are looking at me.”

He let her go as if he had been burned. The humiliation of being rejected not in body, but in soul, was a wound that the pride of a Targaryen could not bear.

“You’re torturing me!” he yelled, kicking a chair that flew against the wall. “I’m trying! I’m begging for a fresh start! I talk about future daughters, about our legacy, and you treat me like a rapist in my own bed!”

“Because you don’t want a fresh start!” you exploded, the first sign of life in days being a bitter rage that lit up your eyes. “You want redemption! You want to put children in my womb to prove to yourself that life has conquered death, but you still wear her wedding ring! You still sleep on her side of the bed! You want my daughters so they can grow up and become part of your fantasy!”

"That's not true!" he roared, moving closer with his finger pointed, his face inches from hers.

“It’s the purest truth that exists in this castle of lies!” you retorted, your chest rising and falling with a vibrant agony. “You miss her, Maekar . You miss her so much that the scent of my skin punishes you because it’s not the scent you memorized. You hate me for not being her, and you hate yourself even more for desiring my body while thinking of her soul.”

Maekar remained silent, his breathing erratic. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had just tried to seduce her, and saw the trembling in them. His despair was so intense it seemed he would collapse right there.

“I miss who I was when I was with her,” he confessed, his voice almost a broken whisper. “But I miss who I thought you would be…”

“ I could have been everything,” you said, sadness returning to extinguish your fury. “But you turned me into nothing.”

You walked to the bed and lay down, covering yourself up to your neck, leaving him alone before the ashes of the fireplace. Maekar remained there, a prince without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, realizing that the "love" he had tried to force was the very rope that was strangling what remained of both your hearts.

(...)

The weeks that followed were marked by a Herculean effort on Maekar 's part. He was not a man of delicate gestures or poetic words, but the silence you maintained was a punishment he could no longer bear. He began to act with desperate caution, as if he were trying to tame a wounded creature that could vanish at the slightest rough touch.

The room, once a battlefield, had become a sanctuary of silent offerings. In the morning, you would find flowers that were not Dyanna 's favorites , but wildflowers that grew on his own family's lands, brought by knights he had hastily sent. On his dressing table, the jewels of the deceased were no longer there, but new pieces, recently forged, with designs that he himself tried to describe to the blacksmiths—something that would be uniquely his.

But her soul only found rest away from him, in the gardens or in the library, surrounded by his children.

“Look, Mommy!” Little Aegon, with his tousled silver curls, ran toward her, holding out a stone dragon egg that he swore he could feel warming.

You smiled—a real smile, the first in a long time—and pulled him onto your lap, sitting on the stone bench. Aemon sat beside you, a heavy book on his lap, reading passages about the history of Westeros in his young, serious voice.

“The egg isn’t hot, Egg, ” Aemon corrected, though his eyes shone with affection for his younger brother. “But the sun is. You should be careful not to burn your skin.”

You stroked Aegon's face, feeling the purity of that child who, unlike his father, loved you unconditionally. Daeron , the eldest, lay on the nearby grass, a jug of water (which you insisted replace the wine) within his reach. He watched you with a look of melancholy understanding; of them all, he was the one who best understood the shadow that hung over his father's marriage.

Even Aerion , whose cruel tendencies were beginning to blossom and frighten the court, became docile in her presence. He approached with an almost predatory beauty, but knelt at her feet to show her a dragonbone dagger he had acquired.

“ If anyone in this castle dares to make her cry again,” Aerion hissed, his violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, “I will make them forget how to breathe.”

Aerion 's hair , a gesture of affection that seemed to ease the tension in the young prince's shoulders.

"No one will make me cry, Aerion . We are at peace here."

It was in this scene that Maekar found her. He stopped under the stone arch in the garden, observing the scene in silence. His chest ached at the sight of the smile you so generously bestowed upon his children, but which you categorically denied him. He felt a pang of envy for his own children, but also a profound admiration. You were what held that broken family together, even though it was shattered inside.

That night, he didn't enter the room with the weight of authority. He entered slowly, carrying a small tray with tea and honey.

“I saw you with them today,” he said, his voice hoarse, keeping a safe distance. “You have a patience I never possessed. They love you… and I’m beginning to realize they love you for who you are, not for who you represent.”

You turned around, the moonlight framing your melancholy silhouette.

"They are pure. They don't look back. They look to the present."

Maekar set the tray down on the table and took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of surrender.

“I want to learn to do the same,” he whispered, distress etched into every line of his stern face. “I know what I did… the way I tried to mold you… was a crime. I was lost in my own hell and dragged you there with me. But today, seeing you with Aegon and Aerion , I realized it’s not the past I want to reclaim. I want to conquer your present.”

He knelt down, not to demand, but to beg.

“Let me try again. Not like a man chasing a ghost, but like a man desperately in love with a woman who hates him for good reason. Give me a chance to prove that I know your name, that I know who you are in the dark and in the light.”

You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders eased an inch. The pain was still there, deep and dense, but the sight of Maekar Targaryen — the Prince of Summerhall , the relentless warrior — knelt and vulnerable, and began to pierce the ice around his heart.

“Words are easy, Maekar, ” you said, your voice still trembling with sorrow. “Time will be my judge.”

“Then give me all the time in the world,” he replied, taking her hand with a tenderness you never imagined he possessed, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that seemed like a blood oath. “I will spend the rest of my life in your shadow, if it means that one day you will smile at me again as you smiled at Aegon today.”

(...)

Time was no longer measured by the beating of the stars, but by the cautious rhythm of Maekar 's breaths . He kept his word. In the following months, he became a silent observer of his own life, a man who seemed to be relearning the alphabet through his gestures.

He no longer forced her into bed. In fact, he began sleeping on a small divan in the corner of the room, or often spent sleepless nights in his office, just so she could have the vastness of the real bed to herself, free from the weight of his body and the suffocation of his memories.

However, his true healing came not from his apologies, but from the boys' laughter.

One autumn afternoon, the wind was blowing strongly from the Bay, and you were sitting in the inner courtyard with Aegon and Aemon . Little " Egg " was desperately trying to balance himself atop a low wall, while Aemon read aloud passages about dragons of old.

“If I had a dragon,” Egg exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with an innocence that almost made her cry, “I would take her flying far away from here, to where the sun never sets!”

You laughed, pulling the boy to the ground before he fell.

"And what would I do in a place where the sun never sets, Egg ? I wouldn't be able to sleep."

"You don't need to sleep to dream, Mom," he replied, hugging her neck tightly.

The word "mommy" still vibrated in her chest with a bittersweetness. You felt a pair of eyes on you and looked up. Aerion was leaning against a nearby column, watching the scene. He didn't join in the games, but his posture was less aggressive when you were around. He approached and, with a rarely gentle gesture, placed a perfect red apple in your lap.

“For you, ma’am,” he said, with a half-smile that hid the darkness everyone said inhabited his soul. “It’s the sweetest in the orchard.”

"Thank you, Aerion, " you whispered, touching his hand briefly.

Maekar watched from the upper balcony. He saw how you flourished among his children, how you were the glue that held those distinct and difficult personalities together in harmony. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a mixture of gratitude and a heart-wrenching loneliness. He desired you, but that desire was now purged of any trace of Dyanna ; he desired the woman who knew how to soothe Aerion 's fury and nurture Aegon's dreams.

That night, the cold intensified. You were in bed, almost asleep, when you heard his hesitant footsteps. Maekar didn't go to the divan. He stopped beside the bed, his imposing silhouette cutting through the light of the fireplace.

“ They’re growing up so fast,” he said, his voice muffled by weariness and melancholy. “ Daeron challenged me today. He said I don’t deserve his silence, that I should be grateful you still breathe the same air as me.”

You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets up to your chest.

" Daeron is too observant for his own good."

Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, but his eyes were fixed on his with a desperate hunger for connection.

"He's right. I don't deserve this. But today, seeing you in the courtyard... I realized I can no longer live in this self-imposed exile."

He reached out, pausing mid-way, waiting for your permission. You didn't recoil. He touched your face, his scarred fingers gliding across your skin with the lightness of someone touching broken glass.

“I don’t miss her when I’m with you now,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. I miss the woman you were before I tried to bury you alive. Please… let me back in. Not as a ghost, but as the man who wants to be the father of the daughters you will still have.”

The despair in his eyes was so real, so raw, that the last barrier of ice in his heart cracked. You saw the man, not the prince, not the widower, but the broken man being consumed by his own mistake.

“ Maekar …” you whispered.

He leaned in, sealing his lips with a kiss that was anything but violent. It was a kiss of supplication, of mourning for what was lost and of hope for what could be built. His body trembled against hers, and for the first time, when he whispered words of desire in her ear, he used her name. He called for her, and only for her. The night was long, marked by a kind of surrender they had never experienced—a surrender made of pain and a dark need to feel alive amidst so many shadows. And as he possessed her under the dim light of the embers, she realized that, although the scars would never disappear, perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for a new story to be written upon the ashes of the old.

Maekar 's heavy breathing . When he finally uttered your name, the sound wasn't an echo or a comparison; it was an invocation. It was the acknowledgment that, in that bed, there was no room for anyone else but the two of you.

He pulled her to the center of the mattress with an urgency that didn't stem from pure lust, but from a desperate need to anchor himself in the reality of his existence. Maekar undressed with abrupt movements, shedding layers of pride and sorrow, until his warm, calloused skin met hers. The contrast was almost painful: his brute strength against her melancholic tenderness.

“ Look at me,” he ordered, but his voice was a broken whisper, a plea. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is here.”

He positioned himself between her legs, the weight of his body a welcome burden that finally chased away the cold. Maekar 's hands , large enough to encircle her wrists, rose to her face, holding her head with a possessiveness that she now understood as a fear that she would disappear.

When he entered you, there was none of the impatient rush of before. There was a sigh. A deep, slow entry that made you arch your back, letting out a trembling sigh against his shoulder. It was an invasion, but also a surrender. With each rhythmic and deliberate movement, Maekar seemed to be trying to fill the void he himself had carved in your chest.

His hands moved down to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with a force that would leave marks—marks that, for the first time, she wanted to bear as proof that she belonged to herself and to him, and not to a dead past.

“You…” he gasped, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat mingling in the warm light of the embers. “It’s just you. The scent of your skin… the warmth of your body…”

The rhythm quickened, becoming more raw, more intense. The pleasure was tinged with a latent anguish, a tension bordering on suffering. Maekar possessed her with the intensity of a man trying to exorcise demons through flesh. He kissed her violently, sucking on her lips as if he could extract the life from her to sustain his own, while their bodies collided in a dull, constant impact.

You felt your nails dig into his broad back, scratching the Prince's skin, leaving red furrows that he received as if they were medals. Pain and pleasure were threads intertwined in a rope that tightened ever more. The desperation of being loved for who you were finally exploded in a climax that left you breathless, your body trembling in spasms of pure emotional and physical exhaustion.

Maekar followed close behind, a muffled roar escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, collapsing onto your chest as if all his strength had drained away in that act of surrender.

For long minutes, the only sound in the room was that of ragged breaths. Maekar did not move; he remained there, heavy and protective, his face hidden in his disheveled hair.

“I will never call you by another name again,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a grim promise. “I will dedicate each night to erasing the shadow I cast upon you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, sensing the vulnerability of the man the entire kingdom feared. Dyanna 's ghost was still there, in some dark corner of memory, but that night, between the sweat and dried tears, you finally felt that your own name was the only one echoing within the walls of the Red Keep.

The silence that followed the first climax was not one of rest, but of a hungry vigil. Maekar did not withdraw; he remained anchored to you, feeling the residual tremors that still coursed through your legs. The light from the dying embers traced the contours of his muscles, transforming him into a creature of shadows and reliefs.

He slowly raised his torso, supporting himself on his elbows to face you. His eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated until they almost extinguished the violet iris. Dyanna 's ghost was no longer between you; there was only an earthly and visceral obsession with the woman who, for the first time, met his gaze.

“I feel you,” he growled, his voice so deep it vibrated against his sternum. “I feel your heart beating against mine. Say it’s real. Say you won’t disappear when the sun rises.”

