“Good morning Ser Harwin,” you stood, bending down to clean up your bedroll before he stopped you. You watched as he swiftly cleaned up the area and packed the things on your horse.

You bent down to the underbrush, a blood red and black splotched flower catching your eye. It was large, almost as big as the palm of your hand. You thought you would bring it back for your sister, so you wordlessly walked over to your horse next to the knight and added it to your small bag.

“What’s this?” he asked, watching you. You shrugged in response. “I’m not exactly sure, I’ve never seen it before. I thought Rhaenyra might like it.”

The knight chuckled. “Lady of Dragonstone, Princess of Flowers.”

You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t help the grin that spread on your face. “And what about you? Knight of a… creepy, cursed castle?”

“Something like that, I suppose.” He flashed you a cheeky smile. “So, shall we return to camp and I can teach you how to properly skin an animal?”

You face must have given away how you felt about that prospect because Ser Harwin erupted into a booming laugh. “Fine,” he conceded, still chuckling. “But I have you til midday, so you might as well observe. I bet Larys would be happy to have the company…”

“I’d be happy to sit and watch with him,” you assured. Anything to get you out of sitting in the gathering tent with your new stepmother and the highborn ladies, talking about everyone and everything yet somehow saying absolutely nothing. It was a charade that was dreadful for both you and Rhaenyra.

Harwin grabbed your hips and hoisted you onto the saddle. You landed with a surprised yelp and readjusted to straddle your horse. “Sorry for startling you, flower,” you heard him quip beside you. You furrowed your brow at him and he winked back as he mounted his own horse.

You kept a slower pace than when you started yesterday, partly because of the stag on Harwin’s horse but also because some part of you wanted to stay in the Kingswood and never leave. This forest had reached out and touched a part of you that you knew you’d have to hide away at the Red Keep.

If Harwin could sense the change in your demeanor, he didn’t bother to comment on it. The whole ride back to camp was silent, even though for most of it your horses were side by side.

It was considerably more quiet when you returned than when you left the night prior. The men who hadn’t bothered to make it back to their tents were slumped over in chairs, sleeping off their drink. Others were milling about, beginning the day. House Strong’s tent was lined up along the main path and upon your arrival you saw Lord Lyonel and Larys outside of the tent. They were both planted on chairs in deep discussion.

Lord Lyonel rose at the sight of you and his eldest. “Princess,” he nodded. “Did you enjoy the hunt?”

Ser Harwin was already off his horse and offering you a hand down. “It was wonderful, Lord Lyonel.” You walked closer to him so that in a hushed tone you could say, “thank you for speaking to my father for me.”

He bowed to you. “Happy to see you smile again, princess,” he said softly.

Ser Harwin carried the stag and rabbit to the table beside his family tent. “I see the hunt was good to you both,” his lord father commented.

Harwin jerked his head toward you. “Not me, just the princess.”

Lord Lyonel’s eyes were wide at that. “Well then, princess, I daresay you’ve already outhunted most of the men here.”

You smiled up at him. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Your father will be very proud.”

You sighed. “One can only hope.”

With that, Lord Lyonel bowed and took his leave toward the main table where your father, his new wife, your half brother and the hand were all seated and you sat in the Lord’s prior seat beside Larys. “Pleasant morning to you, Larys.”

“Princess, lovely to see you as always.” He was a different fellow, sure. But you had always liked Larys. He was an observer, like you. Never very chatty, unlike you.

Harwin’s back was to you, setting up the various tools he would need to skin the stag and rabbit. He started with the rabbit and you watched silently. It was almost an art form for him, and you were completely mesmerized. You truly considered watching Ser Harwin skin every animal you could find for him, until Larys finally broke your train of thought.

“Is that your sister… covered in blood?”

Your head whipped past Ser Harwin’s broad shoulders and caught sight of Rhaenyra and Ser Criston Cole. Dried blood speckled the side of her face and neck as she strutted into camp. Her silver hair was stained pink and red. She looked… well, intimidating came to mind. Ser Criston’s horse had the body of a slain boar trailing behind it. Rhaenyra walked straight past the main table and into her own tent. The look on the Queen’s face made you smirk.

“It seems both our Princesses were on the hunt last night,” Ser Harwin commented as he continued to work on the rabbit. He had noticed your sister.

Really noticed her.

You swallowed hard.

You mentally scolded yourself. As if one night in the Kingswood somehow magically bound you to Ser Harwin. You felt like a silly little girl. Rhaenyra was your older sister after all, closer in age to Harwin than he was to you. How could you be so naive as to think he took you hunting because he liked you.

Rhaenyra was heir to the iron throne. She would become Queen one day. Marriage proposals were already starting to come her way. Why wouldn’t he want your smarter, prettier, older sister? What better way to get in her good graces than showing kindness to her little sister?

You had been chewing on your lip so hard you began to taste metal. You released it from in between your teeth and brought a finger to it. Pulling back you noticed blood, drying quickly in the morning air. Ever quiet Larys offered you a handkerchief, which you accepted with a small thank you. You dabbed at you lip, hoping it wouldn’t swell too much.

“Something troubling you, princess?” Larys gently prodded. You knew he caught you deep in thought but you had the benefit of him not know what you were internally struggling with. “Just… worrying about my sister,” you half-lied.

“Maybe you should speak with her,” he suggested.

“I think she would like to be alone right now,” you lied again. In all honesty you had no idea how Rhaenyra was feeling right now but you did know that you were one of the few people she would let be around her no matter what. You struggled to avoid biting your lip again.

Ser Harwin had moved onto the stag. He lifted it up and onto the skinning table with ease. “Would you like to come closer? Or are you having fun watching through my back?” He turned to face you, Larys’ handkerchief still pressed against your lip. He furrowed his brow at the sight. “What happened?”

You shrugged him off, offering Larys his handkerchief back. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Ser Harwin twisted his head to the side and gave you a look as if he didn’t believe you. He walked over and half crouched over your chair, putting each arm on either side of the seat. He lifted you and the chair effortlessly, bringing you around the edge of him so that you could actually see what he was doing.

Harwin began asking Larys about last night after he left, whether he heard anything of interest from the ladies he sat with, interrupting every so often to point something out to you. You sat silently, watching each exchange. Harwin was skilled enough that he barely had to pay attention to what he was doing, and before long he was done.

“Well princess, this will certainly make an excellent addition to the feast.”

You thanked the knight and excused yourself. You walked straight to your own tent, only pausing to wave softly at your father when he acknowledged you.

You didn’t think you had ever felt so foolish. An aura of shame washed over you. You stripped yourself bare, removing you hunting clothes and washing yourself clean with a rag. You found a suitable dress and fixed up your hair. It was time to play princess once more.

You don’t think you said more than 5 words all night. Rhaenyra was nowhere to be found the first night and anytime that someone would try to acknowledge you, you would excuse yourself, only to end up in the ever generous hands of a wine servant who would fill your cup to the brim.

You continued this charade, night after night, albeit speaking more and more each time. Rhaenyra didn’t want to talk about her adventures in the woods, no more than you did of yours, so neither of you spoke about it. Rather you savored each others company and kept at each other’s side. You and Rhaenyra, with Ser Criston as your constant protector. Until it was finally time to journey home.

The journey home was as dreadful as the journey there, but to your delight felt shorter. You all but crawled into your bed, Rhaenyra and you holding hands until you arrived at your separate rooms. You felt great peace knowing she was next door, especially after mother’s death.

A knock at your door a few moments later almost made you groan aloud, but you managed to keep some semblance of decorum. “Come,” you instructed.

Ser Criston entered, not too unexpected considering he was watching your and Rhaenyra’s rooms tonight. “Ser Harwin Strong is here to see you, my princess.”

You bottom lip once again found purchase between your teeth. “Send him in.”

Harwin stepped in after Ser Criston stepped out, your small travel bag in his rather large hand. He held it out to you and you sprung out of bed. “Thank you,” you said sincerely, fingering the expensive leather. “I had forgotten all about this.” You reached into the bag. “Rhaenyra’s flower,” you muttered under your breath.

You quickly walked over to a large stack of books. Ser Harwin trailed behind, watching as you took the flower and stuck it in between a bit of parchment paper. You began lifting the books in two and threes at a time. He could tell they were dusty, old and heavy. He quickly walked over to you and began to lift them out of your way.

You thanked him so quietly he almost missed it. He wanted to ask what you were doing but he was stuck in such a trance, all he could do was watch. You very carefully opened the book on the very bottom, sticking the flower and bits of parchment paper inside. He noticed other bits of parchment paper sticking out of the book every which way. You motioned to the stacks of books and he helped you lower them on top of the bottommost book.

“Princess…”

“Thank you for this, Ser Harwin.” Your kind eyes found his and he felt himself smiling for the first time in days.

“Princess, might I ask, what is this?”

You giggled as you handed him a smaller book. “Princess of Flowers,” you declared, as if that would explain everything. “Go on, open it.”

He opened the book and found about half a dozen flattened flowers. Your delicate handwriting was on the pages, describing not just the name of the flower but when you found it, the characteristics you liked most about it, what the smell reminded you of.

“I pressed them myself. Mother taught me. Rhaenyra was never interested and it was… our thing. Now it’s one of the only things I have left of her.”

Ser Harwin studied the pages. He touched the dried ink of your handwriting, careful not to touch the flowers. “Princess of Flowers,” he breathed.

He gently handed back the book. You closed it and put it back where it belonged on the shelf. It was only then that he noticed just how many stacks of books you had. He looked back to you, waggling a finger at him. “Don’t start,” you warned, grin creeping along your face. “If Maester Runciter finds out, I will be in a dragon’s pile of trouble.”

“Dragon’s pile?” he asked.

“Er… when they go to the bathroom? Well, imagine the size of them Ser Harwin,” you enthusiastically raised your hand above your head. “You know what I mean? Aerrax might not be the biggest, but she’s pretty large…”

Ser Harwin was laughing so hard at this, he had trouble staying upright. He leaned against one of the many decorative beams in your room. His laughter was contagious, and soon you were joining him, failing miserably to catch your own breath.

Finally after a few minutes, you both pulled yourselves out of your laughing attack. You feigned exhaustion and plopped your bottom on the rather large chaise in your room. You patted beside you and watched as he walked over to the chaise and sat down next to you.

“Oh!” you exclaimed. “I have your dagger!” You began to hop back up but Harwin grabbed your forearm, gentle but stiff. You furrowed your brow at him but sat back down.

“Princess, I came here not only to return your bag but to ask you…”

You waited with his pause until curiosity got the better of you. “Ask me what exactly?”

“Ask you… if I did something to upset you. During the hunt, for Aegon’s name day.”

You bit your bottom lip nervously. “What would cause you to say such a thing?”

Harwin stood from the chaise suddenly, rubbing his fingers down his beard as he walked around. “Princess,” he stopped pacing to look at you, “you left so suddenly. You barely said a word when you sat with Larys.”

“I…” you faltered. “Seeing Rhaenyra like that, both of us fighting with father the day before… it has been… a difficult few years. I apologize for my behavior.”

Harwin returned to the seat next to you. “You don’t have to do that you know, play politician with me. We’ve known each other since we were children.”

