what we do in life echoes in eternity

“How’s that?” you murmured, admiring the way his tan skin glistened in the candlelight.

The tops of your fingers would occasionally trace over one of the many scars that had been etched into his body; the sizes and colours of the faded lesions varied, some the length of your forearm and a lighter hue, while others were as small as a quill tip and similar in tone to the surrounding skin.

Baelor hummed in reply before a muffled, “perfect,” left his parted lips. 

The right side of his face was pressed into a cushion below, providing you with the alluring image of his open mouth, flushed left cheekbone, and fluttering, dark lashes.

He made a content rumbling every time you worked out a stubborn lump, the hand he had resting around your calf tightening in appreciation of your efforts.

A raspy, dizzying moan left his throat in a long exhale when your hands kneaded at a particularly sensitive wound–one that, despite being eleven years old, would periodically still flare up and throb.

The sound made your legs constrict around him and eyelids flicker as arousal settled thickly at the base of your spine. You lingered around the edges of the aged laceration, evoking another low, unconstrained noise from deep within his chest.

Slowly, your fingers dragged upwards, leaving a trail of long, red welts that took their time to vanish, along the length of his shoulder blades. 

The dark grey and silvery hair that rested around the nape of his neck and ear was sleek from a coating of oil, darkened from when you had earlier threaded through the strands in a besotted manner. They had looked enticingly cute; their naturally curled shape too tempting for you to not reach up and twirl them around a single, slick digit.

“Turn around,” you commanded once you had managed to get all of the painful nodules out of his shoulders, your hips rising to provide him with room to flip over.

Once Baelor was comfortably facing you, you sat back down over his pelvis, legs tightening around his body once more when he peered up at you with a knowing smile.

This part wasn’t for him as much as it was for you.

He had gained a thickness over his muscles as the years passed, a supple, malleable layer of meat that easily surrendered to your ministrations. 

You poured more lotion over your palms, rubbing them together until the liquid was warm, and then placed them atop his torso.

The hair that was scattered over the stretch of his chest immediately darkened as the balm coated his skin; the glossy sheen that enhanced the bulkiness of his upper body caused heat to unfurl within your lower abdomen, drift up, and settle in blotchy, tingly patches over your throat and face.

Baelor’s own hands were resting over the upper part of your thighs, his new position supplying him more access to you.

His body jolted forward when one of your nails accidentally scraped his dusky nipple, eliciting a startled intake of air from the older man. You bit the inside of your cheek to refrain from remarking on how sensitive he was, despite knowing that he would never retaliate even if you were to do it again.

“Enjoying yourself?” Baelor inquired after several minutes of being thoroughly prodded, scraped, and tugged at. 

His scarred brow rose in response to the engrossed, fixated look on your face.

You hadn’t noticed how drastically your breathing had changed; immersed with the way his short, coarse hairs felt when you combed through them, and how every sinewy ridge of his flesh pliantly absorbed each stroke and squeeze you delivered.

After all, you had become remarkably skilled at avoiding difficult things whenever your heart proved unwilling to understand them.

You only knew this: A week had passed since that night.

Seven full days.

And in those seven days, no invitations had arrived for supper. Or lunch.

Or even the quiet companionship that had slowly become so familiar, you had not realised how much space it occupied in your life until it was suddenly gone.

By the Seven, Baelor did not even come to check on the boys while you were present.

He visited them during their individual lessons when you were elsewhere, appearing and disappearing from their schedules like some elusive creature that existed only just beyond your reach.

The realisation unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

Not because you missed him. Certainly not. But because absence had a peculiar way of revealing habits one never knew had formed.

And somewhere during your weeks within the Red Keep, you had unknowingly grown accustomed to him.

To shared meals. To discussions over books and lessons. To quiet evenings spent in the warm glow of candlelight, while work and conversation blended together.

The absence of those things left behind an odd sort of silence.

One you had not expected to notice, and yet you did.

Far more than you wished.