In response, you slid your hands down his back, feeling the war scars and the furrows your own fingernails had just carved. You pulled him down again, seeking his mouth with a thirst that was no longer for comfort, but for dominance.

The second act began with renewed ferocity. Maekar turned her onto her back with a brusque, possessive movement, pinning her against the silk sheets. He knelt behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a force that compelled her to arch, exposing the vulnerable curve of her spine.

“You are mine,” he hissed close to her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “Not the prince’s, not the Targaryen name . Mine.”

When he penetrated her again, the angle was deeper, more invasive. Each thrust was a dry impact that drew hoarse moans from her throat. Maekar moved with the cadence of a conqueror, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head slightly back so he could bite the soft skin of her shoulder, leaving a purplish mark that would be her secret under her high-necked dresses the next day.

The pleasure was intense, almost painful in its intensity. You felt his heat burning against your cold skin, a contrast that drove you wild. The room seemed to shrink until the entire universe was reduced to that frenetic contact, to the sound of flesh against flesh and the weight of a man's desire, who was trying, through that act, to fuse his soul with yours.

Maekar increased the pace, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his back. He was on edge, his breath turning into short growls. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted your complete surrender. He wanted you to feel that, in that moment, he was the only man in the world, and you, the only woman he had ever desired.

With one last violent thrust, he held her tight, his nails digging into her hips as he surrendered to the climax. You felt the wave of heat wash over you, a spasm of ecstasy that left you powerless, collapsing onto the pillows as he fell on top of you, exhausted but finally present.

He remained there, his face buried in the back of her neck, his heart pounding against his back. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the unspoken promise that, though the past was a scar, the present was a fire neither of them wanted to extinguish.

(...)

The days in the Red Keep lost the gray hue of mourning and gained the dark, dense tone of suppressed desire. Maekar did not become a bard or a knight of light romances; he remained the Prince of Summerhall , a man of few words and a stern temperament. But his "good husband" manifested itself in acts of protective possessiveness.

He began to notice what you enjoyed when you didn't think you were being watched. He noticed that you liked the cool wind on the battlements at dawn, and he started to be there, waiting for you with a heavy fur cloak to wrap around your shoulders before you could shiver. He noticed that you lost yourself in thought in the septum, not out of devotion, but because of the silence, and he started to ensure that no one disturbed you, posting himself like a sentinel at the door.

The reconquest wasn't made of flowers, but of presence. And of a carnal urgency that seemed endless.

On a rainy afternoon, you were in the royal library, searching for a manuscript for Aemon . The smell of old parchment and dust always calmed you. Maekar entered, his armor still damp from combat practice, the sound of metal echoing in the silence of the room.

He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, trapping you between two tall oak shelves. His weight was a promise.

“ Maekar … the servants may come in,” you whispered, your voice faltering as his calloused, warm hand moved up your thigh, lifting the layers of silk from your dress.

“I told everyone to leave,” he hissed against her lips. “This place is mine. You are mine.”

He lifted her, setting her on the solid wood table, scattering scrolls carelessly. There, amidst tales of dead kings, he possessed her with a savage hunger, his kisses muffling her moans as the sound of the rain outside competed with the frenetic rhythm of their bodies. There was no trace of Dyanna there; only the raw heat and sweat of a man rediscovering pleasure through every inch of his skin.

There was a morning in the glass gardens, where the humid heat of the exotic plants made the air feel like honey. You were tending to some herbs when you felt his hands on your waist. Maekar turned you around so your back was to the broad foliage, undoing the laces of your bodice with an impatience that made you gasp.

“You’re different today,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her back as he penetrated her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts with a force that was almost a claim.

“It’s because I can finally breathe, Maekar ,” you replied, throwing your head back, feeling the sun through the glass and the constant impact of his body against yours.

He paused for a second, his face buried in her hair, and whispered her name as if it were a prayer of gratitude. The sex wasn't just physical; it was his way of asking for forgiveness without needing to use words his soldier's throat couldn't pronounce.

Maekar began to integrate himself into your afternoons with the children. He would sit at a distance, watching you play with Aegon or discuss philosophy with Aemon . Sometimes he would intervene to teach Aerion how to hold a dagger more efficiently, but his eyes always returned to you, seeking your approval.

One evening, after a family dinner where Aerion had behaved himself and Aegon had fallen asleep in his arms, Maekar took her to their chambers. He didn't lead her straight to bed. He sat her down before the mirror and, with infinite patience, began to brush her hair.

“You’re getting to know yourself again,” he said, looking at his reflection. “And I’m having the privilege of getting to know this new woman along with you.”

He dropped the brush and began kissing her shoulders, his hands sliding down to the front of her dress. The act began slowly, almost tenderly, on the wolfskin floor before the fireplace. He explored her with his tongue and fingers, mapping each new reaction, each sigh that was uniquely hers. The pleasure became a dense fire, a struggle of bodies where melancholy finally gave way to a dark and absolute passion.

Each time he took her—at the privy council table, in the stables, or in the dead of night in the royal bed— Maekar made it clear that the past was being buried beneath the weight of the present. He wasn't just being a good husband; he was becoming her world, and you, for the first time, didn't feel like a shadow, but the very light guiding him out of the darkness.

(...)

The following weeks were not marked by major events , but by a subtle and persistent change in the very substance of her body. Maekar 's devouring passion , which had previously seemed to be the only fire capable of keeping her warm, began to exact a price she did not understand.

The first sign came on a gray morning, typical of King's Landing. Maekar had already left for training with the sons, and the room still held the scent of his sweat, sex, and musk. When you tried to get out of bed, the world spun violently. A sudden, acidic nausea rose in your throat, forcing you to put your hand to your mouth and sit up abruptly.

In the Great Hall, the smell of fried bacon and warm bread, once your favorite, had become an enemy. You sat between Aegon and Aemon , trying to maintain a regal posture, but each breath of air laden with the odor of food made your stomach churn.

Maekar , seated at the head of the table, noticed immediately. His eyes, now always attentive to every nuance of your face, narrowed. He saw you push away the silver plate with a hint of revulsion, your skin paler than usual.

“You didn’t touch the food,” he observed, his deep voice cutting through the boys’ conversation. “Are you sick?”

“Just a passing dizziness,” you lied, your voice coming out weaker than you intended. “The heat in the glass gardens yesterday must have been excessive.”

He didn't seem convinced. He stood up, walked over to you, and placed his immense hand on your forehead. His touch, which used to set your skin on fire, now brought a comfort that made you want to close your eyes and cry for no apparent reason.

“You’re cold. And trembling,” he murmured, ignoring the curious glances of his children. “ The maester should examine you.”

“It’s not necessary,” you insisted, but the smell of the wine Daeron was serving beside you was the final blow. You stood up hastily, muttering an inaudible excuse, and fled into the hallway before the humiliation of fainting in front of the court could materialize.

You didn't get far. Maekar caught up with her in the chambers, slamming the door shut with a bang that made his head throb. He found her hunched over the porcelain basin, her body trembling with nausea.

He didn't recoil in disgust. On the contrary, Maekar approached and gently brushed her hair back with a delicacy you never imagined a warrior possessed. He waited for the discomfort to pass, wiping her face with a damp cloth before helping her lie down.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression wavering between extreme concern and something deeper, darker.

“Some days…” you admitted, your chest rising and falling with difficulty. “I feel tired. An exhaustion that doesn’t just come from our nights. It’s like my body is being claimed by something… or someone.”

He remained silent for a long moment, his hand resting cautiously on her belly, on the thin fabric of her garment. The touch was possessive, but imbued with a new reverence.

“The blood?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Did it come this month?”

You shook your head. The penny finally dropped, bringing with it a wave of distress and terrifying joy.

“ I am not Dyanna , Maekar, ” you whispered, tears beginning to well up. “The child who grows up here… he will not be a replacement. He cannot be a ghost.”

Maekar closed his eyes for a second, and you saw his jaw tremble. He leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that tasted of desperation and a solemn promise.

“He will be my new beginning,” he declared, his voice hoarse against her lips. “And you will be the mother of my daughters. They will be the fruit of our desire, not of my memory.”

He pulled her to his chest, embracing her with a strength that said he would never let her fall. The unease was still there, the nausea persisted, but under the protection of Maekar 's arms , you began to feel that, for the first time, the future was not a shadow of the past, but a new territory, dangerous and beautiful, that you two would explore together.

The Prince of Summerhall no longer had ghosts to chase; he had a new life pulsing within the woman he had finally learned to love completely.

(...)

The news of the pregnancy, which should have been a balm, became the trigger for a new and profound affliction. While Maekar saw it as the seal of his redemption, you saw only the danger of a repeating cycle. The nausea in your stomach wasn't just physical; it was the viscous fear that this child would be condemned to carry the weight of a legacy that didn't belong to them.

Maekar tried to approach, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction, but you flinched, recoiling from his touch as if his hand might mark the baby with the same shadows that had marked you.

“No…” you whispered, stepping back until the vanity table blocked your movement. “Don’t you dare celebrate this like it’s a trophy, Maekar .”

“It’s life winning, my wife,” he said, his voice vibrant, trying to ignore the distance you were keeping. “It’s our blood.”

“It’s my body being used again to soothe your grief!” You exploded, tears of emotional exhaustion streaming freely. “I won’t allow it, Maekar . I won’t let you do to this baby what you did to me. I won’t let you look at this child’s face and search for traces of children who have already grown up, or of a woman who has already passed away.”

You hugged your own belly, a gesture of instinctive and desperate protection. The anguish in your voice was raw, an open wound bleeding before him.

“And if they are girls…” her voice faltered, becoming a whisper laden with threat and pleading. “If they are the daughters you mention so often, you have no right to be disappointed. You have no right to look at them and sigh because they are not the sons Dyanna gave you. You have no right to demand that they be ghosts of the princesses you once imagined.”

Maekar stopped. The silence that followed wasn't tense like the previous ones, but filled with something unexpected. He didn't growl, didn't defend himself furiously. Instead, a low sound escaped his throat—a short, hoarse laugh, devoid of mockery.

“Disappointed?” He stepped forward, but this time kept his hands down, submitting to his guard. “Sons are a curse of toil and stubbornness, as Daeron and Aerion prove every morning. My sons are my pride, but they are also my eternal battle.”

He moved a little closer, and the candlelight revealed a melancholy gentleness in his features that you rarely saw.

“Girls are all I want,” he confessed, his voice falling into a tone of somber confidence. “I want daughters so I can learn what sweetness is, something that war and duty stole from me long ago.”

Maekar extended his hand, and this time you didn't recoil, allowing him to lightly touch the tips of your fingers.

“I am not a devout man, you know that well. The Gods and I rarely speak,” he continued, with a sad half-smile that broke through what remained of his resistance. “But for them, I will kneel. I will pray to the Seven, every day, that they do not inherit my hardness or the shadow of those who came before. I will pray that they are exactly like you. Sweet, resilient… and entirely themselves.”

The sincerity in his words, the desire for his future daughters to be a reflection of himself and not a mere memory, struck you with the force of a blow. The despair that suffocated you began to give way to a fragile and painful hope. Maekar pulled you close, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the weight of a man who finally understood that the greatest victory was not recovering what was lost, but protecting what had just blossomed.

The months that followed transformed the Red Keep into a stage of contrasts. As your belly grew, rounding out beneath the fine silk, a new, almost ethereal beauty emanated from you. The pallor of suffering had been replaced by a warm glow, a vitality that seemed to defy the cold stones and the whispers of the corridors.

You were radiant, and that was what irritated the "snakes" of the court the most.

Congratulations poured in from all sides, though you received them with cautious courtesy. King Daeron the Good often sought you out in the gardens, gazing at your belly with a tenderness that no longer looked to the past, but to the continuation of your lineage. Your brothers-in-law, Princes Baelor , Aerys, and Rhaegel , brought gifts and kind words, recognizing in you the strength that kept Maekar 's temper in check.

Even her stepchildren seemed to orbit around her. Aegon hardly left her side, fascinated by the baby's movements beneath her skin, while Aerion , in his lucid moments, stood like a personal guard, threatening with his gaze any courtier who dared whisper anything malicious about the prince's "new favorite."