You turned to face him, grabbing his bicep gently. “I am sorry though. For making you think that. Especially after you were gracious enough to take me into the Kingswood.”

Harwin chuckled. “I can promise you that was the highlight of the entire celebration for me.”

He used the arm you weren’t holding and brushed a few strands of hair out of your face. “Keep the dagger.”

“But…”

He shook his head. “It was a gift, princess. I never intended to get it back.”

You were still holding his bicep when Ser Criston entered. You nearly jumped out of your skin at his voice. “Princess, your father is requesting your presence in his chambers.”

You dropped Harwin’s bicep as he stood. He offered you a hand which you accepted with a nod and he pulled you to his feet. “I’m afraid I must be off anyway, princess.” He motioned to the gold cloak covering his shoulders.

“Duty calls… for us both.”

Ser Harwin nodded in agreement with you and offered his arm. “Shall I accompany you to his chambers?”

Ser Criston stepped closer to you. “I’ll take her from here, Ser.”

You shooed Ser Criston with you hand. “It’s quite alright Criston, I think Ser Harwin can handle keeping me safe from the treacherous walk to my father’s chambers,” you giggled.

Sers Harwin and Criston shared a glance above your head while you gently gripped onto Harwin. He led you out and away from Ser Criston, who was still outside yours and Rhaenyra’s doors, watching you both disappear down the hallway.

“I hope your nights in the City Watch haven’t been too eventful,” you confessed.

“Nothing I can’t handle princess, not to worry.”

“Well maybe I’ll wave at you from the skies tonight.”

Ser Harwin stopped in his tracks, pulling you to a stop with him. “Princess,” he warned. “You mustn’t be out after dark without protection.”

You suppressed a role of the eyes at him. “Aerrax can protect me. Plus, what do I have to worry about above the clouds? Birds? Nice snack for her if you ask me…”

“Princess, just… be careful, okay?”

You rubbed the side of Harwin’s arm that you were gripping. “Of course,” you reassured.

“You have a knack for finding yourself in trouble.”

“Oh please! As a child maybe.”

“I mean it, don’t find yourself outside of the Red Keep without protection,” he warned.

“Well if I ever take a spontaneous trip to Flea Bottom, I’ll make sure you’re on duty.”

Ser Harwin decided to ignore your obvious sarcasm. You continued on together through the corridors.

“Here you are, flower,” Harwin said, bringing you up to the door.

You dropped your grip on his arm. “Thank you Ser Harwin.”

You had only been in the capital for three days when you first crossed paths with him.

The training yard rang with the crash of steel. Knights shouted. Wooden practice swords splintered and sweat gleamed beneath the afternoon sun.

You leaned against the stone balustrade overlooking the yard, your chin resting upon folded arms.

“A touch high!” Ser Criston barked.

Two young squires hurried to obey.

You watched with idle amusement until another voice drifted upwards.

“Again.” It was deep and calm with an air of certainty.

Your eyes found its owner almost at once.

He stood taller than nearly every other man in the yard, large enough to make the younger knights seem like boys besides him. His dark curls clung damply to his brow after training, and there was something effortless in the way he moved.

Strength without showing off. Confidence without arrogance. He carried a practice sword as though it weighed nothing.

One of the squires rushed forward with water.

“Thank you.” Even his thanks came easily.

You smiled faintly to yourself. A pleasant face, you thought. That was all.

Then one of the pages darted around the corner far too quickly. “My lady!”

The boy collided squarely into you.

“Oh!”

The force knocked the basket of embroidery thread from your hands. Spools scattered down the stairs like brightly colored coins.

“Oh, Seven save me. I am so sorry!” the boy squeaked, immediately dropping to his knees.

You laughed before he could burst into tears. “Tis alright. It is only thread.”

Several spools continued bouncing down into the training yard below. Straight toward the enormous knight. The spools struck his boots, he blinked and looked down.

He bent down to retrieve one. Then another and then looked up to where you stood. Your eyes met and for a heartbeat neither of you moved. His expression was one of complete confusion. Then something shifted, as though the world had quietly forgotten to turn.

You offered an apologetic smile. “I fear my embroidery has declared war upon you, ser.” You yelled down to him.

His mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. “It has surrendered quickly enough I must say.”

His voice carried upward far easier than it should have. He gathered every spool with surprising care before climbing the stone stairs two at a time up to you.

The page beside you had gone positively pale. “I shall collect them, ser.” He squeaked out.

“I already have.” He replied to the boy. He reached the landing now.

Gods. He was even bigger up close. Not merely tall but built like the towers of the Red Keep themselves. His hand dwarfed the delicate silk. He stopped before you and bowed. “My lady.”

You dipped your head politely. “My thanks.”

He held out the basket with the recovered threads. “I believe these are yours.”

“They were.” You accepted it carefully. “Though I confess they looked happier rolling down the stairs.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. It was fake or forced, but honest. “I have seen stranger things happen in this castle.” He spoke.

“So have I,” you replied. “And I have scarcely been here three days.”

That won another smile from him. One that transformed his entire face to warmth. Which made him dangerously handsome.

He cleared his throat. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

“No. You are correct ser.” You spoke.

“But as you say you are newly arrived.” He pronounced.

“I am.”

A small pause then he spoke again. “I am Ser Harwin Strong.”

Strong. Of Harrenhal. The Son of Ser Lyonel Strong who is apart of the King’s small council. You inclined your head. “I know who you are.”

Something almost bashful crossed his feature. “And yet my lady I do not know your name.”

You smirked. “I wondered how long that would trouble you.”

His ears turned ever so slightly pink. You nearly laughed then. “I am Lady Y/N of House Arryn.”

Recognition flashed immediately. “Princess Rhaenyra’s cousin.”

“The very same.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you favor your aunt Lady Aemma.”

Your smile softened then. “I have heard that since I was old enough to walk.”

“I meant no offense my lady.”

“I took none ser. It just a normal occurrence for me is all.”

After that another silence settled. It was almost a comfortable silence which is rather odd for two strangers.

A horn sounded below, calling the men back to training. Harwin did not move. One of the younger knights shouted from the yard. “Strong!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his attention remained fixed entirely upon you. “I ought to return.” He finally said.

“So, you ought. There are more men down there I would say need a proper fight.”

He smiled then and then nodded, but yet he still did not move.

You raised an eyebrow, “Ser Harwin?”

He blinked as though waking from a dream. “Forgive me.”

He bowed again, “My lady.”

You watched him descending back to the training yard. Halfway down he glanced back and caught you watching him. He smiled at you and then continued back to his training.

“You’ve been staring.”

You nearly jumped. Rhaenyra leaned against the opposite pillar, an apple already half eaten.

“I was not!” you proclaimed.

“You were. I do not see how you can deny it.”

You rolled your eyes at your cousin. “I was merely observing.”

“You mean observing Harwin Breakbones.”

“So that is what they call him?” you asked.

She only grinned. “They do.”

You looked back toward the yard where Harwin was already sparring again, sword moving with astonishing speed for such a large man.

“I can see why.” You admitted.

Rhaenyra followed your gaze. “He is a good man.”

“So, he seems.”

You caught from the corner of your eye your cousin studying you. “What is it?”

“Tis nothing.” She tried to say.

“You are lying. What is it.”

She bit into her apple to hide another smile. “It is only…”

“Rhaenyra…What is it?”

“I do not think Ser Harwin has heard Ser Criston call his name once since you arrived.”

Sure enough—

“Strong!”

No answer. Again. “Strong!”

Harwin was still looking toward the gallery. Towards where you and Rhaenyra occupied.

Ser Criston finally sighed loud enough for half the yard to hear. “Seven hells, Strong!”

The practice sword struck Harwin squarely across the shoulder. The yard erupted in laughter. Harwin scarcely seemed to notice. Because he was still smiling. At you.

Rhaenyra burst into delighted laughter beside you. “Oh, cousin.”

You looked at her innocently. “Now what?”

The gentle glow of Oldtown’s sun stirred the city awake with such gentleness that it was nearly a true fantasy.  How the sun warmed your skin when it peaked through the drawn open curtains Gwayne had left open the night before.  Mornings were his favorite time of day.  With the world so far away from his very own, how she slept so beautifully next to him that his heart ached at the thought of moving.

“Ser Gwayne?” the maid called from the door.

He had heard her calling and the knocking, yet still did not attempt to answer it.  He needed no irritants this early, nor tight laces or dresses to shield him from you this day.  Perhaps he was a simple man who only desired simple things, to see you sleep so soundly or tug yourself closer to him when the draft chilled you.

And as he would eagerly assist in pulling you closer till your form engulfed his own without any protest or complaint.  He would suffocate under your gentle weight if he possible, as the slow morning dragged on and on.

His hands at the dip of your waist and crux of your knee as your leg draped over him. His own breathing is full of slumber.

The maid had stopped knocking, but a smaller fist seemed to rap at the door.  Quieter and more hesitant this time.  Once, twice, and a third before the heavy door was gently pushed open.  From his spot in the bed, Gwayne could see the small frame, the dark auburn curls lazily thrown into a stolen scarf, and bare feet padding across the cold floor till they stopped at his side.

“Is the room cold?” Gwayne asked, looking towards his nephew, who seemed half asleep where he stood.

And half asleep was true as Daeron yawed and nodded, wasting no time in pulling at the covers and joining you in using Gwayne as a warm mattress instead.  The boy finding place atop his uncle with a satisfied hum once the blankets returned and everyone settled in.

Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.

The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.

Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.

No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.

He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.

His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.

"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."

It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.

No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.

By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.

Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?

-

By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.

It was hardly the first time.

The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.

Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.

You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.

Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.

Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.

So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.

That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.

You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.

Just a little farther...

"You appear to be losing your battle."

The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.

You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.

A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.

You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.

You were in far too much of a hurry.

"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."

His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."

You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.

"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."

"You are trying to do something."

"I am not."

"You are."

A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.

"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."

"I am simply a guest in the Keep."

The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."

There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"

You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."

"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."

His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."

You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."

"Are you?"

"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."

A beat passed.

"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."

You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."

"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"

A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."

You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."

The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.

Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.

"...It's you."

The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.

He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.

When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."

The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"

You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."

Silence settled between them.

Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.

You did not look mad.

Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.

More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.

Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.

His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"

He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.

You said nothing.

For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.

His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"

You instinctively stepped back.

"I only jest," he said quietly.

Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."

Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.

Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.

I've dreamt of you.

Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.

“You shut up before I take your tongue!” Criston Cole threatens knife to your throat while you sit leaning back in the chair you had been thrown onto.

“Is he always this annoying?” You ask Gwayne casually, not looking at the man holding the knife to you. Only focusing on the auburn haired man.

“Yes.” Ser Gwayne responds tightly, not agreeing with the way the hand of the king was behaving. You maybe the daughter of the enemy but you are still a woman and princess, you should be treated with respect.

“My condolences.” You say dryly, not caring if you get killed. You having come to terms with your death the moment you fell from your dragon.

“You little bitch, just wait till the men get their -.”

“My lord hand.” Gwayne interrupts, hating how unhonourable the man and his army are. They are knights, they should act like it. “We shouldn’t treat a woman as such.”

“Ser Gwayne as you seen so fond of our hostage you can be in charge of the whore then.” Cole snaps furiously before storming out of his own tent. Drama queen.