There had been moments, more than you cared to count, when the urge to march directly into his study and demand an explanation rose within you.

To ask whether you had offended him. To ask whether that night had changed something between you. To ask what exactly had frightened him enough to retreat for an entire week.

Yet each time the impulse arose, you forced it back down because a part of you wondered whether you even had the right.

After all, you had not been entirely innocent either.

You had stayed that night. Felt the temptation, almost gave in.

You had not stopped him, had not pulled away... had not even left the room.

The memory still returned at the most inconvenient times.

A brush of warm breath. A hand beneath yours. Mismatched eyes darkened by something neither of you had dared name aloud.

So on what grounds could you now demand answers? When even you did not know what you wished to hear.

Was it merely a moment of vulnerability and emotion? A temporary temptation long forgotten?

Or...

Something more?

Your mind struggled even to grasp the possibility that it could be something more.

Because if it was...Well.

That road led somewhere dangerous. And you had already walked enough dangerous roads for one lifetime.

And so, for the sake of your sanity, you did what every wise person would do in your place; you avoided it altogether.

Spending your hours focusing on the boys, doing anything but thinking about that night...

And Baelor.

Matarys’ nursery had become a second room for you by now, with enough hours spent there to almost call it your own.

Some might say you spent more hours there than in your own chambers, and they would not be wrong.

The room had slowly taken on a strange familiarity over the past moon.

Toys rested in baskets by the walls. Small blankets had found permanent homes atop chairs.

Books sat stacked in uneven piles after countless readings, and the faint scent of milk, herbs and childhood lingered in the air so constantly that you no longer noticed it unless you stepped away for some time.

It was a warm, lived-in room, filled with life. And perhaps that was why you found yourself returning to it so often.

This time, however, you were not alone with the young prince.

Valarr’s riding instructor had suffered an unfortunate accident, leaving him unable to teach for at least a fortnight.

Thus, the young heir suddenly found himself free for the afternoon and, unsurprisingly, wished for nothing more than to spend it in your presence.

So you allowed him.

Truthfully, refusing Valarr had become increasingly difficult over the weeks.

Not because he was a prince, but because he was Valarr.

Gentle-hearted and thoughtful in ways no child his age should have needed to become.

He asked for affection as though uncertain whether he was still permitted to receive it, and every time you noticed it, something inside your chest ached quietly.

Ellyn had also joined after much persuasion and coaxing from both you and the boys.

Even Valarr had participated in the campaign, offering his finest puppy-dog eyes an expression entirely unbecoming of a prince of his rank.

In the end, Ellyn gave in.

Though tense at first, she had slowly begun to relax over the past week as Valarr engaged with her more and more whenever their paths crossed.

The boy’s gentle nature was difficult to ignore and even harder to dislike.

He was still young enough not to question a servant’s station, young enough to speak freely with stable boys and maids alike without considering what the world expected of him.

You prayed it would remain that way for as long as possible. The Red Keep had a habit of taking good things from children.

Titles before names. Duty before joy. Distance before affection.

You had already seen it happen to Valarr.

And if the gods showed mercy, perhaps they would allow him a few more years before the world came to claim the rest.

The afternoon sun poured softly through the nursery windows, painting warm patches of gold across carpets and furniture alike.

Outside, somewhere beyond the stone walls, gulls cried over Backwater Bay while the distant sounds of the castle drifted lazily upward: the faint clang of steel from the training yards, muffled voices carried by the wind, the endless living heartbeat of the Red Keep.

Inside, however, there was peace.

A rare kind.

The sort that settled quietly over a room without anyone noticing until much later.

Valarr was busy with Spur, using small meat treats to train the dog to learn tricks. Currently, it seemed to be working.

“Spur, hand,” Valarr said, extending an open palm while the other hand held the treat.

Spur merely stared at him.

Then, after several moments of what looked suspiciously like careful consideration, the dog sat down with great dignity before barking once in protest when no treat immediately followed.

The young prince frowned faintly.