But it was the whispers that still hurt her. The gossip in the dark corners about how you were "just a surrogate womb" or about Maekar 's "sick obsession . "

“We can’t stay here,” you murmured one night, as Maekar undid the braids in your hair. “The walls have ears, and the tongues here are full of poison. I don’t want them to be born in a place where the air is made of lies.”

Maekar stopped, his large hands resting on his shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.

“ Summerhall, ” he said, the name of the summer residence sounding like a promise of freedom. “We’ll go back home. There, the sun warms the stone and there are no courtiers to measure your worth by the face of a dead woman. There, it will just be us.”

But, while the match was still far away, Maekar seemed unable to keep his hands off you. The advanced state of your pregnancy, instead of pushing him away, seemed to draw him in with a gravitational force. He was obsessed with your form, with the fullness of your body that carried the life he so desired.

The scandal was inevitable. During a formal dinner, attended by the Queen and half the nobility of Westeros , Maekar couldn't hide his hunger. He ignored his plate, preferring to lean towards you, whispering dark, hot words in your ear, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your belly under the table, but sometimes rising boldly to caress the exposed skin of your cleavage.

“ Maekar , everyone is looking,” you whispered, your face flushing, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire you could no longer suppress.

“Let them look,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on her lips with an intensity that made the ladies-in-waiting look away and the Queen cough discreetly behind her fan. “They see a princess. I see my whole world.”

That same night, he didn't wait for them to reach the private chambers. The moment the hallway doors closed behind them, he pressed her against the heavy tapestry. His calloused, urgent hands moved up her thighs, lifting her heavy skirts, ignoring the bulge of her belly that lay between them.

“You ’re so beautiful it hurts,” he hissed, his kisses trailing down her neck as he possessed her right there, standing, in an act of lust and adoration that defied all protocol.

You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, feeling the baby kick amidst the warmth of your bodies. Maekar paused for a second, feeling the small movement against his chest, and the hard expression on his face dissolved into something bordering on religious adoration.

“Feel this…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They are coming. And they will be your reflection, my love. Only yours.”

Maekar 's desire for you had become absolute, a flame that no longer sought to illuminate the past, but to ignite the present you were building, one step at a time. King Daeron the Good rarely lost his temper, but that morning, the walls of the Privy Council trembled with a voice that hid no dissent.

“This is no journey, Maekar , it’s a delusion!” the King exclaimed, slapping his open hand on the map of Westeros . “She’s on the seventh moon. The road to Summerhall is unforgiving, cut by rain and unstable terrain. Do you want to risk her life and my grandson’s out of sheer pride? Out of a lack of the whispers of courtiers?”

Maekar remained motionless, his jaw so clenched it seemed made of iron. His eyes did not waver before his father.

“It’s not pride, Your Majesty. It’s self-preservation,” Maekar retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not allow her to give birth in a viper’s nest that counts her heartbeats, waiting for a mistake. Summerhall is my right. It’s the place where the air doesn’t reek of ulterior motives.”

“You’re a stubborn fool!” Daeron sighed, massaging his temples. “If anything happens to her on that road, no exile or title will protect you from your own conscience. But I see you’ve already decided. Leave, then. But take the boys. If you want your ‘private kingdom,’ take your whole house with you.”

(...)

The entourage set off under a heavy sky. The journey was a military operation. Maekar ordered the carriage to be reinforced with extra springs and lined with twice the amount of furs, but not all the luxury in the world could mask the reality of his body.

Inside the carriage, the space was shared with little Aegon, who wouldn't stop asking questions, and Aemon , who tried to read amidst the jolts. Outside, mounted on their horses, Daeron and Aerion followed the procession. The tension between the brothers was constant; Aerion provoked the guards, and Daeron , in his sober moments, exchanged worried glances with his father.

You felt every mile as punishment. The heartburn was a constant fire in your chest, and the nausea returned with a vengeful force, aggravated by the smell of horse and sweat coming from outside. Sometimes, the world spun so fast that you had to dig your nails into the upholstery to avoid fainting.

"Are you alright?" Aegon asked, touching her hand with his small fingers.

“I’m fine, darling,” you lied, forcing a pale smile as you tasted something bitter in your mouth. “The baby is just eager to see the new house.”

Maekar never left his side. He rode so close to the carriage that you could hear the creaking of his saddle. Whenever the caravan stopped to rest, he was the first to open the door.

"Everyone out!" he ordered his children, his voice not allowing for any delays.

He would enter and find her pale, with cold sweat covering her forehead. Without saying a word, Maekar would pull her into his arms, letting her nestle against his neck. He would bring her water with lemon and pieces of ginger, forcing her to eat it to soothe her stomach.

“I warned you it would be difficult,” he murmured, guilt glistening briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a grim determination.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered against his armor. “Just get me out of here, Maekar .”

Despite his condition, Maekar 's desire for you seemed to have mutated. It was no longer mere lust; it was a hunger for possession, a need to reaffirm that you were still alive and that you belonged to him. During the nightly stops, inside the royal tent, the outside world would cease to exist.

Even with the discomfort, you sought him out. There was something visceral and comforting about his strength. Maekar undressed you with torturous slowness, his eyes devouring the fullness of your belly, the curve of your breasts that now weighed heavily under his touch.

“You drive me crazy,” he hissed one night, kneeling between your legs while you propped yourself up on pillows to ease the pressure on your back. “This body… this life you carry… I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you now.”

He took her with an almost sickly reverence, slow, deep movements that made you forget the nausea and dizziness. The sex was dense, wet, and charged with a shared anguish. He kissed each nascent stretch mark on her skin as if they were scars from a holy battle. With each moan that escaped her lips, Maekar seemed to reclaim a piece of his own soul.

Outside the tent, the sons listened to the whispers and muffled movements. Daeron merely rolled his eyes and drank more wine, while Aerion kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring that no one approached their father's "sanctuary."

(...)

The journey lasted weeks. But when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon, bathed in the golden light of dusk, Maekar looked at you—exhausted, beautiful, and pregnant—and knew that, despite the King's scoldings and the dangers of the road, he had finally brought his queen to the place where shadows were not allowed to enter.

Summerhall was, at last, the balm Maekar had promised. Unlike the oppressive stone and smoke of King's Landing, the summer residence was bathed in a constant golden light, surrounded by fields that smelled of damp grass and wildflowers. But for you, the final stages of pregnancy had transformed that paradise into a gilded prison of weariness and affliction.

Her body seemed to have reached the limit of its endurance. Her belly, now low and heavy, made every movement a Herculean task. Her feet and ankles were so swollen that she could barely fit into her soft suede shoes, and heartburn was a constant companion that prevented her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time.

Maekar , however, had changed. The stern prince whom the kingdom feared had given way to a man whose life revolved entirely around his discomfort. He refused to participate in hunts or long exercises with his sons, preferring to spend the afternoons sitting beside them on the terraces of Summerhall .

“You’re having trouble breathing,” he observed one afternoon, closing a war map he was trying to read. He stood up and stopped behind his armchair, beginning to massage his shoulders with firm, experienced pressure.

“The space is getting too small for her, Maekar ,” you murmured, placing your hand on your belly, which was visibly moving as if an internal storm were raging beneath your skin. “I feel like my lungs have nowhere left to expand.”

He knelt before her, ignoring the dignity of his position. Maekar pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. The silence that followed was thick.

“They are impatient,” he whispered against the thin fabric of her dress. “Like their father. Forgive me for causing you this burden.”

Her stepchildren also seemed to have felt the change of atmosphere. Aegon brought her fresh flowers every day, sitting on the floor beside her to tell stories he heard from the maesters , trying to distract her from her back pain. Aemon brought her herbal infusions to soothe her heartburn, watching her with an academic seriousness that concealed a deep concern.

Even Aerion had become a constant and strangely protective presence. He refused to let any servant get too close with heavy objects or food that gave off strong smells that might trigger his nausea.

“She will be the most beautiful princess Westeros has ever seen,” Aerion once declared, polishing his dagger as he watched the garden entrance. “And I will teach anyone who disagrees the price of offending my father’s blood.”

(...)

Despite his exhaustion and the feeling of being "broken," as you used to say, Maekar continued to look at you with a hunger bordering on the sacred. To him, your stretched skin, your swollen lips, and your difficulty breathing were the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed. It was physical proof that you were building something new, something that belonged only to the two of you.

At night, the heat in Summerhall was stifling. You would often stay in just an open silk robe, trying to find some coolness.

“Don’t look at me now, Maekar, ” you pleaded one night, feeling heavy and awkward as you tried to settle into bed. “I feel like a burden.”

“A burden?” He leaned closer, his voice hoarse with restrained desire. He helped her lie on her side, gently placing pillows under her belly with an almost painful delicacy. “You are the most perfect sight that has ever graced these halls.”

He lay down behind you, his massive, warm body protecting your back. His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, slowly moving up to the side of your stomach. Maekar began kissing the nape of your neck, your shoulders, his trembling fingers sliding up the fabric of your tunic.

Sex, in these last days, was a slow and moist celebration of survival. He didn't penetrate her with the force of before; he explored her with his tongue and fingers, searching for her pleasure points with infinite patience, wanting to relieve the tension in her body through ecstasy. When he finally entered, it was with an almost tearful gentleness, a rhythmic movement that accompanied her whispers of distress and desire.

“You are my life,” he whispered against your ear, while you moaned softly, feeling the pleasure momentarily ease the pressure on your ribs. “My queen of Summerhall .”

In that darkness, with the scent of jasmine wafting through the window and the warmth of Maekar 's body merging with yours, the Red Keep and its cruel whispers seemed to belong to another world. There, you were the center of a universe that Maekar... Targaryen had sworn to protect with every drop of his blood, anxiously awaiting the moment when the cry of a new life would finally silence the echoes of the past.

The afternoon in Summerhall was filled with the sweet scent of hay and the lazy warmth of the autumn sun. You sat on a carved stone bench beneath the wisteria pergola, watching your stepchildren. Your back felt like a mass of red-hot iron, and an uncomfortable pressure in your lower abdomen came and went, like waves of a persistent tide.

You ignored it. It had already been days of discomfort, and you didn't want to interrupt the rare moment of peace between the boys.

Aegon was at her feet, trying to draw a dragon in the dirt with a stick, while Aemon recited passages from an ancient tome about the stars. Daeron , exceptionally sober, polished the hilt of his sword, and Aerion watched the horizon with that restless look that always kept her on edge.

A sharp pain made her gasp for a second. You dug your nails into the edge of the seat, your forehead beaded with cold sweat.

“You’re very quiet,” Aemon observed, raising his eyes with that insight that would one day make him a maester .

“It’s just the weight, my dear…” you began, but the words died in your throat as a sudden, uncontrollable sensation of heat spread between your legs.

The sound of the liquid hitting the stone floor was faint, but in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a crash. Her light silk skirts instantly darkened, soaked through.

Aegon stopped drawing, his violet eyes wide as he pointed to the puddle forming beneath his feet.

"Mommy... did you... did you pee?" the boy asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.

Aerion let out a short, nasal laugh, a sound devoid of empathy that cut through the air like a razor blade.

“It seems the great lady of Summerhall has lost control of her basic faculties,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a scene worthy of a peasant.”

“Shut up, Aerion !” Daeron roared, leaping to his feet and dropping his sword to the ground. He saw his face—the deathly pallor, the trembling lips—and realized what was happening. “It’s not urine, you idiot. It’s life coming.”

A violent contraction hit her, causing her to bend forward with a muffled groan. The agony was profound, a tear that seemed to want to split her hips in two.

" Aemon , help me!" Daeron ordered, putting his arm around her waist to support her.

Aemon slammed the book shut, acting with the precision that study had given him. He gripped his other arm, the two boys forming a cradle of strength for his now heavy and trembling body.

“Breathe, slowly,” Aemon instructed, his voice trying to remain calm as they guided her out of the garden toward the royal chambers. “Aegon, run! Find our father. Tell him the child is coming! NOW!”

Aegon shot like an arrow through the stone corridors.

"And the midwives?" Daeron asked, sweat glistening on his brow as he felt the weight of his body sway.

“I’ll have the maids summon the Maester and the women,” Aemon replied, looking at you with a troubled tenderness. “We’re past the preparation stage. They’ve decided the world has waited long enough.”