“I apologise for him calling you a whore princess.” Ser Gwayne says, hating the man who just left.

“He’s just bitter.” You say rolling your eyes, a part of you wishing the man had killed you. It being a kinder fate than living in the unknown. “Is it true?”

“What true?” Gwayne asks, unsure of what you could of heard given you haven’t spoken to anyone since getting captured. Not knowing you get mean when scared.

“That he’s been fucking your sister? If so it could explain the attitude.” You say crudely, looking the handsome knight up and down while he places his hand on his sword in anger. “Oh, jealous?”

“Don’t speak of the queen dowager in such a manner.” He snaps before taking a breath and releasing his grip on the sword. “Now tell me what you know.”

“Well I heard that they were fucking when her grandchild got murdered.”

“On your mother’s order.” He counters raising an eyebrow at you. Knowing you’re trying to get a rise out of him.

“My mother never gave that order, she would never want to hurt a child.” Especially after what happened to Visenya and Luke, you think. “Even after what your family did to mine.”

“What has my family done exactly?” He asks leaning against the table infront of you, wanting to hear your justifications.

“Where to start?” You ask rhetorically, giving a fake thinking face. “How about how your father has been plotting from the start to get his blood on the throne, or should I start with how your sister and father have been terrorising me and my family since before I was born?” You ask voice raising slightly as you continue, fury enveloping you while you remember your childhood. “How about the time your father spanked me during a counsel meeting for ‘misbehaver’ as the king was to weak to. Or when your sister made my mother walk through the keep moments after giving birth to torture her? Or even the time your supposed king tried to fuck me when I was crying after my father died! Take your pick.” You snap hating that you can feel tears building behind your eyes.

“King Aegon didn’t take your virtue.” Gwayne denies, not wanting to believe his nephew could be like that.

“You’re right he didn’t.” You reply with a fake smile, not understanding why you’re telling the man things you hadn’t told anyone before. Thinking maybe you just wanted someone to know before you die. “But not because of honor or any bullshit like that, he stopped because I kneed him in the dick and ran off. Is that truly who you want to rule?”

He doesn’t say anything in response just walks out, before telling the guards not to do anything until he returns.

-

“Eat.” Gwayne says offering you some food, you unaware it’s his. Cole refusing to waste food on a prisoner. You having been moved to Gwayne’s tent, you having been left to him.

“No.” You say crossing your arms over your chest, trying to keep a sense of power. Even if it’s just by refusing food. Your stomach betraying you when it grumbles.

“Please eat, I went through a lot of trouble to get you this.” He says placing the food down infront of you.

“Fine.” You say reluctantly, taking a bite of the bread.

-

“There’s a guard waiting outside so you can’t escape.” He says later that night, leaving you in his tent. “I’m going to find somewhere else to sleep.”

“Can you stay?” You whisper reluctantly, hating the fact you have to ask. But feeling safer in his presence.

“Why?” He asks thinking you would love a moment alone.

“I’m scared.” You admit, hating that amount of fear you have.

“Of what?” He thinks, knowing he’s put his most trusted soldiers outside the tent.

“I’m in an enemy camp full of men, you tell me.” You snap, knowing given the chance a lot of them men would take it.

“Fine.” He says making a small camp on the floor near the tent entrance.

-

“He’s such a dick.” You mumble sat next to Gwayne on a log while Cole gets himself a second bowl of food. Him having refused to let you eat again so you’re sharing with Gwayne. You having been prisoner for a fortnight. A very long fortnight.

“I know.”

“You’re not meant to agree with me.” You reply trying to hide your smile, hating that he can make you laugh. “He’s your ‘Lord hand.” You say making fun of Cole’s new position. Him nowhere near qualified. “But I suppose that’s what breaking your vows gets you.”

“Can we please not talk of my sister? I don’t like being reminded of it.” He says knowing what you’re insinuating, a deadpan look on his face. You unaware that’s what he looks like when trying not to laugh.

“I really don’t see the appeal of him.” You muse watching the insufferable man eat.

“Like I said, please stop.”

“I’m not just talking of your sister I’m talking in general.” You say thinking of your mother. “He’s good looking but the moment he opens his mouth I just want to bash his head in with a hammer.”

“I’m not responding to that.” He says taking a drink so you can’t see his smile.

-

“Ser Gwayne?” You whisper in the middle of the night, you shaking from the cold despite Gwayne letting you sleep in his cloak along with a blanket.

“Yes?” He asks, already awake. Unable to sleep due to the cold.

“It’s cold.” You state, not wanting to be the one to ask.

“What do you expect me to do about that princess?” He ask, smiling up at the ceiling, knowing exactly what your going to ask. You having been sat incredibly close to him earlier trying to steal his warmth.

“Can you lay next to me?” You ask reluctantly, knowing he won’t until you ask.

“Pardon?”

“It’s helps with warmth, sharing a bed.” You say factually, also just wanting the reassurance of someone next to you. “We don’t have to cuddle.”

“I’m only doing this because I’m also cold and I’d like my bed back.” He say lying, quickly getting up and slipping into the cot next to you.

-

“Stop squirming.” He complains trying to sleep.

“I can’t get comfortable.” You complain moving so your back is to him.

“Just.” He sighs before pulling you close and into his arms. Legs wrapping with yours keeping you still.“Come here.”

-

“How much longer do you think I have?” You ask a few nights later when cuddled up in bed together. His shirt and breaches hung up to dry after all the rain today, your dress beside it. Leaving you in just your shift and him his small cloth.

“What do you mean?” He ask, looking down at you while you rest your head on his chest. Pretending you’re cold.

“Until I die, how much longer do you think I have left to live?” You ask, wanting his honest opinion.

“You’re not going to die.” He says, not waiting thing about it. As that would mean he’d have to admit his feelings for you.

“Yes I will, I’m only being kept alive so Aemond can kill me himself.” You whisper as if saying it louder will make it happen sooner.

“No you’re not.”

“Gwayne.” You say looking up at him, seeing the pained look on his face. “I’m going to die, I’m at peace with it. I just hope my family will be ok.”

“You’re not going to die.” He says firmly, not willing to accept it.

“You know I’ve always wondered who I would marry if things had gone differently.” You muse, resting your head back on his hard chest. Savering the moment together.

“What?”

“I used to speak of it with Baela when we were little.” You say a reminiscing smile on your face. “This was before we found out her and Jace were betrothed, we’d speak of our dream wedding and husband’s.” You explain, thinking back to when you and your best friend/step sister would cuddle up in bed for a sleepover and talk. “Looking back she was just describing Jace, but I just wanted the perfect knight. Kind, honourable, a protector, a true knight not the fake kind who want the power for all the wrong reasons.”

“You put a lot of thought into it.” He says, wishing he could be that knight. “What of the wedding.”

“A pretty dress, I never minded if it was a Valyrian wedding or one before the seven or even the old gods of the north. All I wanted was the perfect knight while I wore a pretty dress.” You explain smiling now picturing Gwayne when you think of you make believe wedding. “What of you?”

“I’m a Man I don’t have an opinion on weddings.”

“Humour me.” You say drawing shapes on his chest.

“I wanted a wife who could make me laugh and be happy, I wanted love.” He admits, never having spoken about it before. “I’ve never wanted someone who blindly follows everything I say, I want my wife to have her own opinions.” He says simply. “As for the wedding it would be before the seven, I’d be in my best clothes and she could be wearing anything and I’d still think her the most beautiful woman in the realm.”

“I hope you get that one day.” You say quietly, wishing it could be you but knowing the fates won’t allow it.

“I hope you get your perfect knight.” He says kissing the top of your head. “You deserve a happily ever after.”

“Can I kiss you?” You ask, wanting one night of pretending he can be yours. “You can say no, it’s just I’ve never kissed anyone before and I’d like to know what it’s like.”

“What of your knight?” He asks desperate to kiss you but not wanting to push you.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to marry him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Kiss me Gwayne.” At your command he finally closes the gap and kisses you softly. His lips barely grazing yours before you pull him closer. Wanting a proper kiss not just a peck. Him happily complying, letting you straddle his hips as you deepen the kiss. You both lazy kissing for a while before you start grinding against him, waning more.

“Princess we shouldn’t.” He whispers against you, biting his lip to silence his moans while you move against him. Your lips not leaving his while you do so. “We’re not married.”

“In the sight of the Farther.” You whisper into him ear kissing just below it. “ The Smith.” You continue kissing down his throat. “The Warrior.” You say now at his chest, him just looking at you with an unreadable expression on his face. “Mother.” You kiss over his heart at that. “Maiden.” You continue kissing down him. “Crone and Stranger.” You say looking up at him, kissing just above his small cloth. Kissing just above before pulling them down, biting your lip at the sight of him hard cock, his hips bucking against you. “I am his, and he is mine from this day until the end of my days.”

“Come here.”

“Gwayne-.” You gasp not expecting him to pull you up and flip you so he’s now on top.

“Farther, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am her’s, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.” He says quickly, looking at you with awe and adoration in his eyes. Trying to commit this moment to memory. “I don’t currently have my cloak.”

“Your cock will do.” You giggle, gasping when his hands slide between your thigh’s fingers running through your wetness. “Fuck, Gwayne.”

“Shh my wife.” He teases, bringing his fingers up to his mouth to taste you, closing his eyes momentarily, craving more of you. “We must be quiet for we don’t want a public bedding do we?”

“I need you.” You whine, desperate for him, needing him even more after he calls you his wife. “Please husband.”

“You have me, take this off.” He responds tugging at your shift. “Fuck you’re beautiful.” He whispers talking in your naked form, him biting his lip at the sight not sure where to begin.

“Fuck Gwayne.” You whimper when he finally decides what to do first, his lips finding your breasts. Hand squeezing and pinching at the one his lips aren’t paying attention to. “Fuck.”

“Good girl.” He groans against you, sucking and nipping at your nipple while you pull his hair. Not knowing what to do with your hands. “You’re so good for me.”

“Gwayne please fuck me.” You whine, despite for more bucking your hips up at him. Despite for friction.

“Let me eat you first.” He says kissing down you, nipping at bits of skin while he does so.

“What?”

“Let me eat your pussy, please my love.” He practically begs, face now inbetwen your thighs. Him licking his lips at the sight of your dripping lips. “Shes so desperate for me.”

“I,uh, yes.” You pant out not expecting that request. You quickly covering your mouth with your hand when you feel his tongue run through you, his moan sending vibrations through you. “Fuck.”

“You taste so good princess.” He says against you, tongue playing at your entrance while his nose knocks your pearl. “I could spent eternity down here.”

“Please.” You say grinding up at him needing more.

“Oh my needy princess.” He coos taking one last lick before moving his mouth to your pearl and pressing a finger into you. “Shhh be quiet, remember?”

“Gwayne.” You moan, hand going back to cover your mouth. Knowing you need to be quiet but the pleasure making it difficult. “I, fuck.” He just keeps sucking and drawing shapes in your pearl in response, a second finger entering you before a third quickly follows. Him groaning against you when you pull his hair, the pleasure to overwhelming you don’t know what to do. “Fuck, I think, I’m, fuck.”