Clearly, this had not been the intended outcome.

Valarr tried again, extending his hand once more with all the seriousness of a seasoned dog trainer. “Spur, hand.”

Again, not the desired response.

You chuckled softly beneath your breath, deciding not to interfere and merely observe.

Children learned through trying, through failing, through trying again.

And if the lesson happened to involve an overconfident dog with questionable listening skills, then so be it.

Across the carpet, Matarys had occupied himself with a different adventure entirely.

The young prince crawled eagerly over the soft rugs, his little hands pushing a round wooden ball before chasing after it with determined enthusiasm.

Every time he caught it, a delighted giggle escaped him, as though he had accomplished some grand feat worthy of songs.

Watching him never failed to soften something inside you.

How strange it was, you sometimes thought, that joy could survive so easily in children after loss. Or perhaps children simply carried hope in ways adults eventually forgot.

Nearby, Ellyn sat with her hands folded neatly upon her lap, no longer quite as stiff in your company as she had once been. Sometimes you catch her smiling now.

Small, careful smiles. The kind that belonged to people still learning how to lower old walls.

And perhaps that, more than anything, reassured you.

For trust did not arrive all at once. It came quietly, Piece by piece, Day after day.

Then suddenly... a figure appeared in the doorway.

Immediately, you and Ellyn tensed upon recognising the Queen.

The shift happened almost instinctively.

Ellyn straightened so quickly her chair nearly scraped against the floor, while you felt your own muscles tighten before your mind had even caught up with what your eyes had seen. “My Queen.”

Ellyn stood faster than you had ever seen her move.

Hands placed firmly against her lap, she bowed low, eyes cast downward in submission and respect.

You greeted her similarly, though your own bow remained far shallower and quicker.

Old habits. Or perhaps simply different ones.

“Grandmother!” Valarr shouted, his entire face brightening with delight.

Without hesitation, he dropped the treat and hurried across the room. Spur wasted no time rushing after it, quickly devouring the free food.

Valarr’s small feet moved quickly over the carpet before wrapping his arms around the Queen’s knees.

The sight warmed your heart.

Your smile softened at once as the gentle Dornish Queen rested a hand atop the boy’s head with practised ease, fingers slipping through his dark hair in an affection that spoke of years spent loving children and grandchildren alike.

“Valarr, my sweet boy,” she greeted him warmly, her hand lingering for a moment upon his head, brushing gently over the single white strand that stood apart from the rest.

Then the Queen looked up into the room.

Matarys had grabbed the wooden ball by then and was busy attempting to place it into his mouth, hoping perhaps to soothe the discomfort of the baby teeth slowly pushing through his gums.

Every now and then, he gnawed at the smooth wood with great determination, only to pause and inspect it as though personally offended that it refused to taste more interesting.

You and Ellyn remained standing.

Though only the maid continued to hold her bow, head lowered in respect and fear.

Myriah’s gaze drifted over the room with quiet attentiveness, taking in details most people would overlook.

Her eyes lingered briefly on Matarys, on Valarr pressed against her side, on the scattered toys and blankets that gave the nursery the lived-in warmth of a family rather than the polished perfection of a royal chamber.

Then her gaze settled upon Ellyn.

One elegant eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly.

She had not expected to find a maid seated comfortably in your company while the princes played.

Not because the act itself was improper, but because the Red Keep rarely encouraged such easy familiarity between ranks.

As if sensing the silent question before it could ever be voiced, you stepped forward, drawing her attention away from Ellyn and toward yourself.

“What do we owe the visit, your highness?” you asked, unaware of the improper title you had chosen.

Myriah’s gaze rested upon you for a heartbeat longer than comfort allowed.

Long enough for you to wonder if you had misspoken. Long enough for her to decide she would let it pass.

“I came to observe the boys with you, for a change,” she explained as she stepped deeper into the room. “Spend some time with my grandsons as well.”