You could barely hear the voices. The world had shrunk to rhythmic pain and the terror that the moment had finally arrived. Each step was torture, each breath a battle. As they climbed the stairs, you could only think of one thing: Maekar . You needed him. You needed that toughness, that fire that was now the only thing capable of keeping you whole as your body prepared to break and give way to the future.

(...)

The delivery room at Summerhall was thick with the metallic smell of blood, hot water, and bitter herbs. The autumn sun, which had once seemed so sweet in the garden, now streamed through the gaps in the curtains like a cruel invader. You lay there, your body arched in agony, your hands digging into the linen sheets until your knuckles were white and lifeless.

The midwives moved like frantic shadows around her. The pain was no longer a wave; it was an ocean that was drowning her, pulling her hips in opposite directions. The Maester prepared the ropes and cloths, his face tense under the light of the candles that were beginning to be lit as the day died.

“Breathe, milady! Push with your belly, not your throat!” ordered the oldest midwife, a woman with a wrinkled face who had served House Targaryen for decades.

You let out a scream that tore through the silence of the hallway, a sound of pure despair and exhaustion. Your forehead was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your pale face. In the fog of pain, you heard what you shouldn't have heard.

“So fragile…” the old woman murmured to the assistant, while wiping the blood from between her legs. “With Lady Dyanna it was much easier. She had the wide hips of the women of her lineage, she was strong as a mare. Here she looks like she’s going to break in two.”

Those words, spoken at her most vulnerable moment, were the final blow. The tears, which she had tried to hold back to conserve her strength, overflowed, hot and bitter. Even there, on the threshold of death to give life, the ghost of the other woman was present to humiliate her.

“I am not her…” you sobbed, your voice faltering as a new contraction hit you. “I am not…”

The bang of the door being opened made the silver goblets vibrate on the table. Maekar burst into the room like a furious god of war. He was still wearing his riding tunic, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot from riding like a madman after Aegon's warning.

“Leave, my Prince!” the Maester exclaimed, raising his hands in protest. “The birthing room is a place for women and gods. It is impure for a man of your position!”

“Impure?!” Maekar roared, his voice making the old midwife recoil. “To hell with the gods and to hell with your purity! This is my wife, my blood is in her! I will not leave her side even if the Warrior himself comes to get me!”

He strode across the room heavily and fell to his knees beside his bed. He grabbed his hand, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and brought it to his face.

"I'm here," he hissed, his eyes fixed on hers, an anchor in the midst of her shipwreck.

The old midwife, trying to regain her authority, approached with a basin.

"My lord, the comparison was purely technical; Lady Dyanna had..."

Maekar turned his face to her with an expression of such cruelty that the woman almost dropped the silver. The fury in his eyes was absolute, dark, lethal.

“If I hear the name of my late wife come out of your withered mouth one more time, ” Maekar said, his voice low and deadly, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. “I will cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs. She is not Dyanna . She is my only princess, and you will treat her with the reverence due a queen, or you will leave here dead.”

He turned to you, softening his touch just enough not to break it.

“Forget what she said. Forget the world outside. Look at me. Only at me. Bring our daughter, my love. Bring her to me.”

Inspired by the fire emanating from him, you felt a new strength, a fury born of love and pain. You dug your nails into Maekar 's hand , feeling his blood beneath your claws, and pushed. You pushed with every fragment of your soul, determined to banish the shadows from that room once and for all and bring light to Summerhall .

The room had become a battlefield where time seemed to have stood still. The smell of blood and sweat was suffocating, and the only audible sound was Maekar 's noisy breathing and screams, which were no longer of fear, but of a transformative agony.

“Once more!” the Maester ordered, his face bathed in sweat. “I can already see the crown on your head! Push!”

You felt your body being torn in two, as if a Valyrian steel blade were climbing up your spine. Your hands crushed Maekar 's fingers , and he didn't flinch; he absorbed your pain, his violet eyes fixed on yours, conveying a brutal, almost violent strength that prevented you from collapsing.

“You can do it!” he roared close to her ear, his voice hoarse with desperation and adoration. “Bring them to me, my love! Bring us our future!”

With a scream that seemed to rip the last of your strength from your lungs, you made the final effort. There was a feeling of sudden relief, a damp vacuum, followed immediately by a sharp, crystalline cry that cut through the tension in the air like a lightning bolt.

“A princess!” exclaimed the midwife, her voice trembling, as she wrapped the tiny creature in warm linen. “A perfect little girl, my lord!”

Maekar let out a sigh that sounded like a sob, but there was no time for celebration. The Maester turned to you urgently.

"It still hurts ..." you sighed. "It still hurts a lot!!"

Don't stop now! I see another head, and he's in a hurry!

The second stage of labor was a blur of pain and exhaustion. You felt like you were going to die, that your heart wouldn't withstand the effort, but Maekar 's hand was a shackle that kept you grounded. He kissed your sweaty forehead, whispering your name between curses directed at the gods, demanding that they spare you.

“Just one more… ” he pleaded. “Just one more and it will be over, I promise.”

You gathered the ashes of your will. With one last push, laden with all the suffering of the past months and all the hope that Summerhall represented, the second life was expelled. Another cry, as strong as the first, echoed through the room.

“Another princess!” announced the Maester , his face finally relaxing into a tired smile. “Two girls. Twins, healthy and strong.”

The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic crying of the babies and the sound of their panting breaths. Maekar didn't look at his daughters first. He remained kneeling beside them, burying his face in the crook of their necks, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. For the first time, the Iron Prince was surrendered.

The midwives cleaned the babies and brought them to the bed. When they were placed in their arms—tiny, with tufts of almost white hair and rosy skin—the pain disappeared.

“What names shall we give these beautiful princesses?” you whispered, your voice almost fading. “Decide, my love. You dreamed of them.”

Maekar raised his head, his eyes moist and fierce with pride. He touched his daughters' tiny foreheads with a gentleness that would make any knight of Westeros doubt his own eyes.

“They don’t resemble anyone,” Maekar said, his voice solemn, gazing at you with absolute devotion. “They are only ours. They are you. Beautiful girls, beautiful like their mother. I will name only one, the one who came into the world first. The second, you must name.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from shouting. “I like Rhae for girl. Yes, Rhae . Like in a poem my sweet Aemon once told me in the garden. I don’t remember now. It hurts too much to remember.”

Maekar let out a sound through his boot, something that oscillated between laughter and mockery. It was hard to tell.

“ Daella ,” he said simply, without even bothering to explain the name or where it came from. But you suspected it was a tribute to his father or, perhaps, to his own son, because even though it was a disappointment, Maekar still loved him very much. You accepted it, simply accepted it. You had had two healthy girls in a single birth. Nothing else mattered.

"So, how's your work week?"

"Terrible. My boss kept saying that this is the 'biggest one ever' and that the next client would be easier. Biggest lie I have ever heard."

"That's what my dad always says."

"You don't get special treatment, huh?"

"Just because I am a Targaryen, doesn't mean I'm a spoiled brat. My dad raised us to work harder than everyone."

"I can see that. You're greying."

"That's probably the Valyrian gene kicking in. Hah, suck it, Daemon Blackfyre."

"I was aiming to call you old," she said, chuckling into her glass. "How is the, uh, family relation?"

"Terrible. I heard he's trying to get into politics now. I know Aegor is in the military, so at least they're separated for a while. Dad's stressing out."

Baelor raised a hand, calling for another round for the two.

"I try to keep up with your family ... thingy, but it's difficult."

"Same old, same old. I feel like the tabloids know more than I do. Someone must've tipped off the press."

"I wonder who..." she wiggles her brows, smiling towards him.

"Yeah, right, you were red the last time I saw you shake hands with my mother. You, betraying me for a couple thousands?"

"Oh, shut up. I wasn't ready, and she was too nice to me."

"She likes you, you know. Said nice things about you."

"Yeah? Gonna tell me?"

"Nope, I— thank you sweetheart," Baelor said, taking the new glass in his hand. "You just gotta meet her. Oh, speaking of ... my dad's birthday is in three months or so, and mom always makes a huge deal about it."

"I heard. My boss spoke about it. Said she got a meeting with your mom's 'team'."

"Bleh, that's not what I meant. Company party is basically an open invitation. What I was trying to say, is, what do you think about coming over for a family dinner? My mom's been asking about you, and, well, timing's right."

"Timing?"

"My dad's birthday, I mean—" Baelor took a suspiciously big gulp of his Old Fashioned, regretting it a second later. "You know what I mean. Think about it. No press. Just the family."

Sounds intimate.

"Okay, Baelor. I will think about it. I'll let you know."

"Wonderful. My mom will be thrilled!"

"Hey, hey, no promises. It's uh ... too fast, no?"

"Fast? For...?"

"You know..."

"No, I don't."

Despite him brushing it off with his tone, she could see the smirk around the rim of his glass.

"You're so annoying. Stop that—!"

"Alright, alright. But think about it, okay? And there's no need to bring anything. Just wear something pretty."

"Are you saying that I don't usually wear 'something pretty'?"

"You're pretty without anything anyw— ouch! Stop kicking my leg!"

tag list:

You had no clue what was going through his head. Was he, like you, nervous at the prospect of spending a day together watching the last of the presentations after what had transpired the previous night? Was he considering just missing the day to hide? You doubted he was as nervous as you felt. But you wondered, with fear, whether he regretted it. You were unsure of what you felt. There was regret there, in all honesty — a faint flicker of it — only when you reminded yourself that he would be gone in a few days, that he would go back to being your political ethics professor, that your stolen moments in the Dornish sun would be but a faint memory.

Shaking yourself out of your swirling thoughts, you stepped away from the mirror, looping your bag over your arm. It was time to face the music, in spite of the uncertain feeling pooling in your stomach.

"Dinner tonight! Feel free to invite any of your friends!" It was your mother. You gave her a quick hug, smiled as she kissed your cheek, and nodded in response.

"I'm looking forward to it! I'll bring home a bottle of wine." You call out, pushing through the door.

"Alright, darling!" You catch, just as it swings shut again, and despite your nervousness about Baelor, smile fondly at the thought of your mother.

You arrived late, again. Entirely intentionally. You didn’t quite fancy the prospect of making small talk with Baelor — or anyone for that matter. Slipping in, you spotted an empty table at the edge of the conference room and made your way towards it with some relief. The conference was a lot emptier than it had been the previous day, many professors and students opting to miss the last half-day to catch their flights back home no doubt, and while you pitied the final presenters a little, you felt your breathing become steadier with the lack of crowd.

A little dazed and lost in your thoughts, you sat slightly slumped in your chair, facing the presenter but by no means following along with the complex argument she was making. You felt your eyes glossing over and let your mind succumb to thoughts of Baelor, and the memory of his lips on yours, the enthralling feeling of his rough scruff against the skin of your face. The mere thought sent a shiver through you, and you straightened in your chair, trying to refocus your eyes on the distant text. You almost flinched when you felt the gentle brushing of a palm on your shoulder.

You turned. Baelor’s eyes were on yours instantly, a soft glimmer in them, and the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, in an almost shy smile. You returned his gaze, your eyes fluttering shut in a blink of their own accord, and you were certain your cheeks were ablaze when you averted them. The smallest breath of air left him, a faint hint of a chuckle, and he quietly pulled out the chair beside you, settling into it. You felt his eyes on you, and it took everything in you to not turn to stare back at him. Heart pounding, you continued to look up at the presentation, your mind racing, focused only on the fact that Baelor was beside you, that you could still feel him watching you. Your heart nearly stopped then, when, beneath the table cloth, you felt the faint brushing of his fingertips against your knuckles, then the feeling of his hand reaching out to take yours, resting decidedly atop them on your lap.

The breath you took was shuddering and unsteady as you flicked your eyes to his. He simply continued looking at you with that soft expression, with that disarmingly gentle smile. Finally, you turned your hand, taking his and intertwining your fingers together. It was Baelor’s turn to redden slightly, Baelor’s turn to flick his eyes away nervously, pretending to focus on the presentation, but thinking only of the feeling of your soft hand in his, the feeling of your thumb moving gently back and forth on his hand.