“Cum for me wife.” He commands, keeping the exact same pace when your orgasm hits, him only pulling away when he can tell it’s getting a bit to much for you. “Good girl.”

“Gwayne I need you to fuck me.” You say pulling him back up to you, him smiling in response. His lower face wet with you. “Now.”

“Are you sure?” He checks, knowing oral is different and wanting you to be 100% sure in your decision.

“I’m sure, fuck me husband.” You demand wrapping your legs around his waist. To get your point across. “Please.”

“As you wish.” He smirks, giving you a kiss. You not caring you can taste yourself on him, to desperate for him.

“This will hurt a bit, but I’ll go slow.” He reassures hand going between you both so he can guide his hard and dripping cock along your entrance, tip nudging your pearl a few times before he pushes into you. Making you both moan at the feeling, him silencing you both with a kiss. “Good girl, almost there.”

“Fuck.” You whimper against him, feeling him stretch you, his cock reaching parts you didn’t know was possible. Whining when he bottoms out, feeling completely full of him.

“Are you ready for me to move?” He whispers, waiting for your consent before continuing. Him knowing if you told him to stop he’d do so immediately.

“Move, fuck me Gwayne please.” You beg trying to move your hips against his but him just following your movements.

“As my wife desires.” He says pulling out over halfway before thrusting back into you, you both gasping at the feeling. “You feel so good.” He whispers thrusting in and out trying to find a pace you both like when his hand finds your pearl and his thumb starts rubbing it.

“Gwayne.” You moan, him finding the perfect rhythm, you never having felt anything like it. Him hitting deep inside of you with every thrust, your not knowing pleasure like this possible. Him consuming you.

“I know baby I know.” He groans into you, feeling his orgasm grow closer but trying to fight it. Him wanting to cum at the same time as you.

“I’m close again.” You pant, feeling the familiar feeling creep up in you again. Feeling overwhelmed with all the sensations.

“Already? You are needy for me.” He teases knowing you’re close by the way you clench around him, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. Him not having had a release in weeks but trying his best to last for you. “Where do you want me to cum?”

“In me, please Gwayne fill me with you.” You beg, cuming around him, triggering his own orgasm him fucking you through the aftershocks. “Fuck!”

“Shhh.” He laughs tiredly not pulling out yet, wanting to say as close to you as possible. You just nuzzling into him when he moves you both to your sides. “I’ve got you.”

-

“Run away with me.” He says to you the next day, him having planed everything out this morning.

“What?”

“You heard me.” He says, your bags already packed with all the supplies you’ll need. Him knowing all the weaknesses in camp and already knowing when to leave.

“Gwayne-.”

“I know the consequences but we’re almost at Haranhall and I can’t bare to think of what could happen.” He interrupts, “So run away with me.”

“Yes.”

“Really?” He asks worried, you were going to say no.

“Really.” You confirm kissing him.

-

Bonus

“Do you have a whistle?” You ask a few days later, having disappeared in the middle of the night. Right after he asked you. You both now far away having covered your tracks and at the top of a mountain.

“What? Yes, but why do you want it.” He asks confused.

“Silverwing has been flying through here.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” You say using the whistle in the set pattern you taught your dragon years ago on the off chance you got separated.

“What the-.”

“Silverwing!” You shout excitedly as your dragon flys over, landing close so you could cuddle her. Her having missed you. Refusing to return back to dragonstone without you, waiting for your call. “I’ve missed you so much girl.”

-

You scowled, stepping closer, your gait more akin to a mother duck than anything else, making warmth bloom in Cregan’s chest, letting his eyes sweep over you from the soles of your feet to the top of your head, taking you in, gorging on the sight of his pretty wife, all plump and heavy with his babe. He will never cease to pray to all the Northern Gods for this blessing, dropping to his knees in front of the weirwood tree, forehead pressed to the cold ground as he thanked them profusely for letting him cast his gaze upon such divinity.

“You have done plenty,” you scoffed, scrunching your nose in his direction. The closer you got to his desk, the more the resemblance between you and a disgruntled kitten became more and more apparent, making him hum. “My feet ache, my belly is too big, I’ve eaten a dozen lemon cakes in one sitting, and I can barely walk.”

Cregan pressed his lips together to suppress a splitting grin, way too amused and enamored with his crimes that he had apparently had a hand in, unbeknownst to him. How can a man like him even dare to stand there and not be swiftly punished for such wrongdoings? Other men were beheaded for less.

“Are all those ailments my doing?” He asked, feigning innocence as he waited for you to approach, letting you decide whether you wanted him near or not right now. “How could I have been such a cruel husband, hm?” Cregan continued, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to pull, to hold, but he relented, knowing the wrong move could earn him an even grumpier wife, and that is not what he wished for at the moment.

“Utterly cruel,” you affirmed, lip curling, baring your teeth at him as you stopped next to his chair, your pregnant belly brushing his arm, making his breath hitch, the wonder of such a miracle never quite ceasing. “You brought this upon me.” Your lips pursed into a pout, indignant and fussy as you continued. “If you weren’t so relentless in giving me your seed, I would’ve never resembled a thousand-pound duckling right now.”

Thousand-pound duckling.

Cregan couldn’t stop the huff of amusement that slipped past his lips even if he tried.

Smack.

“You dare laugh?” You gasped, affronted and utterly offended that your husband was finding your grievances even remotely entertaining, hand making contact with his broad shoulder again and again.

It truly only served to heighten his grin even more, eyes crinkling at the edges for a few moments as he let you hit him to your heart’s content, the slaps no more than a kitten batting its paws at a great wolf, Cregan cataloguing them more as pets than anything that could bring any harm.

“I laugh,” he started, tone woven with amusement, but achingly fond now as he watched you, lifting one hand to clasp yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a soft kiss onto the back of it, halting your fussing. “Because my wife is being ridiculous,” and he could already sense the protest on your tongue at his words, so he was quick to preempt that by continuing, turning your palm to press his lips to the inside of it now. “And she does not look like a thousand-pound duckling, but the most beautiful woman I, and the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen.”

You huffed, your scowl lessening.

Watching you melt gradually from his words was always one of Cregan’s joys in life, chest puffing with pride in being able to will his irritable wife into mellowness, that pretty face of yours warming whenever he “had the nerve,” as you often say, to be tender to you.

“You’re only saying that to appease me,” you protested, but moved closer, nudging him with your knee, indicating that you wished to be closer, to be tended to. A silent demand that your husband knew as well as breathing.

Cregan’s chair screeched quietly onto the hard floor as he made space for you in front of him, broad thighs parting to coax you near. He patted one meaty leg with his palm, head tilting as he watched you, lips softening at the corners, amusement bleeding into fondness. “Come here, to your husband, sweetling.”

“Are you certain you can hold the weight of me, husband?” You challenged, even as you stepped into his space. “Perhaps I am too hefty, even for you.”

Utter nonsense, Cregan thought. He knew you knew how strong he was. How easy it would be for him to hold you and not break a sweat while doing so. As if he doesn’t train and work himself to the bone whenever he is allowed a moment from the droning of courtiers to hone the muscles you secretly favour. Cregan could carry you in his arms through Winterfell’s walls for a handful of hours, he wagers, before the need to stop and take a breather would catch up to him.

“Hm, you reckon?” He rumbled, his hands finding purchase on your hips, smoothing over the flowy material of your dress. Gods, he loved the garments you’ve been adorning as of late—warm colors, soft fabrics, all cascading in rivulets down your soft, lush body. He had given word for more of such dresses to the seamstresses, without your knowledge. You didn’t have to know of his plans yet. Nor were you aware of how he made sure the hearths were lit periodically in every room you frequented, so the need for more than a cloak over your soft silks, satins, and linens was not necessary. It would’ve obstructed his view of you.

You squirmed just a bit, just enough to show resistance, even when he could feel you melting like honey in his grasp as he slowly turned you around, your back to his chest, seating you right onto his lap with a pleased, content groan. The solid weight of you, of the babe you were carrying, leaning back against him, trusting him to hold it all, made something pleased and animal bloom into his chest. If he were any more wolf in anything but sigil and tradition, he was sure he would’ve purred like a content beast right now.

“There you go,” Cregan said, broad palms using their grip onto your soft hips to hike you up higher until you were flush against him from hips to shoulders. “My pretty wife,” he murmured, leaning in to nose at your throat with a satisfied sigh, inhaling the scent of your bath oils, milk and you. “Smelling like a treat here on my lap.”

Cregan knows you would taste even better, but the time for that is not now. He loves to savour you most later in the night, when he has you all pliant and drowsy next to him, bundled up in the furs and pelts from his latest hunts, huffing and whining about all the pains and aches that plague you. And it is your husband’s duty to mend them with his tongue, hands and cock, in any way his lovely wife sees fit.

“I do not feel like a treat,” comes your response, leaning your head back against his shoulder as you grumble. “And it is your doing.”

Ah, of course. Anything that ails you is always Cregan’s demerit, be it truth or fib.

“Apologies, sweet wife,” he whispers against the warm skin of your neck, nuzzling there as a hound would its owner for clemency after being scolded. “How shall I repent for my wrongs at present, pray tell? I am yours to command, as always.”

Truth be told, Cregan could provoke you, could throw your whining and complaining back at you, as he often did, but he had found himself powerless to do such a thing in the moons since you have been with child. How could he muster even a modicum of bravado against the woman who now carried their babe? His heir. His little pup, as Cregan often called them, to your dismay, even tho he knew you did not mind the moniker in the slightest, especially when he was kissing all over the taut skin of your belly in the soft light of mornings, whispering sweet nothings to your stomach, as if the babe could hear him.

"Let me, my love." His broad palms smooth up from your hips, just enough to cradle the bottom of your pregnant, heavy belly and lift, supporting some of the weight himself, holding steady and firm. “There you go.”

The relief is instant.

You melt back into him with a soft sigh, as if a great burden has been taken from you, being gifted a moment of relaxation, where your husband was bearing the heavy load of your unborn babe. He had done this countless times since the nearing of your term, only more than a moon away until you were to be surrounded by midwives and maesters.

“It is a boulder,” you fuss, but your eyes flutter in delight, the ache in your back easing the more Cregan bears the brunt of your belly. “One I shall never have to haul around again, Gods be good.”

He hums at your words, knowing them not to be entirely founded, for he knows you are quite fond of the idea of having more than one set of little legs running around Winterfell in the years to come, but he keeps the quip to himself, mindful of your repose.

“I cannot abide by having to change my garments every few hours because I’m dripping milk like cattle.”

Dripping milk.

Cregan freezes for a moment before tipping his chin onto your shoulder to peer down your chest, and truth be told, there they were, your words sounding truthful.

Pebbled nipples peeking through damp material, where milk had stained the fabric, your heavy breasts full of milk, ready to nurture the future babe.

Your husband’s breath caught at the sight, tongue unconsciously poking out to wet his lips, as if wanting to taste the patches of wet silk and suck them into his mouth so he could relish the flavour of your nourishment.

“My poor, sweet wife,” Cregan crooned, one palm still supporting your pregnant belly, while the other slowly travelled upwards, caressing the soft fabric of your dress, until he could cup one full breast, making you huff. “So full of milk already,” he continued, thumb brushing over the damp peak of your nipple through the silk, eliciting a breathier sound this time, which made him hum. “Ready to feed our babe.”