At that, Valarr released her with a grin so bright it seemed capable of lighting the room itself. “Grandma! Let me show you what I taught Spur!”

The Dornish Queen looked from the excited boy to the dog currently occupied with a task of great importance, licking the precise spot upon the carpet where the treat had fallen moments earlier.

She had heard of the dog, of course.

Servants and maids often spoke more freely than they realised when they believed no royal ears lingered nearby.

Over the past month, she had heard many things.

Stories of muddy paw prints discovered in places no dog should ever reach. Complaints about fur clinging stubbornly to blankets and bed sheets. Accounts of late-night barking from the nursery and of a dog who guarded princes with the seriousness of a sworn knight.

She had never encountered the animal herself. Not until now.

And seeing Valarr’s open affection toward the creature only deepened her curiosity.

Children rarely lied with their hearts.

You glanced toward Ellyn and needed no words to understand one another.

The Queen had come to observe, not to be observed.

“My Queen,” Ellyn said softly, bowing a second time before quietly taking her leave.

You watched her go before turning your attention back toward the Queen.

Myriah had already moved farther into the room and settled into an empty armchair facing the boys.

She sat with the effortless grace of someone long accustomed to courts and crowns, yet there was no stiffness in her posture.

Only watchfulness. Patient. Quiet.

The kind possessed by those who had survived long enough to know that truth often revealed itself when left undisturbed.

Slowly, you lowered yourself back into your own seat.

Though your muscles remained faintly tense in her presence.

Not because she frightened you.

Very little frightened you anymore after the life you had lived. War had a way of changing a person’s relationship with fear.

No... It was not fear that made you tense.

It was respect.

You remembered the way she had looked at you in the King’s solar.

The stories Ellyn had shared in hushed tones while brushing your hair in the evenings.

And even Baelor, careful and measured Baelor, had once spoken of his mother with a kind of admiration rarely found in grown men.

You had heard of her ability to judge a person’s character with only a few exchanged words.

Of lords twice her age, leaving meetings unsettled without ever understanding why.

Of a Dornish princess who entered a court that distrusted her people and, through patience, intelligence and sheer will, had slowly changed the opinions of an entire kingdom.

She had survived. Not merely endured... Survived. There was a difference.

She had raised dragon heirs. Stood beside kings. Endured whispers and prejudice with her head held high.

She was a remarkable woman. And perhaps that was why you felt yourself tense around her.

Because you knew she was capable, truly capable.

Not given greatness through titles and power alone, but possessing it quietly within herself long before either had ever been bestowed upon her.

You glanced at her occasionally, noticing how her attention remained wholly fixed upon Valarr.

There was something gentle in the way she observed him.

Not the softness of weakness.

No...

It was the quiet tenderness of a woman who had raised children of her own and survived long enough to see them become parents in turn.

There was wisdom in her gaze, and an old sort of patience that only years could grant.

The young heir, eager for approval, especially from his grandmother; turned to ensure the two women were watching him closely.

With all the seriousness of a knight preparing for battle, he reached into his pocket and retrieved another treat before facing Spur.

Immediately, the dog straightened.

Gone was the creature who had been lazily licking the carpet moments earlier.

Now he stood alert, ears perked high, golden eyes locked with unwavering devotion upon the piece of meat in Valarr’s hand.

Valarr puffed out his chest proudly and faced the animal.

“Spur sit,” he commanded.  The dog obeyed at once.

“Lie down.” Again, obedience.

The Queen’s brows rose faintly in approval.

You could not help but feel a quiet swell of pride in yourself.

The boy had grown gentler these past weeks, but also more confident. More willing to laugh. More willing to fail and try again.

There had been a time, not long ago, when he barely smiled. Now he trains dogs.

It seemed a small thing. Yet healing often announced itself in small things.

“Stay.” Spur remained still.

“Get up.” The dog rose immediately.

“Turn.” With surprising grace for such an enthusiastic animal, Spur spun in a circle, tail wagging so violently his entire body appeared to sway with it.