The presentation passed slowly, and you felt frozen in time holding Baelor’s hand, your actions hidden beneath the heavy fabric of the tablecloths adorning the round conference tables. Neither of you moved, sitting still, as if any movement might rupture the bubble of frozen time the two of you had created — the moment of tender stillness. Finally, the presentation ended, and with some hesitation, you pulled your hand out of Baelor’s to applaude for the speaker.

“Seems like they’re saving the decent talks for last.” Baelor finally utters, straightening in his chair and turning to face you.

“What does that say about my presentation?” You joke in response, and he raises his eyebrows, conceding. “Shame there’s not many people left to appreciate it though.” You add, turning away from Baelor to cast another glance around the room. You noted, with some amusement, than many of the conference attendees even seemed to have their luggage with them, tucked under the tables, or shoved into far corners of the conference hall.

Baelor doesn't respond. He simply looks at you with that soft smile you're unaccustomed to seeing on him. You settle back in your chair when you hear the next speaker beginning their presentation, shuffling it closer to Baelor's, just slightly, and you think you catch him chuckling a little at the movement. You shoot him a smile, then, under the table, reach your hand out towards his.

The last few talks of the conference go by quickly, and soon the organisers are making their final acknowledgements, wrapping up the event with a long round of applause. You stand and stretch, and while Baelor had been watching you attentively for many of the talks, he averts his gaze when a small patch of skin becomes visible at your waist with the movement of your stretching.

He knows it's ridiculous. It's not as if he has to hide his attraction to you anymore, not after how he had kissed you last night — but he still felt some shame about just how much the thought of your body thrilled him, at how much younger you were than he. At how you were still his student, even if miles away from the damp confines of King's Institute.

He had been nervous on his short walk from the hotel to the conference venue. What if it had been a drunken mistake on your part? What if you regretted it? He had steeled himself entering the large hall for the final time, but as soon as he spotted you, with your legs crossed and eyes fixed on the presenter, he felt his shoulders relax, as if the mere sight of you brought him comfort.

It had been a risk, stretching out his hand to take yours, but he need to know. He couldn't wait for the end of the talk, or worse — the end of the day — to know if last night had been a mistake. So he took the risk, praying to the gods that you wouldn't flinch away from his grasp.

And you hadn't. Your hand felt painfully soft between his, and when you started brushing your fingers over his knuckles, Baelor thought his heart would stop. Perhaps it hadn't been a mistake, after all.

"No lunch today." Baelor speaks, as the two of you amble slowly towards the exit for the final time.

"Guess they didn't have that in the budget." You reply with a small smirk. A familiar voice causes you both to turn.

"Enjoyed the conference?" It's Davos, and you turn to give him a friendly smile.

"Ups and downs," You begin, and he gives you a knowing nod.

"I did have a fantastic conversation with a few people during the poster presentations. Some good points to include on our paper. Let's talk about it back in the office tomorrow." Davos declares, before bidding farewell to you and Baelor, no doubt in a rush to return to his office to get some work done after the many hours he had lost to the conference.

You sigh, lamenting the fact that it wasn't the weekend. You had forgotten, momentarily, that it would of course be Friday the following day, and you were expected to work your regular schedule with Davos.

Baelor quirks an eyebrow at you while stepping aside to open the large doors leading back onto the street outside of the conference venue.

"I forgot I have work tomorrow. Fuck. Sorry." You give him an apologetic look, truly wishing you had the day off to enjoy Dorne with Baelor. You'd fantasized about long walks along the coast, or a trip up to the vineyard, or the botanical gardens, like you'd suggested on the Tuesday. But no. Instead you'd be cloistered in Davos' office, revising your research yet again. You had no clue how you'd concentrate with Baelor around.

"Don't apologise on my behalf." He begins softly, though you can tell he feels a little disappointed. "As much as I would wish to spend the day with you, I too have some responsibilities I must attend to. I have been rather neglectful."

"When was the last time you ever took a break, Baelor?" You ask teasingly. "Don't be too hard on yourself for attending an academic conference. Still counts as work, you know."

He gives you a look. "Even if it was just an excuse to see you?"

Your mouth falls open at the honest declaration. He had hinted as much last night, during your conversation on the Marlin's deck, but you hadn't expected him to say it outright, in the light of day.

You couldn't help the blush that coloured your cheeks, and averted your eyes from his, reddening further at his low chuckle. Looking up, you were caught by the gentle gaze, and allowed yourself to roll your eyes.

"Well, I suppose that'll have to be our little secret." It comes out teasingly, and, for a moment, Baelor returns your smile. But then his expression changes, and shifts into something more serious, as he contemplates your words.

Another little secret. It reminded him of how wrong this was. Of how forbidden it was. Back in King's Landing he had felt bad enough already about having shared a bottle of wine with you in his office, about the kiss at a university event on New Years. Here was yet another secret to keep, a secret with devastating consequences if it was revealed.

Sensing Baelor's sudden change in mood, your expression falls. You try to get him to look at you again, taking a small step back.

"Everything okay?" You attempt, tilting your head a little. He's still frowning, clearly lost in thought and staring at something in the distance. "Baelor?" You try again, and this time it succeeds in causing him to look at you.

"Yes. My apologies." It is clipped, and he presses an apologetic smile to his lips as he catches your confused expression. He sighs, and tries to clarify, spotting the look of slight hurt that's beginning to form on your face. "Just thinking about the university. When will you be back?" He continues, trying to make conversation, trying not to darken the mood.

You look hesitant, but shrug and respond anyway, still clearly detecting the odd change in the atmosphere between the two of you.

"Three weeks or so. Davos wants to get our paper submitted before I go. Any revisions we'll work on remotely while I'm back in classes."

Baelor hums. He's at least relieved that it won't be quite so long until he sees you again, but the inescapable feeling of dread is there. Three weeks for him to figure out exactly how to go back to the way things were before. To figure out how to treat you like simply another student, while his heart and mind knew otherwise. You still hadn't talked about it together — what the situation would be. Frankly, Baelor didn't know, and if anything, he felt he may need the three weeks to simply sit down and think about things sensibly, logically. As the head of the Politics and Ethics department at King's, as the next likely provost of the entire institute.

"Remind me to give you all the materials from the classes you missed. No exams this term, but it will be important for your thesis."

You avert your eyes, frowning at Baelor's flat tone, the sudden formality. With a soft sigh, you nod, and let your eyes flick up to watch the the conference attendees dispersing, spotting Davos' figure in the distance as he walks up the main street towards his office.

After a tense silence, you straighten and turn up to face him.

"Lunch, Baelor?" You're a little timid when you ask, and there is a part of you that is oddly relieved when he shakes his head. The excuse he gives is weak, but you nod along regardless.

"I'm afraid not today. I have some... matters to attend to." Of course he didn't really have matters to attend to. He could certainly spend some time going through his emails. He had put off looking at them for days and didn't doubt that he likely had hundreds in his inbox demanding his attention. More than anything, he needed to think. And he knew he had not been thinking straight around you.

"That works out, then." You reply, and your flat tone almost matches his, causing him to flick his eyes over you, watching as you look out at the emptying square.

"I might actually get a head start on some work with Davos."

Baelor hums again. Another silence stretches on unpleasantly, and you inhale. You're torn. Of course, a huge part of you wishes you could spend the afternoon and evening with Baelor, in the same lighthearted way the previous few days had gone. You could only dream of being with him the same way he had been last night. But with Baelor's odd demeanour, you found that you didn't want to linger in his presence if you weren't wanted. Finally, you turn to him with an offer, hoping it would act as an olive branch and snap him out of whatever odd mood he was presently in.

"We're having dinner at my parents' tonight."

That causes Baelor to turn his gaze onto you, finally.

"You're more than welcome to come."

He opens his mouth, and his head starts to move, as if preparing to decline. You continue before he can respond.

"Please, Baelor. It would mean a lot to me. Just a quick dinner."

He mulls it over for a second, and you can see him weighing out his options in his mind. The expression on his face was familiar. It was one you'd caught a few times when he was pondering an ethical stance in one of his seminars.

Finally he speaks.

"Your parents... Won't they be-" He struggled to find the words and grimaced a little. "Concerned? About us?"

About us. His phrasing made you redden, but you were a little pleased that he did at least acknowledge whatever thing existed between the two of you, the think that didn't yet have a name.

"They said to invite friends. I'll tell them you're a colleague."

He closes his eyes, and nods slowly.

"What time?"

"Seven."

You give him one more long look, your mouth falling open as you think of something to say, but you let it fall shut, and fix your eyes on a spot on the ground.

"Alright." You utter, inhaling and turning to him to bid farewell, at least for the time being.

As if suddenly faced with the fact that you'd be apart for the next few hours, Baelor flicks his head towards you, meeting your eyes. You're surprised by the emotion you see in them, flickering away with words left unsaid. His hand lifts on its own accord, and he reaches for your arm. You feel his fingers just brushing the skin of your arm before he pauses, and lowers it, catching himself.

The remorse hits Baelor as he spots the serious expression on your face. He hates that his ill-timed brooding had knocked the wind out of your sails, that your previous air of soft teasing had been replaced with a marked somberness. He wants to make it up to you. He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment, willing himself out of his mood for a moment.

"Can I bring anything? For tonight?" He tilts his head down at you and, after casting a surreptitious glance around the square, takes a small step closer to you, allowing just the tip of his fingers to brush your own.

The slight smile you give him sends a wave of relief through his body, even though it was only a brief flash.

"I said I'd bring back some wine, but perhaps it would be nice if you could bring one too. Can never have too much."

Baelor chuckles a little bit as he responds.

"I disagree there."

It had cut the tension between you, just the slightest, but it was enough that you felt your shoulders relax a little, enough for you to angle your body towards his a bit more. You turned your hand subtly, and interlaced your fingers with his ever so slightly, casting a look around the square as Baelor had done.

"Perhaps you just need to improve your tolerance of Dornish Wine." You tease, and it's a relief when Baelor smiles back knowingly.

"Perhaps."

A beat passes between you, but it's not unpleasant. Not as tense as the silence had been earlier. It's that familiar lingering silence, the one the two of you had begun to fall into at the art gallery, on the outside lunch table, on your slow walks through ancient Dornish streets.

You pulled your hand away, letting your fingers separate from Baelor's, already missing the tingling sensation. With a step back, you nod.

"You remember how to find the house?"

Baelor nods his head, just once, and then shoots a quick smile your way. He feels the loss of your hand in his too, and slightly regrets not taking up your offer for lunch, though he knows the space from you may do him some good.

"Seven. I'll see you there, love." It slips out without him thinking, and he almost grimaces. Taking a step back, and slipping his hands into his pockets, he inclines his head, waiting for you to take the first steps away.

"Bye Baelor." You respond quietly, and with a deep breath, turn to walk in the direction that Davos had walked off in, back to the cluttered office sheltered from the light of the sun, away from Baelor.

He watches every step away from him that you take, and with each step, his hand forms a tighter fist in his pockets. You're a fool, Baelor. He thinks, and finally lets himself turn to walk in the opposite direction from you, aimlessly looking for somewhere to eat for lunch.

"You could've just come in tomorrow, you know. Take the afternoon off?" Davos quirks an eyebrow at you, catching you staring out the window yet again.

"It's up to you. But you don't have to be here today." He continues, snapping you out of your reverie. Out of your endless thoughts of Baelor.

"No- I wanted to come. Sorry. Just a lot to think about with the conference."

Davos watches you for a moment, tilting his head. You hate how perceptive he is. Unfortunately, that's the one way that he does resemble his friend Lyonel. They're both sharp as swords, even if Lyonel doesn't show it much.

"I saw you at the Marlin last night," He begins, pausing to see if you would interject. When you remain silent, watching him warily, he sends you a reassuring smile.

"It is not uncommon, you know." Your heart plummets as he continues, and it's clear what he is referring to.

"I won't say who, but I have a colleague who is in a relationship with a student. Postgraduate, like you."

Your face heats up instantly, and you find that you are unable to look Davos in the eye. Instead, you sigh, and rest your head in your hand.

"No judgement from me. But-" He pauses for a moment, watching you with some concern and some sympathy. "But be careful who you get involved with. A random junior staff member or associate professor is one thing. Baelor Targaryen..." He trails off, knowing that his implication is clear.