He expected you to squirm, to fuss again at him, but you arched into his touch, limbs melting onto his lap, as if his touches were the flame to melt wax onto paper, willing you pliant and malleable.

“They ache,” you complained, pushing your chest into his palm, urging him to aid you in your grievance, as any husband should. “They’re too full.”

“Too full?” came your husband’s voice, lower, more gruff, as if your words had affected him more than he wished to admit. “And no one to suckle on these pretty tits yet, isn’t it?” He said, palm shifting, covering your breast fully, fingers dimpling the clothes’ softness as he squeezed gently, fondling the lushness slowly.

Again and again and again.

You didn’t mind the rhythmic press of his palm; on the contrary, you relished it, each one accompanied by one of those sweet sighs of content that Cregan drank in like the finest Arbour gold.

With each squeeze, the material of your dress dampened, your husband drawing out more and more milk, wetting both your dress and his palm. He groaned at the feeling, fingers dimpling the flesh harder, but never enough to hurt. “Gods, sweetling, you’re leaking everywhere,” he rumbled, pupils blown wide as he watched the way the silk darkened as more and more sweetness dripped from your pebbled nipples. “Makin’ me want to suckle at it like a babe.”

You gasped, one of your hands lifting to swat at the one he had around your breast, which only made him squeeze more. “Don’t be dissolute!” You reprimanded, but did nothing else to stop his fondling, weaving your fingers through his against your heaving tit, aiding him as you continued. “Just keep going.”

Cregan groaned, tilting his head to the side to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, the scent of sweet, warm milk already permeating the air around you, making him dizzy with the need to dip his head low and mouth at you until you couldn’t resist any more. “You’re a cruel woman,” he rasped, mouth parting, tongue poking out, as if tasting the air would suffice, as if that would even come close to having your milk on his palate. “All lush and ripe like a summer peach, sitting on my lap, dripping all over me,” he growled, feeling his palm dampen more with each squeeze. “And not letting me put my mouth on you.”

It was torture to sit there and not take what he wanted, but he knew that you’d give in soon. Only a matter of time until Cregan would crawl over you, tugging down at your neckline to slobber and mouth at your milk-heavy tits until he was drunk on the taste and you were pliant and lax under him, mewling and squirming.

And probably offering him your other breast to suckle at as well, if you were in good spirits, and he prayed dutifully to the Gods that day.

tags: @pinkdoeweirdo @silkaurum @through-the-looking--glass @pearlessance @chaotichereticcavern @mademoisellepetite @creganed @ship-slut @kyscamel @boojaynaqueen @roxxmo @bisexualforestfire @samthegreenapologist @vlarrtrgryn @sedonasummer @goldenhoneyedwine

“Is he alright?” Gwayne asks sleepily, rubbing his eyes while walking over to you both. Daeron having been put in the nursery once more to try and get him to sleep alone. That clearly having failed. As he doesn’t cry for attention, he wails like he’s been abandoned, desperate for a modicum of love.

“Just a little bit lonely.” You say, swayed him. The boy immediately settling now he’s in your arms. “Aren’t you my little dragon?”

“I can hold him.” Gwayne offers before just taking the sleeping babe from your arms. Giving the boy a soft smile when he briefly stirs. “You need sleep my love.”

“I’m fine.” You say knowing Gwayne just wants a chance to have baby cuddles, him having been busy most of the day.

“Why do you think he cry’s every time he’s apart from us?” Your husband asks sitting down on the large snuggle chair in Daerons room. Looking down at the boy with complete love and care in his eyes.

“He’s scared of being abandoned again.” You say sitting next to him, knowing he’s giving you a look while you look at the babe. “Don’t look at me like that. No matter how you try and spin it he was abandoned by his parents.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Gwayne-.” You try before getting interrupted.

“We’re his parents.” Gwayne says firmly, not willing to hear any different. “And he need to learn that we’re not going anywhere.”

“Then we need to show him.” You say resting your head on your husband shoulder.

-

“Rawww.” Gwayne exclaims picking Daeron up and spinning the boy around. Making the young boy laugh, loving playing with his kepa. “I’ve got you! Good luck rescuing the princess now!”

“My prince, be careful!” You fake shout, stood on the sofa pretending to be a princess locked away in a tower. “The only way to defeat the terrible monster is with cuddles!”

“Ahhh.” Gwayne fake screams when Daeron wraps his arms around him, cuddling the man tightly. “Oh no.” He says dramatically moving to the floor faking death but making sure Daeron doesn’t get hurt. “How did you find my one weakness.”

“Kepa!” He giggles as Gwayne fakes his death before running over to you and tacking you in a hug. “Muña!”

“My prince, you saved me!” You declare dramatically picking the boy up and kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”

-

“Who’s there?” Gwayne croaks out, still half asleep when he hears the chamber doors get slowly pushed open.

“Me.” Daeron says in a small voice tears streaming down his face while he cuddles his toy dragon close to his chest. “I had nightmare.”

“Come here.” Gwayne says holding his arms out to the boy who runs over and clambers into bed. Snuggling in between you both, waking you in the process. “What was it about?”

“You and muña didn’t want me anymore.” He cry’s terrified you would leave him and not want to be his parents anymore.

“That’s not possible.” You reassure him sleepily, brushing some of his hair out of his face. “You my darling boy are the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

“Promise?” He asks in a small voice.

“We promise.” You and Gwayne respond in unison making a pinky promise with the boy.

“Now come on, it’s sleepy time.” Gwayne say, laying back down, needing sleep before he has to get up at dawn for drill training.

“Can we have dragon story first?”

-

“What are you doing?” You ask Daeron, finding your son with a bucket and sponge sat next to his dragon. Tessarion. The girl just laying beside him letting him clean her. Your dragon sliverwing just laying in the corner keeping an eye on her hatchings, the older girl being very protective of the young boy and his dragon.

“Giving Tessie a bath.” Daeron explains sweetly washing the dragons head.

“Why?” You ask trying not to laugh, Tessarion weirdly enjoying the bath.

“I heard uncle Ormund complaining about her smell when he came to visit so I thought I’d give her a bath.” He says innocently, an adorable look on his face while he washes the blue girl.

“Oh my sweet boy.”

-

“Do you have to?” Gwayne asks anxiously, looking between you and the dragon. Him loving the girl but worrying given you are a few moon along. Since finding out you were with child your husband has not liked leaving your side, Daeron doing the same.

“Gwayne, he wishes to fly and I do to.” You say, understanding where your husband is coming from but also knowing everything will be fine. You having promised to take Daeron flying, Tessarion being you young to have a rider.

“I know I just worry.” He admits, self aware, hating he has to spent the day with his insufferable cousin instead of you and your son.

“Silverwing would never hurt us.” You tell him softly, cupping his cheek in your hand.

“I know she wouldn’t but I still worry, what if the babe-.”

“The babe will be fine, many dragons riders have flown when with child.” You reassure knowing Gwayne just loves you so much that the thought of anything happening and him not being there is terrifying. “She knows that if anything at all happens to take me home to you.”

-

“Muña!” Daeron whisper shouts excitedly running over to you, having been scared after hearing the screams. Not even Gwayne’s words of reassurance could calm the boy.

“Hello baby boy, I’ve missed you.” You say taping next to you so you can cuddle him.

“Missed you to muña.” He says snuggling into your side. “Can I see the baby?”

“Daeron, meet your little sister.” Gwayne Says softly having been waiting in the corner holding the girl, wanting to give you and Daeron a moment together.“Her names Aemma.”

You’re six when you visit Tyrosh for the first time.

Your father, Lord Jason Lannister, is invited to the Archon of Tyrosh’s residence; it is not uncommon for your family to receive invites from all around the Known World, but it is rare for your father to accept them. Most of the time he either goes by himself or sends someone in his stead, but for some reason he has decided to bring you all this time. You all meaning you, your mother and your sisters, Cerelle and Tyshara. 

“I heard your father is searching for a good knight who is willing to watch over you,” your septa tells you, merely days before your departure. “That’s why the arrangements for the voyage are taking so long.”

You are not a difficult child by any means. You behave, listen to what your nurses and septa tell you, and you do everything that they ask of you. It’s just that you have… a tendency. 

Adults can be boring sometimes, and you’re always quiet, rarely interrupting their conversations. Oftentimes you find yourself involved with them simply because your father wants to show off his youngest daughter, the child who’s the perfect picture of how a Lannister should be. And oftentimes, if not always, you simply find yourself… just wandering off, once the attention isn't on you anymore.

You’re so quiet hardly anyone notices your disappearances, usually, but when someone does, it’s chaos. Your parents have a talent for always thinking about the worst scenarios possible, so, if you’re missing from a feast, then surely someone must have kidnapped you. Only for you to be found napping in the garden, curled on a bench like a cat not even ten minutes later. 

You have yet to receive any harm from this tendency of yours, and when it’s between Casterly Rock’s walls, there’s hardly any risk of harm, since it’s well guarded and there’s hardly anything dangerous in there. Tyrosh, however… 

“How many times does she have to sneak off before something bad happens?” Johanna always complains to her husband. “Yes, we are guarded, but who knows who could be hiding within these walls — there's men out there that would do anything for a single golden coin, and we surely don’t lack in that regard. When she sneaks off, nobody notices– and that’s because she’s quiet, and small, and easy to bore. But she is your daughter, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we couldn’t find her after a feast and a request for ransom is found in her stead.”

So the search for a sworn shield began. Jason is mostly looking for already experienced knights; it probably won’t be a hard job, they’ll just have to follow you around — plus, he pays good coin. If the knight really wants it, then he can surely act like a nursemaid for you. 

After good research, Ser Morren Westerling is chosen. He’s one of your mother’s distant relatives, an old man in possession of just a title, who fought in the Stepstones and has won a good amount of turneys and melees since then for your father to repute him a good enough candidate. 

Ser Morren is introduced to you the same day you're supposed to leave for Tyrosh. He's a man well in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, tanned skin and an ugly scar on his chin. He wears the newly made armour your father had commissioned for him and a red coat with silver linings, also a gift from your father. Clearly, he wants him to be recognisable. 

He looks you up and down, then looks to your father. “I assume I’ll escort your three daughters?”

Your father shakes his head and gently pushes you in front of him. “No, just her. She's my youngest and tends to wander off. Be careful to follow her and make sure she doesn't get hurt or taken.”

The knight blinks. “Ah.”

Your father raises an eyebrow, amused. “‘Tis not what you were expecting?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, it is just… I think this is the most peaceful job I have ever taken.”

The Lord shrugs his shoulders, moving a hand up to smooth his cape. “Be good at it and you'll be allowed to stay in my castle as a guard for as long as you'll like. Or, depends, for as long as my daughter likes.” he turns his attention to you, kneeling down to your level. “This is Ser Westerling. He'll accompany you during our time in Tyrosh. Be good for him.” 

He leaves you with a pinch on the nose and a kiss on the forehead, and you're now in the care of the nursemaid, Ser Westerling and under the watch of your sisters, who are more than happy to coo and play with you. They're way older than you, now almost two-and-ten each, but always ready to dress you up and make up stories for you to play with your dolls. 