Valarr beamed. And then came the command he had yet to master.

The one command that had defeated him repeatedly over the past week.

“Spur, hand.”

Once again, the dog looked at him, then sat down... Patiently.. Expectantly.

As if to say: I have completed the assignment. Where is my payment?

“No, Spur. Hand!” the boy insisted, extending his palm farther and even attempting to lift the dog’s paw himself.

To his surprise, but not particularly yours, Spur seized the opportunity with all the cunning of a creature who understood far more than people gave him credit for.

The instant Valarr bent down, the dog lunged. Not aggressively. Enthusiastically.

Valarr tried to pull back, realising too late what Spur intended.

The result was immediate.

With all the unstoppable force of a very determined dog, Spur crashed directly into the young prince and sent him tumbling backwards onto the carpet.

The treat disappeared into the animal’s mouth with astonishing speed.

Victory had been achieved.

Now only the remaining treats mattered.

Spur climbed atop the fallen prince with great purpose, his pink-and-black nose already busy searching Valarr’s pockets for further treasures.

The cold touch of his nose tickled exposed skin, and Valarr’s protests dissolved into uncontrollable laughter.

“Spur! Off! Off!” Valarr gasped between giggles, attempting to push the dog away.

His efforts proved entirely futile.

The dog, naturally, interpreted resistance as encouragement.

You chuckled softly behind your hand, unable to hide your amusement at the sight.

And you were not the only one.

A second laugh joined yours.

Your eyes widened faintly as you turned toward Queen Myriah.

She was laughing, truly laughing.

Not the restrained smile of court. Not polite amusement offered out of obligation.

Real laughter.

The graceful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms laughed openly as her grandson wrestled with a dog upon the nursery floor.

For a moment, you simply stared.

You had expected concern, perhaps a sharp word. A reminder of propriety or royal dignity.

Instead, she watched the scene unfold with bright eyes and quiet joy, unconcerned by dirty clothes or unruly dogs.

As though she had long ago learned that childhood was too brief to spend preserving appearances.

And perhaps that was the first thing that truly allowed you to relax around her.

Not her title. Not her power.

But the trust she placed in your dog. In the boy.

And in you.

———

Myriah turned to you as she felt the tension between you thinning little by little, worn down not by words or duty but by something far simpler and far rarer within the Red Keep: genuine joy.

Valarr’s laughter still echoed softly through the nursery as Spur finally abandoned his search for treats and settled beside the boy with all the innocence of a creature entirely unaware of his crimes.

Sunlight continued to spill through the tall windows, painting golden patches upon the carpets and warming the nursery with the kind of gentle heat only early afternoon carried.

The room smelled faintly of milk, clean linens, herbs and dog fur; a strange mixture that somehow had become the scent of home these past weeks.

The Queen watched her eldest grandson with a gaze softened by memory.

“It is rare to hear Valarr laugh,” she confessed quietly, her eyes never leaving the boy as he attempted to smooth his now-rumpled clothes with great dignity.

There was no accusation in her voice, no hidden blame toward anyone who had cared for him before. Only the quiet sadness of a grandmother who had witnessed grief settle far too early upon young shoulders.

She smiled softly then, though sorrow lingered beneath it like an old scar that never fully healed. “The loss of a mother is never easy, especially to one so young.”

Your attention shifted to Valarr.

The sight before you was so different from the boy you had first met that at times it almost felt like remembering two entirely separate children.

You still remembered him as he had been during those first days... Quiet. Too quiet.

A child who spoke carefully, moved carefully, and smiled only when politeness demanded it.

There had been a heaviness in him then, one no child should ever carry. He had looked like a boy standing in the shadow of grief too large for his small body to bear.

It had broken something inside you to witness it.

Perhaps that was why you had attached yourself to him so quickly.

Not because he was a prince. Not because he was the heir to the Iron Throne.

But because you understood. You knew what it meant to lose a mother. You knew what it meant to wake each morning expecting to hear a voice that would never answer again.