Although still embarrassed, you force yourself to look up at Davos.

"We aren't in a relationship." You begin, shutting your eyes as Davos lets out a small chuckle, giving you knowing look.

"But- I know. And I think he knows too." You admit, realising there was no point trying to deny the existence of something when Davos had witnessed you firsthand.

The chair squeaks as Davos stands and makes his way to the front of his desk, leaning on it for a moment.

"I won't lecture you. Just be careful. King's Landing is not as... forgiving as Dorne is. Don't throw your life away, and look over your shoulder from time to time. I can't guarantee that others will be quite so understanding."

He taps on your desk twice, throws a somewhat comforting smile your way, and then leaves, no doubt on his way to get another coffee.

With a groan, you let your head fall into your hands. It was slightly mortifying that Davos had caught your interaction, but that wasn't the worst of it. If he had seen you and Baelor out on the deck, who else had seen? The sickening thought swirled around in your mind, and you cursed your recklessness. With a sigh, you tilted your head and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was time to go home and help your parents with dinner.

Relieved Davos had not yet come back, you slip out of his office, looking over your shoulder more times than necessary. Something about that conversation, as appreciative as you were of Davos' supporting words and lack of judgement, had made your skin prickle with paranoia. Who had seen us?

You attempted to distract yourself on the walk home, slipping into the local market to grab a bottle of red wine and some fruit, smiling weakly at the familiar face of the grocer while you packed your purchases into a small woven bag. But the prickling feeling did not go away. You recalled the Lannister professor, Sylas, jeering at you suggestively, watching the way you had stepped closer into Baelor's protective grasp, you even recalled the way Orson had spotted you two out on the deck. Not in any compromising position, but closer than one might expect a professor and their student to be standing. Your head shakes, again, as you attempt to rid yourself of the flashing images in your mind, attempting to shake off the anxiety that was building in you. You're being ridiculous. It was dark and late. Davos is just sharp. You repeated to yourself as you rounded the final familiar corner of the path leading back to your childhood home.

The comforting scent of your mother's cooking hit you the moment you stepped through the front doors, and it was a great comfort to you. The tension seemed to vanish from your shoulders and back as you inhaled the familiar scent, as she pulled you into a warm hug. Her clothes smelt of fresh bread and olive oil, and the thoughts of Davos and Sylas and Orson disappeared as you washed your hands, and began to methodically cut vegetables, laughing with your mother in the kitchen as if you were a teenager again.

"Are any of your friends coming round?" Your mother asks, stacking several ceramic plates, counting them, then reaching up for a matching number of cups.

"Just one. He's more of a colleague. From King's." You clarify, watching the way your mother's eye flicks to you for just a moment.

"Criston and Lyara not coming?" She asks, fondly recalling the many weeknights they would show up at your house unannounced, always happy to provide an extra seat for them at the table.

"They're on Criston's boat tonight with his family! We're catching up with them tomorrow night though." While you did wish the two of them could join for dinner, like they always used to, you were excited to spend time with them, and hopefully with Baelor, the following night.

"Don't have too much fun." Your mother jokes in response, raising her eyebrows, knowing that a night out with Criston and Lyara had often meant a very late night coming home, and a very groggy morning.

You roll your eyes, good-naturedly, and then reach up to grab one extra plate and one extra glass for Baelor.

"His name is Baelor, by the way. My colleague. He's been at the university for a while so he's a bit older, but he's lovely. We work together a lot at King's." You try to say it casually, to introduce Baelor to your mother in the way that was least likely to cause any suspicion or concern. It was not a lie, really. Perhaps colleague was a bit of a stretch, but it was certainly not untrue. Regardless, your mother's eyebrow lifts, just the smallest amount. If you weren't her daughter, with an intimate knowledge of all her possible facial expressions, you wouldn't have caught it.

"Well I'm glad he is coming. Go and see if your father is ready. He's been reading all day." You take the excuse to leave with some gratitude, and walk rather quickly through the small courtyard of the house to the other side, where the study was.

"Almost ready?" You call, pushing the sliding doors open gently.

"Oh, yes! Just a couple of pages until the end of the chapter. Almost there darling." You chuckle, shaking your head fondly at the familiar scene, and then leave him in peace to finish his book, which appeared to be about fisheries in the Dornish strait.

You took the time to get ready yourself. The steam from the kitchen had made you sweat, and you were still in your conference outfit, so you jumped into the shower for a quick wash. Not bothering to dry your hair, you picked out something comfortable, yet still nice enough for a dinner. You slipped on a soft white dress, cooling and airy in the hot Dornish air. It was simple; the sort of thing you'd often wear lounging around the house, or going for a short walk by the waterfront. You were relieved to be out of your conference gear, in the cool shade of your parent's home.

There was a small part of you that wanted to try harder, that wanted to put more effort into your outfit since it was Baelor that would be coming in less than ten minutes. But your mother was perceptive. During many childhood dinner parties, while your father's head may have always been buried in a book or a newspaper, she was the one with bright eyes that would flicker around the room, instantly understanding the dynamic between guests, the things left unsaid. You knew that any outfit that was out of the ordinary for you would've been noticed in an instant, so you let the desire pass.

The sound of your mother's excited voice rang through the house, followed quickly by the deep sound of another voice you instantly recognised. Taking a deep breath, you quickly put up your still damp hair into a clip, slightly regretting not having bothered drying it. With one final glance in the mirror, you sighed, and turned to cross the small courtyard back towards the main living room and kitchen of the house.

"Ah." Is all Baelor manages to utter when you appear in front of him, barefoot, damp hair and in a soft white dress that fluttered with every movement. He thought by now the sight of you would stop stealing his breath away, but spotting you in the comfort of your home was never something he could have prepared for. This version of you looked so at ease, and the domestic image made Baelor's heart thud painfully in his chest.

"Thank you for the wine. Why don't I take that from you? I can chill it in the fridge. Make yourself comfortable!" Baelor realised he hadn't stopped staring at you, and snaps his attention back to your mother when she gently pulls the bottle of wine from his hand.

"Of course, my pleasure. Thank you for the kind invitation." And almost instantly, Baelor's years of upbringing takes over. He smiles warmly at your mother, nods his head politely, and then exhales when she turns her back. Then his eyes are back on you.

"I hope you had a pleasant afternoon." It's too formal for your liking when Baelor says it, but you offer him a soft smile anyway, taking a step closer to him.

"It was okay. Not as pleasant as the past few afternoons." He doesn't take his eyes off you, and you catch his cheeks reddening just the slightest amount at your remark. He lets out a shy chuckle, and he starts fiddling with one of the rings on his finger, still peering at you with a hard to decipher look.

"Sweetheart, go and get your father!" You roll your eyes, but it's all in good faith, as you shake your head laughing a little.

"Want to come with me? He'll probably still be in his study. You might like it."

Baelor was powerless to say no to anything you asked of him, not when you were dressed in soft linen, with your face still slightly flushed from your shower, hair dark from the dampness. He felt the sudden urge to reach out and pull you into him. Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets, nodded stiffly and inclined his head to suggest you lead the way. He had to watch himself. You're in her home, for the sake of the seven. He chided himself a little at having slipped up already with the obvious staring, and now with his yearning that he needed to make far less apparent. His smile was a little strained as you looked back at him to check he was following, as you expertly navigated through your home to the office.

The earthy smell of books was familiar to Baelor, and made him feel somewhat at ease as his eyes scanned the tall dark bookshelves lining the walls of your family’s office space.

“Ah yes, I’m coming. Just started another chapter. Sorry! Got carried away there.”

A fond smile broke out onto your face as you pulled the book out of your father’s grasp. It was not the first time he’d gotten carried away progressing to the next chapter of a book after promising he’d stop. It was, you knew, a habit you’d definitely inherited from him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Your father pauses, getting to his feet lethargically, introducing himself and then extending a hand out to Baelor, inclining his head to ask for his name.

“Baelor. And the pleasure is all mine, surely. You have a wonderful collection, might I say.”

He’s good. You thought to yourself, raising an eyebrow at how well-mannered he was. It was something you’d known, of course, but perhaps you were so accustomed to seeing your friends greeting your parents, in a much more informal manner, that seeing how courteously Baelor interacted with your parents was greatly refreshing. It was a manner you admired, and you had to fight to stop looking at him with such awe plainly written on your face, particularly in the presence of your parents.

“You must excuse me whilst I go and assist my wife with dinner. I have been a very poor husband this evening. Make yourself at home!” Your father steps past the two of you, and as he does, he places a warm hand on both you and Baelor’s shoulders, giving you each a friendly squeeze.

“Thank you.” Comes Baelor’s soft reply, and it only when your father exists the office that you catch him exhaling. His eyes flick over to you, his gaze filled with some amusement and a twinkle of something warmer, something tender. You look even more perfect in the dim light of the office, he thinks, surrounded by tall shelves, books lining each one to the brim. With your father gone, you lean casually against the large wooden desk, crossing your arms and watching Baelor curiously as he takes in the sight of the room, and then as he takes in the sight of you.

After a moment of quiet, Baelor speaks. "I see why you became such a strong writer." He takes a few steps towards you, and you're distinctly aware of the vanishing space between you two. It's the first time the two of you are truly alone since his arrival. No longer in the presence of at least one of your parents, you allow yourself to take in his appearance more liberally, heart thudding as you do.

He's dressed well, as he typically is. Again, he's wearing a light blue linen shirt that is almost begging you to touch its softness, and the sight of his exposed forearms makes your mouth go dry. He's rolled up the sleeves to cope with the Dornish heat, and it's nearly pathetic what the sight of his arms is doing to you.

"You look good, Baelor." It leaves you without you really thinking, and you flush a little, glancing up at him warily to gauge his reaction. You'd kissed the man for the gods' sake, yet you still didn't quite know how to do this. Where things stood between you two. And now he's at your childhood home about to have dinner with your parents. You almost laughed at the surreal absurdity of it, but the feeling of Baelor's hand on your's stops you.

His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. Lifting your hand up slowly, his eyes don't leave your's as he presses the faintest kiss to it. He's still holding it when he replies.

"You look beautiful." He swallows, letting his eyes flicker down over your body briefly, before meeting your almost shy gaze once again.

You scoff, and pull your hand away from his, gently.

"Right. I've just come out of the shower and haven't even bothered to dry my hair. Thank you, though." You try and play off his compliment, rolling your eyes with a smile. He doesn't let you.

"Exactly. You look- at home. I don't take it lightly that I get to see this side of you. It's special to me."

His sentimental words catch you off guard. With his odd behaviour in the earlier part of the day, you weren't entirely sure what to expect from Baelor, and you had prepared to perhaps have to deal with a colder version of the man in front of you. You certainly hadn't prepared for such earnestness, for him to kiss the back of your hand chivalrously.

Your expression softens, as you meet his eyes, and you feel it again. The magnetic current between your bodies. Unconsciously, you straighten against the desk, your head bowing forward slightly. Baelor leans forward too—he can't stop himself—and the hand he had used to gently lift your's just moments ago almost burns your skin through the fabric of your dress as it lands on your waist.

He flicks his eyes down to your lips, still a little flushed from your warm shower, and leans even closer until he's inches away.

"Dinner's ready!" Your mother calls, and with a frustrated sigh, Baelor presses his forehead to your's, shutting his eyes for just a moment, and then he's leaning back, away from you. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand and stares at a spot on the ground.

"Coming!" You call, after a pause, catching yourself, willing your voice to sound lighthearted, and not laden with the frustration you felt at the poor timing. With a sigh you push yourself off the desk, clearing your throat a little. "Let's not keep them waiting."

He says nothing in reply, but steps aside to let you walk past him, and he shudders as your arm brushes the front of his shirt. It takes everything in him to not simply reach out for you and pull you into him. Instead, he looks up for a moment, steadying himself before facing your parents again, and then follows after you, gazing at the back of your head.

It had taken Baelor a while to relax after your encounter in the office. He had been so close to kissing you again, something he'd been wanting to do for hours. He wanted to remember how your lips felt on his, how your body felt pressed against his, to be reassured that it hadn't been a drunken mistake. At the same time as he longed for it, he berated himself, yet again, for his uncharacteristic lack of restraint.