The carriage ride to Lannisport is quick compared to the weeks of traveling by sea that take to get to Tyrosh; you discover that you get terribly seasick, so most of your time on the boat consists in puking in a bucket and crying while being comforted by your parents, your sisters or the nursemaid. Your mother sings to you, even if seasick herself, while your father tries to console you by telling you all the gifts he'll buy you once you reach the Free Cities, which by now to you look like a mirage. But they aren't. 

You arrive at Tyrosh at night, when you're already passed out from the nausea that's been plaguing you since the voyage started, and get welcomed by the Archon’s advisor, who shows you your chambers for your stay. 

Tyrosh is as your father promised: shiny, full of merchants with marvelous products and crystalline sea waters. By day you explore the city with the Archon as chaperone, and your father makes sure to make up for the voyage by buying you double the things he had promised to get you. But Tyrosh has a big problem.

There are people in cages. 

You don't understand why they would be there, but when your mother sees them, she makes sure to make you look the other way. That is, until you look the other way and you see something that catches your eye. 

There are two little lion cubs. They're dirty, thin and a bit mangy, surrounded by mosquitos and other bugs, sleeping but looking dead. One cry from you is all your father needs to be on high alert, immediately turning around. “What is it, love?”

You just whine, finger moving to point at the little cubs. “Daddy, I want them.”

Your father raises an eyebrow, the Archon joining you all. “What might the matter be?”

“She wants those… kittens over there,” Jason replies, wincing, clearly not too fond of flea-infested lion cubs. “I'll buy you bigger and better kept lions back at Westeros if you want them, love. Those are dirty, malnourished and probably ill.”

The Archon nods. “Those are kept for arenas. Usually they're bought with the intention of mostly starving them for games with gladiators.”

You sob. Your mother glares at your father, who raises his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine, we'll take them.” 

The cubs are a girl and a boy, so it is only fair you name them Jonquil and Florian, after the mythical lovers that Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys were once compared to. They're dirty and full of fleas, but your father has them cleaned by the staff of the palace so that their fur — the parts of it that isn't ruined, burned or fallen off — almost shines gold. 

You try to play with them in the evenings, under the watchful gaze of Ser Warren, but they don't seem to trust you. They flinch back every time you approach and barely even accept the food the servants leave for them. They wince every time a loud noise is heard and hiss when anyone tries to pick them up, baring their teeth like wild animals — which, you guess, they are. 

You start taking your meals in your chambers, only to take the beef out of your plate and bring it to the little cubs. Slowly, they start eating from the plate, soon enough from your hands — and before you even know it, they let you pet them. The boy purrs when you scratch his belly, while the girl meows happily when you caress her head and have her try on your sisters’ necklaces, which are small enough to fit on her neck. 

As they get plumper and healthier, they start following you around, hiding under your skirts and rubbing against your legs, looking for scratches and treats, climbing your gown with their little nails and meowing loudly when you don't give them what they want. Your sisters make sure to keep away from them, as they are pretty skittish and the kittens are still pretty uneasy around people other than you, and the same thing goes for your mother. The only one who actually has the courage to speak up against the cubs is your father, who gently approaches you one day about leaving them behind — either reselling them or leaving them for the Archon to deal with. 

The start of your crying is all it takes to make him relent. So, Florian and Jonquil go back to Westeros with all of you, with brand-new shiny golden collars around their necks, depicting the Lannister emblem on the medallion. 

Not even two moons later, a feast in honor of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon’s seventh nameday is held. 

You’ve never been to King’s Landing before — you’ve never really traveled that much since before this summer, actually. It’s just that you’re finally old enough for your parents to bring you along wherever they go. And, of course, wherever you go, Florian and Jonquil follow. 

They’re now four moons old — at least you think, by what the vendor had told your father — and they are growing quickly. They both still have some belly fat and are always looking for cuddles, and mainly for that, they are your best companions during the day and night. 

They sneak under the covers of your bed at night and follow you during the day; they play with you, attend lessons with you — usually sleeping or tearing down the drapes — and they even sit by your feet at the table during breakfast, lunch and supper. They have now become your favorite and most loyal companions, and the same thing can be said for Ser Warren, who never lets out so much as a cough as he silently follows you throughout the day, never complaining nor saying anything against you. So it is only fair they all follow you on the journey to the Crownlands. 

The voyage is less burdening than the one to the Free Cities, as it is completely done by carriage, and you are happy to babble all you know about the Capital to Ser Warren, who only pretends to be annoyed by it, you're sure. You repute yourself pretty good at reading people, and you just know he’s actually interested in all the facts you know. 

You are welcomed by your uncle Tyland, who’s Master of Coin in King Viserys’ Small Council. You jump into his arms before your parents can stop you, and he gleefully catches you, holding you tight. “Ooh, look at you! How you have grown, my girl!”

You giggle, hiding your face in his shoulder. “Hi, uncle Ty,”

Tywin is your father’s brother and your favorite uncle — not that you have any other than him. All their brothers died before you were born, so even if they often have some discrepancies, they hold each other deeply close to the heart. Your uncle always showers you and your sisters with gifts, cherishing the little time you spend together, as he has no kids of his own and probably never will. That being said, every occasion is the right one to dote on you three.

The days at the Red Keep are mostly spent in the gardens with Florian and Jonquil, under the watchful eyes of your mother and the other ladies of the court, occupied in gossiping and drinking tea as their husbands go on hunts and talk about politics and discuss business. Most of the ladies are with their children too, some younger, some older, all playing together — princes included. As the Queen has made it clear to your father that she doesn’t want your cubs anywhere near her, her family or her entourage, Jonquil and Florian are let out of the room specifically organised for them only for walks in the hill behind the Castle. 

Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra are never at the small parties on the same days — usually when one is present the other is absent, a thing the ladies have noticed with particular amusement, speculating about the hate going on between the two. 

You mostly keep to yourself, too shy to approach the other kids, and often tend to the flowers in the gardens, teaching Ser Westerling the meaning and provenience of each one like he’s a particularly interested botanist and not a guard tied to your side by a contract. That is, until one day you are brutally and unmannerly interrupted by the Prince himself.

Prince Jacaerys is the main reason your family is in King’s Landing, and also in line to the Iron Throne as his mother’s heir. He is rowdy and loud, like children his age tend to be, so it’s not a new thing to see him covered in mud from head to toe. He has his hands behind his back, blushing furiously under your confused gaze, as Ser Warren raises an eyebrow, glaring in an unamused way at him. The children snickering and whispering behind the Prince, combined with how red he is and the flowers the knight can see he holds behind his back, give away his intentions immediately. 

“I– I…”  the Prince stumbles upon his words, “W– would you like to be my princess in the game?” At this, he holds out the flowers he has clearly just ripped from the garden, some still with dirt and roots attached. You gasp, and being the lover of knight tales as you are, of course you accept, cheeks rosy. You take his flowers and let him drag you to the ‘fortress’ you’ll be held prisoner at — a big bench at the center of the garden — where the ‘dragons’ — meaning two boys you don’t even know the names of — try to fight off the ‘knights’ — also known as princes Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Three girls sit far across from you, huffing and puffing, probably angry that they weren’t asked to be the princess. 

You sit in your fortress-bench, counting your flowers’ petals and humming songs as the boys fight in the mud with wood swords, screaming and insulting each other. Your mother, Princess Rhaenyra and the other ladies watch from their table, chuckling between themselves — especially when it’s Lucerys who manages to get out of the scuffle first, condemning his brother to fight the other two boys alone, taking your hand in his and declaring eternal love and protection for you. 

Rhaenyra starts laughing uncontrollably, looking at your amused mother. “Looks like the children get along!” she muses. That is until Jacaerys manages to free himself from the hold of the other two kids and smacks his brother as hard as he can in the head.

“I was supposed to save her!” he screams, glaring at his brother, who smacks back. “Well, then you should have fought harder!”

You dramatically gasp, sensitive and easy to scare, and all it takes is a whimper from your mouth for Ser Warren to come to the rescue, taking you by the armpits and bringing you to your mother as you start crying while the boys continue fighting. Johanna coos and wipes your tears, chuckling a bit to herself. “My girl, there’s nothing to cry for.”

Princess Rhaenyra has gone to scold her boys, demanding an apology on your behalf; Lucerys sheepishly asks sorry, while his brother — cheeks all red — gets on his tippy toes and leaves a wet, awkward kiss on your cheek. His mother gasps. “Jacaerys!” she hisses. “That is no proper way to behave! Aren’t you ashamed?”

Your mother laughs it off, as you’re as red as a tomato, giggling to yourself and fiddling with the velvet of your gown, staring at the kid — completely enamored . “That is no problem, my Princess; she doesn't seem to be bothered by any means.”

A kiss on the cheek is all it takes for you to glue yourself to Jacaerys’ side for the days that come, clammy hands usually tied together, a smile on your face and a pout on his. The Prince is quite spoiled and grumpy, you’ve discovered in the time you spend together, but he is also pretty funny — especially when he plays pretend as King Jaehaerys and insists on you being Queen Alysanne. 

So, when one day he invites you to the training yard to see his sword skills, you can’t find it in yourself to say no — because, as your mother says, you may have a tiny, itsy bitsy crush on him. It’s probably the whole knight thing that has swooned you, because you love knights and the stories told about them. 

Ser Warren grumpily agrees to accompany you, not before openly stating his dislike for him. “I just wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up, my Lady,” he says, a bit gruff. “Boys at this age tend to be a little… inconsiderate of a lady’s feelings.” 

You don’t even seem to hear him, little feet scrambling to get a good look at the knights down in the training yard, looking for Jacaerys. There are a few other ladies on the balcony, swooning over the actual knights, giggling and blushing while whispering to each other. You take a good look at Ser Harwin, the captain of the City Watch, and even if you’re barely six summers old and definitely too young for him, you get them. Absent-mindedly, you hope that Jacaerys will look like him when he grows up. 

“So, it is true,” Ser Morren murmurs, leaning over the railing to get a better look, talking to himself — clearly not thinking you can hear him. “Good ol’ Breakbones does look like the brat. Seven Hells,”

“Ser Morren,” you tug at his cloak, “could you pick me up? I can’t see really well from here.” 

He complies, holding you steady against him but making sure you can see the training yard properly. You can see Jacaerys and Lucerys holding up wood swords against two other boys with platinum hair — the other princes, you guess — as they spar, mud coating their boots while the Lord Commander yells corrections and tips on how to perfect their stance and combat skills. 

And while Lucerys exits his battle in triumph, holding the edge of his sword to Prince Aegon’s neck while unashamedly turning to look at the ladies — his brother is not so lucky. 

Jacaerys lands in the mud on his side as his arm makes a loud crack, screaming out while Prince Aemond’s grin quickly twists into something more grim. You gasp, Ser Morren immediately ripping you away from the sight as the knights go and hover around the Prince, who’s whimpering, to examine the arm resting in an unnatural position. In the distance, as your guard drags you away, you hear someone call for a maester. 

While this situation doesn’t present any actual real danger for you, Ser Morren knows you well enough by now. You’re a sensitive girl — you once cried because you accidentally stepped on a bug — and if his instinct is right, what he fears most might come any time now–

You burst out crying. Ah, there it is. At least you’re out of earshot from the princes — he wouldn’t want them to start picking on you and calling you a crybaby. He tries to ignore your gut wrenching sobs as he focuses on just finding your mother. 