Grief looked different on every face, yet somehow always felt the same.

“It is not...” you began softly, your gaze lingering on Valarr as he proudly explained to Spur why stealing treats was dishonourable conduct. “And sometimes, they don’t require words. Just presence, companionship.”

The words came easier than you expected.

Perhaps because they were true.

There had been times in your own life when words had failed entirely.

No speech had eased hunger.  No promise had buried the dead. No comforting phrase had undone the horrors of war.

Yet presence... Presence remained.

A hand on a shoulder. Someone sitting beside you in silence.

The simple knowledge that you did not endure pain alone.

That had often been enough.

When you finally looked toward Queen Myriah, you found her already watching you.

Your eyes met, yet neither of you looked away.

Her dark gaze studied you with the same patience she had shown since entering the room. There was no hostility within it, nor suspicion as sharp as the one carried by kings and councils.

Only assessment.

The kind practised by those who had survived courts far deadlier than swords.

Others often faltered beneath her gaze.

You had seen it yourself during your audience with the King.

Men twice your age stumbled over words or apologised for slights not yet committed. Lords lowered their heads before she ever demanded it.

Some feared her. Others resented her.

There were those who still whispered of Dorne with bitterness and distrust, as if years of peace had failed to erase old wars from memory.

You had heard such whispers before. You had ignored them then, just as you ignored them now.

Because when you looked at Queen Myriah, you did not see an outsider.

You saw a survivor.

A woman who had entered a court that had not wanted her and carved a place within it regardless.

And perhaps she saw something familiar when she looked upon you as well.

For neither of you had been born for the world you now inhabited. Yet both of you had learned how to endure it.

You simply looked at her, woman to woman.

Stubborn. Prideful. Confident.

Defending an invisible territory and protecting yourself.

Myriah understood that. Perhaps she even recognised it.

For the faintest shift crossed her features then, subtle enough that another might have missed it entirely. A softening around the eyes. A thought acknowledged and quietly filed away.

“You speak with wisdom far beyond your years,” Queen Myriah said at last, gently breaking the silence that had settled between you. “You see the world differently than most, and that influences you.

There was no mockery in her voice, no condescension; only observation.

The sort one made after reaching a conclusion.

“You speak as if it’s a bad thing.”

A hint of amusement touched her lips. “Only to those intimidated by it.”

The answer came lightly, yet truth rested beneath it like stone beneath water.

For a moment, something within your chest eased; not entirely.

The Queen remained the Queen, but some invisible distance had shifted between you. Not vanished... Merely narrowed.

And for the first time since she had entered the nursery, you found yourself smiling faintly in return; finally reaching a common ground with the Dornish Princess sitting by your side.

"Hi," Baelor said, stepping back to let you in and directing an amused look at you.

"Hi," you threw your satchel to the floor of his hallway and continued. "Better suited. As if four weeks of attendance constitutes better suited to anything. As if I haven't been the one emailing every single speaker, every single venue, every single—"

You paced into his sitting room. He closed the door and watched you with the specific patient attention he gave most things, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, letting you continue.

"And the thing is, nobody said anything when Hartwell announced it. Nobody. Like it was perfectly normal for the person who did all the work to just be quietly replaced by—"

His hands found your waist from behind. You kept talking.

"—by someone who has contributed nothing, genuinely nothing, I have the email thread to prove it, I could show you the email thread right now, I have it on my phone—"

His mouth found the side of your neck. You faltered for exactly one word.

"—I have it on my— Baelor."

"Mm," he said, against your skin, and kissed lower, open mouthed and slow, his lips finding the curve where your neck met your shoulder and lingering there with the specific unhurried attention he brought to everything.

"I'm trying to be angry," you felt like you needed to explain.

"I know," he said, and licked a slow line up the side of your neck that made your breath catch.

"This isn't helping."

"No," he agreed, and bit down gently at the junction of your shoulder, and the sound you made had considerably less anger in it than the sentence you had been mid-way through.