He chewed slowly, staring at his plate in thought in a moment of quiet, after having been peppered with questions from your curious parents continuously for the first half of dinner. What was proving a challenge to him was the fact that he was sharply aware of the puzzled look on your face, of the way you'd lean forward slightly to try and meet his eyes from your spot in the chair beside him. He wanted to give you a soft smile, to place his hand on yours, or perhaps rest it on your thigh. Gods how he wanted that. Instead he replied attentively to your parents' questions, responded in kind with his own polite queries, and made positive remarks praising your mother's cooking. If Baelor was good at anything, this was it. Squashing down his own feelings for the sake of propriety, ignoring the painful burning in his chest for the sake of small talk.

After a while you seemed to give up trying to catch his gaze, and trying to engage him in a playful conversation. Instead, you leaned back into your chair, poking at your food, trying to smile at your mother and father. You could play the game too. It was something you'd grown accustomed to at many stuffy dinners at King's. You gave your parents the space to satisfy all their curiosities about Baelor, the older man you'd invited to the table, and chimed in with a light remark every now and then.

"So how did the two of you become acquainted then? In the library I expect." Your dad jokes and lifts his glass of wine to you, smiling fondly. You press a smile back but it doesn't land as tenderly as it normally would, due to the simmering feeling of guilt in your stomach, due to the deception to come. You couldn't really tell him that you'd met sitting in his classroom.

"Something like that." You begin, wanly, and then smile. "No- Baelor's focus is Philosophy and Ethics, so naturally trade ethics came up a lot in conversations, dinner parties, the usual King's fare."

"Ah. Trade ethics. Your grandfather would be proud." Your father replies, taking a healthy sip from his wine, and turning back to Baelor, a question on his lips.

"Oh- you must be the lecturer she TA's with then. I must say you seem different from-"

"No, darling-" Your mother interjects. "This is Baelor. I believe her friend's name is Lyonel."

"Colleague." You correct, and lean back, swirling your wine around a little, and throwing Baelor an apologetic look. He smiles tightly, his eyes meeting yours finally, and then flicking back across to your parents.

"My apologies. Baelor. How are you finding the fish?"

You chuckle to yourself at how quickly your father has moved on, and give your mother a knowing look. It's a quirk of his you'd always found amusing, his attention hopping from one topic to another, but you were certain it brought your mother some ire from time to time. Dinner progresses, and as much as you feel a slight tinge of disappointment that Baelor has not spoken directly with you at the table, you push it aside, trying to simply enjoy being back at the dinner table with your parents again.

You kept up the effort for a good amount of time, but as desserts were polished off plates, your leg began shaking under the table, and impatience made it's way to your finger tips around the stem of your wine glass.

Baelor's eyes flicked down to the way your index finger kept tapping on the glass and it made him feel a sense of comfort, knowing that, to some degree, you were clearly waiting for the end of dinner, waiting for a moment to be alone with him again. He was much better at remaining composed, at not letting his impatience seep into his physical body. The only telltale sign was the way he was rotating the ring on his middle finger while nodding as your mother spoke about Dornish weather and pottery.

With a bolt of inspiration, you sit up in your chair.

"Speaking of pottery-" You begin, suddenly energised by having a real excuse to speak with Baelor alone again, "I promised I would show Baelor some of Great Aunt Myrella's pottery. I showed him the one at the gallery but that one's, you know-"

"-Ugh." Your father agrees, shutting his eyes as if almost picturing the sad display. "I keep offering them some of her better ones, you know."

"I know. That's what I said to Baelor." You reply, standing and making your way to the other side of the table to wrap your arms around your father, giving him a fond kiss on the cheek.

"Well of course! You know where they are. We'll begin cleaning up in here if you're all done." He pats your hand fondly and lets you stand.

"-Oh, try and catch the sunset after. You must show Baelor the view from the rocks." Your mother chimes in as you make your way to her, giving her a similar kiss on the cheek, thanking her for the meal.

It catches you off guard a little. Her suggestion. Of course, when you'd invite your friends round, it was nearly a tradition. You'd walk outside with them after a big meal, often with a few glasses and a bottle of dessert wine in hand, and you'd sit on the rocks, dangling your legs in the water. But it was the way she had said it this time that caused you to pause slightly, and glance back down at her with curiosity. She simply raised her eyebrows and smiled, all too innocently for your liking. With a quiet hum, you straighten, and look up at Baelor, still seated across the table now. The look on his face is arresting. There's a softness there, and you wonder what it is that is running through his head as he watches you and your mother.

Baelor feels his heart stutter as he watches you from across the table. The image before him is painfully domestic, and the sweetness of it makes his breathing catch. The fondness on your mother’s face is plain to see, as is the love in your eyes as you wrap your arms around her. It makes him think of a thousand things all at once. His own mother, when he had been a boy in Dorne so many years ago. Those memories were faint for him, clouded in layers of his mother’s silk dresses and his father’s linen shirts. It hurt to think of, and so Baelor found he hardly ever did.

But faced with the picture of you, holding your mother, in the soft evening light across the dinner table, he was faced with a deep yearning, laced with some pain. He loathes the facade you both had to wear in the moment. He wonders how your mother would react if he'd simply come clean, if he'd tell her that the two of you were- well he didn't quite know what the two of you were. He certainly didn't have a name for it. He just felt a painful desire to be a part of the picture, the tender inside jokes with your parents, to be able to take your hand in front of them, to tug you into his side. Perhaps it was his loneliness, his hours spent alone in university housing, the number of times he'd phone Matarys or Valaar and it would end up going to voicemail. Not that he blamed them for it, he knew they were likely busy with friends, but he missed dinners with them when they were both boys, missed playing with them in the garden, lifting Valaar onto his shoulders and dipping him back. The soft tender display he spotted between you and your mother certainly brought all those yearnings back.

And then the guilt flooded into his system. You were half his age — perhaps not quite that young — but close enough that it made him feel ashamed for watching you with such fondness in his eyes, ashamed for even imagining himself at the table as something more than simply a colleague.

And then your eyes met his, and he froze, trying to focus his attention onto what your mother had been saying.

"Okay, leave some dishes for me to clean up later. Don't do them all!"

Baelor snaps out of his musing, and straightens in his chair, pushing away from the table to stand.

"Come on. I'll show you the vases and the bowls upstairs, then we can get some air."

Suddenly remembering his manners, he walks around the table to where you stand waiting, and walks past you to help pull out your mother's chair as he catches her standing.

"The meal was wonderful. Thank you ever so much. If you ever visit King's I would be honoured to take you out to dinner. Unfortunately I am not as talented a chef as you are." The flattery causes your mother's cheeks to redden, and she pulls Baelor in for a quick kiss on the cheek, taking his hands.

"You are too charming, Baelor. It was our pleasure." He releases her hand. Throughout the exchange you'd been chewing on the inside of your cheek, watching the scene thoughtfully. Baelor turns to you, and you press a smile his way, and tilt your head in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor. You chuckle as you hear your mother and father chatting in the kitchen, hearing their voices fade away with every step upstairs you took.

"Your parents are lovely." Baelor's voice rumbles a little as he follows, a step behind you. It is the first comment he has made your way directly, and you find that you had missed it.

"I love them dearly. They've been nothing but generous and supportive to me. My entire life."

Baelor hums in reply, and returns your smile as you look back at him once you reached the top step.

"It's clear they love each other very much." He continues, taking in the way your white dress flits about in the gentle evening breeze, the way your bare feet pad on the terracotta tiles. He casts a look back down into the open courtyard, watching your father stack the dinner plates, before vanishing into the kitchen again.

"I know—they've set a strong example for me to follow. Although I must say it's given me quite high expectations."

"-Of love?" Baelor utters quickly before he can stop himself, and he grimaces a little as he catches the slight pause in your step, and the way your head turns slightly, as if you're about to turn and look at him. You straighten for a moment, but continue to walk ahead of him slowly, leading the way to the upstairs guest room which housed your family's heirloom artifacts.

"I suppose. Of friendship, companionship, respect. Of sacrifice." You turn to look at him then, a light glint in your eye. You slow and allow him to catch up with you, watching him curiously. Your heart had stopped when he'd said the word. Love. You'd tried to ignore the fluttering in your stomach when he'd said it. It was far too early to even consider that. You thought to yourself. Not only was he your professor, still, but the two of you were still on rather shaky, undefined ground. You didn't want to pain yourself by associating the concept of love with Baelor in your mind.

"My parents were a good example of some of those things, but perhaps not love. Things work a little differently in my family."

Your eyebrow lifts for a moment as you eye Baelor while rounding the corner to the room. His was an ancient family, dating back generations. You were no stranger to how some of the upper crust families like his operated — marriages of convenience, strategic partnerships and lasting investments — but you'd never dared to pry, never dared to ask Baelor a personal question about his family, about the Targaryens.

"Perhaps the only exception to that is my younger brother, Maekar. He truly loved his wife. Was never the same after she passed."

You stop in your tracks, one hand pressed on the door to the guest room. Baelor's low tone causes you to turn, and you catch the faraway look in his eye as he stares at your hand on the door, clearly miles away. You move your hand and, tentatively, place it instead onto Baelor's shoulder. He looks up at you instantly with something burning in his eyes.

Softly, and with some trepidation, you speak, peering up at him.

"Well it seems to me that you love your brother very much. That makes you an exception, too. And your sons."

Baelor freezes. It's unclear whether it was in response to your light touch on his shoulder, or your mention of his sons. It was a sensitive topic for him, and seeing you with your parents had put him into an oddly sensitive mood. His eyes looked glassy for a moment, and you were unable to stop yourself from moving your hand slowly to his cheek. You stepped closer to him in the dark alcove.

"It seems to me there's a lot of love in your family, too." His eyes flick up to yours, and the burning in them is arresting. He tilts his head slightly, into your palm, and you feeling your pulse jump in your neck. Swallowing past the feeling, you let your thumb gently brush his cheek bone, inhaling at the sight of his eyes fluttering shut. His hand comes up to cup yours where it is on his cheek, as if he doesn't want you to let go. And then he gently pulls it off his face. You frown for a moment, but it vanishes when he presses his lips to the base of your palm, in a barely-there kiss, before releasing your hand, and opening his eyes again.

The act has made you speechless. Your mouth opens, and then it closes again. Baelor takes a step back, his cheeks colouring slightly, though it's hard to see in the dim light of the alcove.

"Come on. I was promised ancient Dornish pottery." It cuts the thickness in the air between you, and you roll your eyes, your hand returning to its spot on the door as you push it open. You miss the feeling of Baelor's cheek in your hand.

The display of pottery was modest, and your visit with Baelor to the guest room didn't last long, as you peered out of the patterned windows and spotted the sun setting over the water. After a quick tour of some of your favourite pieces, and a cheap joke involving you gently throwing one of the bowls in Baelor's direction for him to catch, you led Baelor out of the room and around the back stairs leading back to the exterior of the house.

"Back in a bit!" You call out in the vague direction of the house, leading the way down a set of terracotta stairs towards the well-trodden path that led to the secluded waterfront a few minutes walk down from where the house sat atop the crest.

"This must have been a wonderful place to grow up. You must get homesick."

You groan and nod almost exhaustedly, thinking of the extent of the homesickness you'd often felt while at King's.

"Well, you saw me when you brought out that bottle of Dornish wine in your office. I nearly fainted."

Baelor chuckles at that, and slips his hands into his pockets, watching his steps on some of the more slippery rocks carefully.

"You were eager, certainly."

"Thank you for that— by the way. Feels like a lifetime ago for some reason." He nods, tightly, thinking back to that fateful night. He had thought of it endlessly back in King's. You were right. He thought. It did feel like a lifetime ago. The weight of your hand on his thigh, the heat radiating off you has he leaned closer on his sofa. So much had changed, and yet nothing really had. Especially not in King's. He still shivered when you touched him, whether it was a hand on his thigh or on his shoulder, snf to everyone else, he was still simply your professor. But he couldn't deny the things that had changed between you two — the shared understanding, the shared kisses — they were not things he could undo, or forget. He wasn't sure he wanted to, anyway.