Once Lady Lannister is found — surrounded by the other ladies of the court, of course, who coo sadly at you and glare at your protector like he’s the reason you’re bawling your eyes out — she shushes you pretty easily, holding you close to her breast and patting your back soothingly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl, whatever has happened to make you so sad?” 

Not even a moment passes from when Ser Morren finishes telling her what happened to when the ladies start to gossip. “Oh, have you heard of what happened just yesterday in the Dragonpit? Prince Aemond must still hold a grudge against the princes.” 

What happened, you guess, must be one of their famous squabbles. They’re pretty common between Queen Alycent and Princess Rhaenyra’s children, you’ve found out. “That is in no way a sufficient reason to do such a thing– while Prince Aemond is one-and-ten, Prince Jacaerys is yet to turn seven summers old! It seems clear to me who’s in the wrong, don’t you think so, ladies?”

The back and forth between the gossiping courtiers goes on until your mother spots Princess Rhaenyra behind the colonnade that heads into the garden and quickly shuts her company up with a single, terrifying glare, petting your hair as you let out soft whimpers, still a bit shook from the earlier experience. 

Princess Rhaenyra approaches the group and waves a hand in the air when some of the ladies are about to get up and bow, smiling sweetly at your mother– actually, smiling sweetly at you. “Hello,” she hums softly, trying not to scare you. “My son Jacaerys is asking about you. Would you like to come with me? He’s fine now.” she holds out a hand, offering it to you. 

You look hesitantly at your mother, who nods, then hesitantly hop off her lap and take the Princess’ hand, brushing sheepishly at your dress with your other hand as she guides you into the castle, Ser Morren dutifully right behind you until Rhaenyra’s personal guard takes over. 

Princess Rhaenyra’s hand is warm but firm and she looks a little disheveled — and you wonder if she spent the last thirty minutes yelling at the servants and knights like your father does when you or your sisters get hurt. “He broke his arm,” she tells you quietly, like she’s talking to a babe, “but the maester has already fixed him up. He seemed more worried about the fact that you saw him defeated than about the fracture.”

Your lips tremble, and you look at her with your big, sad eyes. “I don’t care that he didn’t win,” you whine, “I’m sad because he got hurt, and I don’t want him to hurt.” 

She looks endeared. “Well, then, you tell him that.” 

Jacaerys is laying on his bed when his mother opens the door to his room, Lucerys’ sitting by his bedside, moping, as the maester scolds him half-heartedly about the dangers of sparring in the mud-covered surface of the training yard. “I’ll make sure to have a word with Ser Harwin,” he seethes, “oh, yes, he’ll have to hear me because there’s no–”

“Maester Gylde,” Rhaenyra interrupts, spooking him out of his mind and bringing Jacaerys out of his stupor; he grins embarrassedly when he notices you. “Please, let the boy off his shackles. Having to sleep with that thing on his arm for the next three weeks is going to be enough.” 

With that thing, she’s referencing the tight bandage wrapping around Jacaerys’ arm, bulging with a wooden log to keep the bone from fixing crooked. All it takes you is one look at it and bam– you’re ugly crying again. 

It surprises both Rhaenyra and the princes, who all startle when you start sobbing. Panicked, Rhaenyra tries to shush you by taking you in her arms and cooing softly, but it is all for naught as every time she manages to wipe away your tears, more come out as a replacement — and suddenly she understands why your personal guard always takes you to your mother as soon as you start to tear up, instead of trying to console you himself. 

“‘Tis nothing!” Jace raises his arm, hiding a wince of pain, “Look! I am perfectly fine!” 

His mother gently sits you on the bed covers, heart swelling at the thoughtfulness of her son, who still puts your well-being first despite his own injury. With his good arm, Jacaerys drags you in his arms by your sleeve, cheeks red but not nearly as puffy as yours. “Why do you always have to cry about everything?” He grumbles as you smear tears and snot over his doublet. “‘Twas nothing serious! I’d never let Aemond seriously hurt me, and you should know that a true knight never whines about pain and whatnot." 

Actually he just let his uncle hurt him, and he’s still very far from being a true knight, but that's not his concern right now. His concern is making you stop crying as soon as possible — before you drown in your own tears, at least. “But your arm’s broken!” You whine, hands gripping the front of his doublet as you pull him to and away from you like you’re trying to knock some sense into him. 

“It will heal,” he puffs his chest, feigning offense, “are you trying to tell me that I am not a true knight — and that my injury might last forever?”

For a moment, you stop crying — just to look him in the eye. Then, you pull at his hair swiftly, and get off the bed with an incredulous huff. “A true knight never thinks of a lady’s tears as a selfish whim!” You stutter, lips still trembling — he has no idea where you’ve read that, nor where you got the idea that he was trying to do that, but he’s too stunned by the way you pulled on his strands to say anything. “I’ll find somewhere else to dump my tears! Bye!” 

Before leaving, you furiously bow to the Princess, then let the door slam closed behind you — at least, as slammed as it can be by the force of a six-year-old. Rhaenyra blinks. “…Did she really do that?”

Lucerys, pleased, nods happily. “She did.”

Worried, Jace frowns. “Does she even know her way back to the gardens?”

You don’t. He finds you two hours later, crouched in a fetal position in one of the corners of the castle, crying and talking to a little flower that sprouted between the cracks of the rocky pavement. You’re babbling to the plant like it owes you a reply, lower lip sucked in your mouth when you muffle a sob, and Jace doesn’t even know if you’re still crying because of him or because you can’t find your way back to your mother. 

Without saying anything, he pokes you over your shoulder, smiling when you turn to glance at him, and takes your hand in his without too many questions. You’re back in the gardens in less than five minutes, and you throw yourself at your mother’s gowns, breath uneven. Ser Westerling looks at the Prince like he wants to skin him alive, but other than that, no harm is done. 

Later on, the seamstress has to make certain alterations to his nameday chemise and doublet to make sure that the whole bandage, wooden log included, properly fits so that at least it’s not completely clear to anyone who spares a look at him that his arm is broken. The day of the feast is close, and his parents are all but happy with the fact that he’ll spend it with one of his limbs basically useless, but it is what it is.

When his nameday finally rolls around, you’ve already forgotten all about your little spat, and spend all morning in your mother’s chambers with the latter and your sisters, who coo and swoon at the copious amount of jewels that Johanna has brought here from Casterly Rock for the occasion. Florian and Jonquil purr at your feet as your mother continuously swaps jewels and makes you try on new necklaces, rings and earrings, finally settling on golden ornaments decorated with rubies, so shiny that they make you giggle once you finally see yourself in the mirror. 

You twirl in your pink dress, happy as ever, as your sisters still stress about their clothes in the background. While this may be just a feast to you, for them it’s the possibility to scour the various lords and their sons, as in a few years they’ll be reaching the age where the women of your family begin to look for a husband. 

You play with Florian and Jonquil until the time for the feast to start comes, and throttle your way to the gardens right in front of your mother, Cerelle and Tyshara — your uncle is already there, discussing hushedly with your father, who lights up when he sees you. As you always do, you throw yourself in his arms, and he catches you without a hitch, settling you over his hip. “You’re getting too old for this,” he teases, poking your stomach as you squeal. “Just another nameday, and you’ll have to start acting like a proper lady.”

”I am a proper lady!” You insist, nudging him with the back of your hand, “Look! Mommy gave me one of her kissy rings and let me wear her sparkly things!” 

He guesses that the kissy rings are the ones people are supposed to kiss over her hand in greeting, and just to play along he kisses the back of your hand. “A proper lady calls her parents father and mother, doesn’t jump to be picked up, doesn’t have two lion cubs as pets…” 

But you’re already not listening anymore, playing with his hair to make a braid as you babble about your sisters fighting for a collier earlier, then nudging at his earring and asking why it is devious of any sparkling qualities. Your uncle laughs, but he does not look as amused as he usually is. “You’ve made acquaintances with the Prince, niece, have you not?”

You frown, then look at your father. “Daddy, what does ack-uain-tans mean?”

”Acquaintance, darling,” he corrects you, scowling at his brother. “Uncle Ty’s asking if you’ve become friends with Prince Jacaerys.”

Your eyes light up, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes! He crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney, and he said that we’re going to get married one day.” The tourney where he forced his younger brother to be the horse, by the way. A very attendable tourney, if you were to ask him. 

Your father pales a bit, but not as much as your uncle, who has to hide a nervous chuckle in his fist — something that could easily be passed off as children playing dress up as adults seems to trouble him deeply. “Pardon– married? Aren’t you too young for that?”

”I am now,” you say sagely, “but I won’t be soon enough, and then we’ll get married, and we’ll live in a big castle, even bigger than Cas-ter-ly Rock, and we’ll have lots of babies-“

”Yes, yes, that’s enough for today, have a little pity on your father’s poor heart,” Jason interrupts, coughing like just the thought is enough for him to feel ill. You coo and press a wet, soundly kiss to his cheek, “Noo, daddy, don’t feel bad, I’ll still love you!”

Some of the courtiers are staring by now, chuckling with no real malice as Lord Jason Lannister gets consoled by his own brat of a daughter, and he pats your back, trying to loosen your hold on his neck. “Yes, yes, I know, honey– listen, Uncle Ty wanted to ask you something.” He then sends a pointed look to his brother, almost glaring at him. 

Tyland coughs again. “Prince Jacaerys, in retrospect, is not the most ideal friend you could make in this court,” he nudges toward the other end of the gardens, where Jace’s uncles — Aegon and Aemond — stand, seemingly having a conversation with other boys their age. The oldest has a wine goblet in his hand, and from the redness of his cheeks, it doesn’t take a fortune teller to confidently say that he’s probably already drunk. “Queen Alicent’s kids, however, will surely pay off one day.”

You frown at way-too-old Aegon and cruel, mean Aemond, and you can’t help but think that while it was the latter who broke Jace’s arm, the oldest didn’t do anything to stop him. Besides, in your eyes, he’s far too scary to even approach, as he’s way much taller than you and has a constant snarl on his face. “They’re old, uncle,” you say in the end — because that's what an eleven and thirteen year old look to you — tightening your hold on your father for support. “And mean. They pick on Jacaerys and Lucerys, and even their little brother Joffrey. And he’s a babe.” you add that with a little indignant huff, like you can’t even imagine how someone could bully babes. 

And it is true — whenever they are around, it’s unbearable. You wish you could just play with little Joff in peace while also hoping to give a break to the Princess and various nursemaids, but no. They always have to be around, tormenting his older brothers, and once they even tried to snatch the babe from your arms before your cries alerted Ser Warren — who promptly dragged the boys by their cuffs to meet their sister Rhaenyra, who scolded them for half an hour about their unrighteous treatment of their baby nephew and how such behaviour would not be tolerated, lest they wished to follow their younger brother Daeron to Oldtown. 

(Of course, their behaviour never really stopped, because as soon as Queen Alicent was made aware of the situation, she made sure to always be overlooking when her sons pestered their nephews so that nobody would dare utter a word. At least they mostly left you and Joffrey alone for now, and you were free to continue playing house with him under the careful watch of Ser Westerling.) 