You turned in his arms, still half furious, and found him watching you with an expression that was warm and slightly amused and entirely unbothered by the rant, which was somehow more aggravating than if he had tried to talk you out of it.

"I am still angry," you informed him.

"I can see that," he said.

"You're not taking this seriously."

"I'm taking it very seriously," he said, his hands sliding to your hips. "You look like you need a distraction."

"I don't need a—"

"Come here," he said, low, "and yell about it properly."

You stared at him.

"I mean it," he said, and there was something underneath the composed warmth of his voice that you had not heard from him in quite this configuration before — something that suggested he had, in fact, been thinking about this scenario specifically. "Tell me everything Hartwell said. Tell me about Marcus. Tell me exactly how unfair it was."

Something in you snapped. Not into calm, but into something else entirely.

You kissed him hard enough that he made a surprised sound against your mouth, and his hands tightened on your hips in immediate response, and you walked him backward toward the sofa with the same furious energy that had carried you through his door, except now it had somewhere specific to go.

He sat. You climbed into his lap.

"Hartwell," you said, between kisses, working at the buttons of his shirt, "is an incompetent—"

"Tell me," he said, low, his hands working at the fabric of your jeans and discarding them on the floor. Your underwear almost ripped by an urgency that told you that Baelor was also pretty much enjoying the situation.

"—coward who couldn't be bothered to actually manage his own committee, so instead he just—" you pulled his shirt open and pressed your mouth to his collarbone— "replaced the person doing all the work with someone easier—"

"That's it," he said, rough, his head tipping back as you bit down. "Keep ranting."

So you did.

You rode him with the same fury that had carried you through the door, your hips working hard and fast, your hands braced against his chest, nails biting down his exposed skin, the rant continuing in fragments between gasps — fucking Marcus and four weeks and the entire email thread — and Baelor met every furious movement with his own, his hands gripping your hips, his composure entirely gone, replaced by low continuous groans that arrived with every clench of your pussy around him.

"Gods," he breathed, "you feel—"

"I'm still angry—"

"Stay angry," his response came accompanied by a rough thrust of his hips upwards, the tip of his cock kissing a part that almost made you scream in pleasure.

The anger and the pleasure had stopped being separate things somewhere around the third cry of his name, fused into something that drove you harder against him, and he met it with a roughness that was new from him — his hips driving up to meet yours, his grip on your hips bruising, his voice rough and low saying there and yes and gods, just like that — and when you came it tore out of you with a sound that had fucking and the name of your professor somewhere in it, which made Baelor laugh, breathless and wrecked, even as he followed you over the edge.

Afterward, you lay slumped against his chest, both of you breathing hard.

"I'm still angry," you said.

"I know," his hand moving slowly along your back. "I quite enjoyed that, for the record."

"You enjoyed me being furious?" your eyebrow raised.

"I quite enjoyed your rough side," he said. "Specifically on my lap."

You lifted your head and looked at him. He looked entirely unrepentant.

"You're going to encourage this," you said.

"Every single time I can, as long as I am not on the receiving end," he confirmed with a chuckle, and kissed your forehead. "Now. Tell me more about the email thread."

He answered before the second ring. You were propped against the headboard, hair down, the nightstand lamp making everything amber, and when his face appeared on screen the unsettled thing in your chest settled slightly.

"Hi," you smiled.

"Hi," he said. Then, quietly, "You look tired."

"I sleep better when you're there," you said, and watched it land on his face.

He smiled warmly, the edges of his eyes crinkling. "So do I, my love."

A warm, slightly aching moment. Then you reached for the hem of your shirt.

"What are you doing?" his tone completely changed.

"It's really warm in here," you said, and pulled it over your head.

You were wearing the thin camisole underneath — the cream one with the narrow straps, selected with complete deliberateness — and you watched his eyes move across the screen and felt the satisfaction of a plan proceeding correctly.