He's aware of his silence as the two of you reach the water's edge, but it is not entirely uncomfortable. He watches the way you expertly find your footing on the rocks, taking a large step onto a few bigger ones. You turn back to him with an almost smug look, eyes flicking down to his leather brogues as they press against the slippery rock.

"No—not that one. That one wobbles. Twisted my ankle on that one plenty of times. Especially after drinking."

Baelor rolls his eyes, but is grateful when you extend a hand out to him to take, as he steps over a particularly large rockpool.

"Here. This part is dry." You pat the spot beside you, wishing you'd brought a blanket or something, hoping Baelor isn't put off by it. He just nods, and settles into the spot with much more ease than he'd had stepping over the rocks.

When he finally settles, you take your eyes off him, and let them settle on the familiar horizon, on the fiery streaks in the water catching the light of the setting sun. The breeze feels just right — not so rough to prove an annoyance, but strong enough to bring that pleasant cooling sensation the skin of your neck and thighs. You shivered slightly as you adjusted to it.

"Perhaps this is what I get the most homesick about."

Baelor turns to regard you, inhaling sharply at the way the last golden rays are shining on your face.

"Quiet evenings after dinner with my family, walks along the waterfront with my friends. Don't get me wrong— I love King's but it's just—"

"—Not the same."

You nod, and turn to meet Baelor's gaze.

"Exactly. Even in the summer the air feels— different. The people— I don't know how to describe it. It's like I'm constantly pretending to be someone I'm not. Only a few people get that. Dunk. Tanselle. Raymun sort of—but he is a Fossaway in the end. He always has the cider business to fall back on. It's not the same for me, or for Dunk."

For a moment you miss your tall friend, wondering how he's managing on his own at King's. You had heard from him perhaps once or twice, during a quick phone call during your lunch break. You hoped he'd finally asked Tanselle out properly, and you were grateful for his friendship with Raymun. You shake your head in frustration at yourself. Seconds ago you had been talking to Baelor about homesickness while being at home, and now you were missing King's a little. You wished you could be content with your situation.

"You don't have to pretend with me. Please don't."

The soft demand in Baelor's tone causes you to turn and look up at him again. He's leaning back, using his hands to prop himself up against the rock, and watching you with his head tilted. His eyes trace over your face, and he's looking at you as if pleading. He continues, sitting up a little more and leaning closer to you. With some effort, he leans on his left arm, allowing his right arm to slowly rise. He brushes the stray hair that has blown across your face in the evening breeze, and pushes the stubborn strands behind your ear.

"It's why I was so drawn to you. There's a depth to you that I don't see in many of the others. A grit and determination that they simply don't need. Truly, it's what makes your work that much more remarkable than theirs. It's what makes you remarkable.

You try to turn away, a little embarrassed by the praise, but Baelor's hand tightens against your cheek, and he stops you.

"I mean it. I'm not just saying it to flatter you. It's magnetising."

He watches you for a moment, the way you shut your eyes as you relax into his palm. With your eyes shut, he allows his eyes to slip down to your lips. He swallows as your lips part when he moves his thumb, gently stroking the soft skin of your cheek.

You open your eyes, and Baelor's face is inches away. And he is staring at your lips. Trembling slightly, you push yourself up until your nose brushes his. He's the one who closes the remaining gap, the hand still on your face holding you just a little tighter as your lips press together desperately.

Baelor sits up fully, and his other hand finds its way to the back of your head, tangling slightly in the hair there, just slightly damp now that it had dried a bit over the course of the evening. You follow him, sitting up and wrapping your arms around his neck to hold yourself up.

He lets out a low sound and shudders, feeling the way your body is pressed into his, and catching himself, gingerly untangles his hand from your hair, letting it rest on your shoulder, and then pushes ever so slightly.

You open your eyes with confusion, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. You catch the movement in Baelor's head even before he says anything, and you open your mouth in protest, beating him to it.

"Don't say it."

His head starts shaking as he slowly utters your name.

"-Don't. Baelor." You hate that it sounds like you're pleading with him.

He says your name again, and it sounds pained.

"This is not a good idea. The gods know how much I want this but— I'm returning to King's on Sunday."

You sigh and shut your eyes, removing your arms from him, and leaning back to recline on the rock. Your arms rest, crossed above your head, blocking out the sight of Baelor hovering beside you. With more frustration than you'd intended, you reply to Baelor, still shutting your eyes.

"I thought you said you didn't want to pretend anymore. Last night— you said you didn't want to lie to yourself about this. Us. Whatever this is." The frustration in your voice was apparent to Baelor, and he wanted nothing more than to take you back into his arms. But the two of you had not been in a state to really talk about things last night after your slightly drunken kiss on the Marlin's patio.

"I don't want to pretend. I'm not pretending. But the fact is that you and I will both be back at King's together at some point. You will be in my class, and I will be supervising your thesis." Now it is Baelor's voice that is beginning to sound tense, his own frustration at the situation seeping through. You finally remove your arms from their place above your face and prop yourself up on your elbows, turning to look at Baelor with a long expression.

"I'm aware." You mumble quietly, taking in the creases in his forehead as he frowns.

"I'm an ethics professor." He declares quietly, shaking his head, staring out at the darkening horizon.

"—I know." He flicks his head towards you and gives you a frustrated look, and you sigh, shaking your head somewhat apologetically. You know how bad it would look. An ethics professor caught having an inappropriate relationship with his ethics student. What was worse was that Baelor was not just any ethics professor. He was likely the next provost of the entire institute. These were all things you knew. All things that hovered in the back of your mind, that you had managed to willfully ignore while you had spent time with Baelor at the museum, the conference, the bar... You knew this conversation was coming, that the reality of the situation would come crashing down eventually. Yet it was still painful to acknowledge. It still hurt to think of what would come next.

"Sorry. It's just— I'm fully aware of the situation we're in. I'm not some naive schoolgirl who believes in fairytales and happy endings."

You hate how bitter you sound, at how your irritation is being directed towards Baelor. It feels like a cruel trick the gods have decided to play — letting you have Baelor for a few days, then tearing him away from you again. You shut your eyes and your head falls back as you let out another sigh.

"Look. I knew this was... the likely outcome. I suppose I've just been in denial. I understand. I just wanted to enjoy this. Just while it lasted." You tilt your head back down, but you can't bring yourself to look at Baelor. Instead you stare at the last glimmer of red on the horizon, where the sun is taking its last breath.

He remains silent, and the anxiety starts to build in you. Without looking at him, you take a breath, and straighten. The sun has now completely vanished beneath the dark horizon. The breeze coming off the sea sends an unpleasant shiver through you.

"Come on. We should head back. Hard to see the rocks in the dark."

Baelor's head flicks up at you as you stand abruptly, and he opens his mouth in protest.

"We still haven't talked about this, you know." His voice is slightly raised, and he's looking at you with some exasperation. He wanted to discuss this. To weigh out the possibilities, to even just convey how emotionally torn he was about the whole situation. It seemed that was far away from what you wanted.

"What is there to talk about?!" It comes out more loudly than you intend; Baelor flinches slightly. You apologise.

"Sorry. Just— we both know it can't happen. No point dragging it out."

Baelor looks like he wants to argue again, still seated on the dark stone. You speak before he is able to.

"There is no universe in which this would work. I know it, and so do you."

It leaves Baelor speechless — the hard finality in your voice. As if there's no other option. She's right. He supposes. But the harshness of it hurts more than he had expected, and it squashes the last of his will to discuss this with you properly, since it seemed you had made up your mind on the matter. The last thing he wanted to do was compromise you further by pushing you when it was clearly not something you wanted to do. He would not abuse his power for that, especially with the position he was in. Silently, he pushes himself up, standing on the rock, and giving you a firm nod before stepping aside.

A look of remorse flashes on your face as you watch Baelor. His hands are in his pockets, now that he's standing, and his shoulders are a little slumped. He's not looking at you, instead staring up ahead of you towards the path leading back to your parents' house.

It had been harsh, and you regretted snapping at him, but it was all just a reflection of how painful this was for you. He'd be gone, in a few days, and you'd be in Dorne no doubt thinking of your time with him. He'd go back to his classes in King's — a schedule packed with meetings, office hours, lectures — and you'd be stuck with the ghost of him, the ghost of his kisses and tender touches. And then, eventually, you'd be back at King's with him. Back to sitting by the large window, back to trying not to stare as he delivered his lecture, back to avoiding his gaze, back to lonely university mixer evenings, surrounded by people who didn't even see you.

You wished you had been more sensible and just avoided this inevitable pain. With a shake of your head, you turn. Your feet automatically find the right place to step, after years of practice, even in the dark, and you begin the walk up to the house. In spite of your hurt, you turn a few times, making sure Baelor is following, and while your mouth opens a few times, you find that you have no words to speak. Nothing that would suitably convey the complexity of feeling in your chest, the thoughts whirling in your head.

The two of you finally make it up the hill to the crest where the house sits. It is dimly lit inside, and you can see your parents reclining at the table with books in their hands, cups of Dornish iced tea in front of them.

"I hope you enjoyed the view! We are in a beautiful spot here. If only you'd been here for New Year's! You would've seen the fireworks over the water." Your mother places her book down, and smiles eagerly up at you and Baelor as you enter, a little out of breath from the steep walk up.

"Thank you. It was a wonderful way to end the evening. You have been most welcoming to me. I hope I can return the favour one day." The finality in Baelor's voice is evident, and with disappointment pooling in your stomach, you know he is about to leave.

"Won't you stay for some tea before leaving?" Your father adds, peering up at Baelor over the top of his book, said more out of politeness than anything.

"No, no. I must be heading back. I am rather fatigued from the conference, and I have some emails to catch up on." His voice sounds a little strained, and you chance a look at him while he is turned towards your parents. He looks more tired than you had been conscious of, and the remorse builds in you again as you reflect on your harsh tone with him.

"Why don't you walk Baelor out, darling. Thank you for coming. You are welcome here anytime you are in Dorne.

You turn wordlessly towards the front door, footsteps slow and heavy. You push the door open, holding it to allow Baelor to follow you outside, and then you gently release it, letting it shut behind you two. Your feet take you automatically to the front gate, your eyes tracing the small stones that make a path in the front garden. Baelor is still silent, and so are you.

The creaking of the gate causes you to look up at him as he pulls it open. Your eyes meet his.

"I suppose this is it?" You ask, but it comes out as more of a mumble. Baelor's hand lifts, but it falters. He lowers it.

"Will I see you before I leave?" It's quiet when he asks, whispered almost. His eyes glimmer with the smallest amount of fading hope.

You sigh. Before this evening, you had fantasised about a weekend with Baelor, walking through the narrow streets of Dorne, visiting the Saturday market, sitting squashed together in an intimate restaurant. Those images shattered in your mind as you watched Baelor, hesitantly pushing against the gate.

"I don't know. I don't want things to be weird, but it's sort of— it's hard now, Baelor."

He immediately looks away, a frown lining his forehead. He nods.

"Okay. I understand."

It makes your heart thud painfully, and guilt stabs at you. As Baelor pushes the gate open, you step forward.

"I'm meeting up with my friends tomorrow night. After work. We're having dinner at the restaurant we went to on Monday, then going to the Dockside Tavern after. You should come. One last hurrah." You try to cut through the thick tension, the dark mood you'd plunged the two of you into. Perhaps it could be an olive branch, a way of ending things as friends, rather than enemies. You didn't want this to be the last memory you had of Baelor in Dorne, and you didn't want it to ruin his memories of his time here.

He doesn't look up at you. Instead he frowns at a piece of rust that flakes off the fence. It creaks again as he pushes it open.

"Thanks. I— I'll think about it." His tone is flat, and he flicks his eyes over your face for just a moment before he turns to look at the gate again. You stand, watching as he pushes it open fully this time, and steps out. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and he turns to the left, trudging to the corner of the street. You watch until he vanishes, wishing he would give you one more glance. The iron gate clinks shut, and automatically, your hand lifts to press against the spot Baelor had been holding onto, feeling the roughness of the rust beneath your palm.

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a/n: Sorry I'm so mean!! Also I've had major motivation issues since finishing my exams so this took longer than expected and went a slightly different direction from what I was intending. I actually decided to split this one into two chapters, so there will be another part out hopefully soonish, and at least one more after that? We'll see haha.