"You could open a window," he tried. Carefully.

"It's stuck," you simply said. "Aren't you warm?"

"I'm fine," he said, in the tone of a man managing something.

You slid one strap off your shoulder. Then the other.

"I miss you," you said simply. "Three days of missing you. I want you to watch me." You held his gaze through the screen. "Just look at me with those pretty eyes. Please Baelor."

You took the camisole off slowly.

He watched. He could not not watch — the full attentiveness of him that had never become ordinary. His composure was present but thinner than usual, the edges of it uneven in the way that meant it was working harder than normal.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured. Almost involuntarily.

You lay back and let the lamplight fall across you and slid your hand down your stomach, past the waistband, and touched yourself. You were already wet — embarrassingly so — and you could swear that the sound of it was audible even to him. You kept your eyes on the screen as you circled your clit slowly, letting him see exactly what it did to your face.

The sound you made at the first touch was soft and immediate and entirely genuine — the specific catch in your breath of someone who'd been half-wound up for hours — and you watched something happen in his expression, the composure encountering something it wasn't equipped for.

"Gods," he said. Low. Involuntary.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you pleaded.

"That you're doing this deliberately," he said, rough.

"I miss your hands," you whined, and let him hear your breath catching as you pushed two fingers inside yourself, the wet sound of it now unambiguous through the microphone. "Nothing feels like your hands. Your fingers are longer than mine and I can't—" an exhale, frustrated and genuine— "I can't reach the way you can. I can't stop thinking about how you use them. How careful you are. How long you take."

"Stop," he said. Strained.

"Stop?"

"No." Immediately. "Don't stop. I meant—" He exhaled slowly, the particular exhale of a man who had stopped fighting something. "Stop talking about my hands when I can't use them."

"You could," you said. "Right now."

A silence.

"Baelor," you moaned, curling your fingers and letting him hear exactly what that did, the slick sound of it and then your voice pitched higher than usual. "Please."

His hand moved off screen. You heard the sound he made before you saw his expression change — low and rough, the unmistakable sound of someone wrapping a hand around their cock after pretending they didn't need to. His jaw went slack with it. His shoulder moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm and you watched it and felt yourself clench around your own fingers.

"There you are," you said softly.

His voice dropped, stripped of its usual precision. "I keep thinking about how you feel. How wet you get — and I can hear you, Gods—" a low groan as you made a particularly obscene sound shifting your hand— "I keep thinking about how you sound when I've got my fingers in you and you're right there—" another groan— "exactly that. Such a good girl. Exactly that. I've been thinking about that sound for three days I can't—"

"Two more days," you breathed.

"Two more days," he said, rough with it, his rhythm visibly less controlled now, his composure entirely elsewhere. "And then I'm going to take my time. Mouth first, then my these fingers you love so much, and I'm going to be thorough. You won't have anything to complain about by the time I'm finished."

You came with his name in your mouth and your fingers buried in your sopping pussy, the heel of your hand grinding against your clit and his face on the screen completely, entirely undone — the composure nowhere, just him, watching you from three hundred miles away with something so nakedly real in his expression that it reached through the distance and landed somewhere that had nothing to do with the physical.

He followed shortly after, your name said roughly into the quiet of his empty study, his rhythm stuttering and then going still. When he looked back at the screen his face was wrecked and warm and slightly wondering — the real smile beginning at the edges of it.

"That was not a regular video call," he said, his tone betraying amusement.

"Wasn't it far more entertaining?" you teased.

He looked at you for a long moment with the expression of a man who had been completely and systematically dismantled and was finding, in the warm aftermath, that he had no complaints.

"One of these days I'm going to die of heart failure," he joked.

"You are acting like you don't enjoy the danger," you teased back.

Even through the screen you could feel the warmth of his gaze directed entirely at you with that focused intensity.

"If you're the danger," he said, "I'm not interested in escaping." And the smoothness with which he delivered it sent a warm wave through you all over again.

Just two more days.

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.