Tyland huffs. “Well, you see– not everything revolves around what you’d like to do and people you actually enjoy, and maybe it would be best if you found out sooner rather than later.” 

“Tyland,” Jason warns, “now you’re going too far. She’ll deal with that when she’s older.” 

His twin clicks his jaw, bowing his head slightly. “However you wish, brother.” He disappears in the crowd soon after without saying goodbye, and your mother and your sisters join you as soon as you lose sight of him. “Husband,” Johanna greets, tense, “what was that about?” 

Your father pats your back reassuringly as you rest your cheek on his shoulder, “Nothing,” he assures her, even if his irritation is clear as day to someone who’s been married to him for a decade and a half, “it’s just… you know how Tyland is. It seems the Royal Court has just worsened his constant concerns and scheming.” 

A lot of whispering later, your mother winces the slightest bit. “We’ll continue this conversation later,” she hisses to her husband as you play with the golden accents of his tunic, “however, you cannot avoid admitting that it is, let’s say… peculiar for Targaryens to have dark hair.” 

“‘Tis not the place nor the time to speak about that,” your father hisses in response as your sisters feign particular interest towards the flower beds, “I don’t want to hear another word about any of this — understood?” 

It’s not a secret that your parents’ union was not one born from love, and even if in the years they have built a good relationship based on mutual respect and trust, your father never refrains from reminding her to stay in her place — that is, being his wife. You look at your mother, at the hidden resentment in her eyes that she always holds for your father, and can’t help but think that you never want to end up with a man like your father — one who even after three children still hasn’t properly warmed up to his wife.

Jason Lannister is a good father, when he wants to be — which, fortunately, is often. Unfortunately, he rarely tries to be a good husband. 

Jacaerys is welcomed warmly by the guests of the feast — and most importantly, he’s accompanied by his grandsire. You curtsy like your septa and sisters taught you to, even if your balance is still not the best, and soon enough the gathering continues without a hitch — just with King Viserys I strolling around like this isn’t just a child’s nameday celebration, but a full-on political event. You guess that after all, it is one of his heirs that just turned eight. 

Even so, for children like you, pretenses are easy to forget: soon enough, Jace is poking your shoulder and pointing to the far end of the courtyard, where other children are already playing, and takes your hand to drag you with him. 

As they watch you go play with the Prince, Tyland whispers to your father, “You must understand, this is not the best friendship she could form.”

Jason laughs. “One with a prince? Tyland, she’s the same child who befriended wild lions.” 

His twin’s voice is low, so that Jason might be the only one who hears, when he says, “Lions and royal bastards are two very different things.” 

Your father’s spine straightens. “No more of this, Tyland, you hear me?” he hisses. “Royal blood is royal blood. And we’re not going to get our tongues cut just because you can’t bear to see children play.” 

Baelor’s mismatched eyes surveyed the ballroom.

Everything is going well… so far.

Today is the feast of the Maiden, and all the daughters of the great houses were brought to the Red Keep. The main purpose: to find suitable husbands. All the mothers of Westeros made sure their daughters wore the best gowns and best jewels coin could afford. They whispered among themselves about who has recently become widowed, who is looking for a bride, and who has the best land and titles.

Baelor wasn’t spared.

He doesn't have enough fingers on his hands to count how many Ladies approached them with their daughters and introduced them to him. The daughters would curtsy to him and speak to him with their sweetest voices. Some of them were as young as fifteen. Baelor politely went away from this conversation, feeling a little bit irritable with the attitude of some of these mothers.

He has been a widower for quite some time, and he has made no attempt to find himself a second wife. His mother probably wished he had a wife and, for her, more grandchildren. He has two healthy sons, one who is already married. His line is set, and there’s no need for a wife and more children. 

“I can’t believe she’s actually here!” He heard one lady whisper, horrified.

“The nerve! She’s walking bad omen!”

“How could she do that to her own cousins?"

He looked over and saw who they were talking about.

A woman wearing a grey gown enters the ballroom with two young ladies behind her. Some courtiers stopped their conversation and openly gawked at her with curiosity, mockery, disdain and a bit of pity

“Ser Delaney.” He called for his steward. “Who is that Lady and why does her presence cause this much fuss?”

Ser Delaney tells Baelor the woman’s name and house.

“Her husband divorced her.” Ser Delaney whispered. “That’s why they’re staring at her like that.”

“Divorce?” Baelor asked, surprised. “On what grounds?”

"Barrenness, my Prince," His steward explained. “She had been wedded to Ser Helios for almost a decade, and her belly not once swelled. He got the same Septon that wedded them to annul the union. He got remarried a few months later.”

It’s almost impossible to get a marriage annulled. The only ways to get an annulment are impotence, non-consummation and barrenness. There must have been enough proof for a Septon to come to that decision.

Baelor looks at her as discreetly as he can. He watched as the lady and who he assumes to be her cousins sat down. The younger of the two girls is looking around at people staring at them with her head low and her shoulders tensed. The woman in grey gently tipped her cousin's head forward. They shared a look and then a smile. A silent conversation that was enough to ease the young girl’s discomfort.

Baelor smiled at that interaction; it reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would tell him to keep his chin up when the courtiers commented on his Dornish side.

A Lord comes inside with who Baelor assumes to be his daughter. The Lord looked at the Lady in grey, and he smirked mockingly in her direction. Some people take great pleasure in other people's misery.

“That’s the Lady’s former husband," Ser Delaney whispered. 

Baelor hummed as he looked at her. The Lady in Grey didn’t pay attention to her former husband. She quietly sipped her wine and talked with the people at the table with a composed face.

“The young lady he just entered with is his new wife."

Baelor looked at his steward with a haughty look. He assumed she could be a younger family member. His steward shared the same expression as him.

...

“The Florent boy is looking at you," You teased.

Your cousin Muriel blushed. “No, he’s not!”

Your other cousin, Muriel’s sister, Mina, laughed. "Yes, he is!”

You smiled at their antics.

These Lords and Ladies expected you to lock yourself in your family’s keep and drown in your misery, but no. Just because you are no longer a wife doesn’t mean you are not a person. If you want to join a feast with your cousins, you will. Your former husband can flaunt his child bride all he wants; you will not cease to exist just because he made your vows void.

“He’s so handsome.” Muriel said dreamily.

“Then you should talk to the Florent boy.” You said.

“Not him!” Your cousin corrected. “The Hand.”

You and Mina stared at the high table where Prince Baelor was talking to the lord next to him. He looked handsome indeed.

“You think the song is true," Mina asked.

“What song?” You asked.

“You know…” Your cousin shrugged her shoulders. “The song.”

You glared at her through the corner of your eye. “You are not supposed to know that song.”

“I know, but it’s so catchy!” She groaned and mumbled under her breath. “Country was in peril; the Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny—"

And as if he could hear from afar, Prince Baelor turned his head and looked directly at your table. You and your cousins turn away so quickly your necks made a snapping noise, and you three burst into laughter, not caring about the looks thrown your way.

The feast went on. Wine flowed and the music kept on. The Florent boy approached the table and asked Muriel for a dance, which the girl happily accepted with blushed cheeks. You and Mina stayed at the table talking and enjoying the cake when another Lord approached her and asked her for a dance; she too accepted and joined her sister on the dance floor.

You remained.

Part of you is happy that your reputation didn't disturb her cousins’ prospects, just like those other nobles whispered. 

The other part of you feels empty.

No Lord as looked at you with anything but pity or like you were a walking disease. No Lord appraoched you and asked you for a dance. You don’t think that will ever happen.

You look at the table where your former husband and his new wife sat. He looked happy and he was surrounded by various people. How can he forsake his vows to you and still be surrounded with warmth while you are the one that has to be the pariah? Is it because you barely fought for your marriage like a good noble lady should? What was the point in fighting for something that was as barren as your womb?

“Cake, my lady?” A servant asked with a tray full of cakes.

You nodded, and the servant placed the plate on the table.

“Thank you.”

You grabbed your fork and started eating the cake. You moaned at the taste. It was a delicious cake with berries and a hint of vanilla. You eat the cake while keeping an eye on your cousins, making sure those boys didn't take any liberties with their hands. You take another bite, and suddenly pain suddenly floods your mouth. Blood floods your mouth immediately, and the metallic taste mixes horribly with the sweetness of the cake. You drop your fork and clasp your jaw as you groan in pain.

Conversations at the surrounding table stop.

You feel something hard in your mouth, and you think it’s your tooth. You forgot all the decorum and spit on your plate. Blood, pieces of cake and an object fall on the plate. You look at what you think is your tooth, but to your relief, it isn't. It was bigger than a tooth, and it was mint green instead of white.

“What a…” You mumbled.

“My lady, are you alright?” A kind male voice asked.

You look up, and to your horror, it was Prince Baelor, and you present yourself to the heir to the throne with blood caking your lips and teeth. Words were stuck in your throat.

Prince Baelor didn't care that you didn't answer him. He took out a handkerchief and handed it to you. You hesitantly accept it and press it to your mouth; you could smell wax and parchment.

Your cousins approached you and checked on you while Prince Baelor inspected the object that was on your mouth with the fork. His brows furrowed as he looked at it.

“What is that?” Muriel asked, grossed out.

“The Maiden, I believe.” The Prince answered.

You take a closer look at it, and he is correct. It was a small miniature of the maiden with her serene face and gentle smile. How did it end up on the cake?

“Bessie!” A servant cried out. “They found it!”

A woman in an apron covered in flour ran into the hall. That must be Bessie. She runs to your table, not caring about the blood in your mouth or the presence of the prince. She reaches the plate and picks up the miniature of the maiden that was covered in your blood and spit. Mina gags.

“Oh, my lady! You have been blessed.” She tells you with joy as she holds the figure of the maiden up in the air like a war trophy. "Congratulations!"

You let out an indignant noise. Blessed with what? A chipped tooth?

“The Lady is bleeding.” Prince Baelor said with a firm tone that sent shivers down your spine. He put his hand on your shoulder, and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “She could’ve choked as well. A Lady as been harmed under my roof. Explain yourself or you and your fellow workers will find work elsewhere."

Bessie’s face became white. He didn't raise his voice, not once, but you could hear the promise in his tone.

“My Prince.” The cook cleared her throat. “At every feast of the Maiden, I put a miniature figure on our cake batter, and the maiden who finds it is destined to be wed by the end of the year and have a child within the next. It’s a tradition in my hometown, and it always comes true.”

There’s laughter behind you. It’s a cruel and cold laugh. You recognised that laughter; it’s your former husband’s. He laughed just like that when the Septon declared your union null and void.

You’ve been married for almost ten years, and red has always stained your sheets. When you were late for a few days, you held your breath and then let out a disappointed sigh. You drank tonics that midwives promised to boost fertility, but it only made you want to throw up. You laid on your back and gripped the sheets so hard that your hands cramped when various maesters put their cold hands and instruments between your legs. You held babies in your arms, and for a few minutes you pretended they were yours. You kneeled in front of the statue of the mother and prayed feverishly.

Humiliations flood your body, and you want to disappear.

“I meant no harm, m’lord!" Bessie said, thinking they were laughing at her. “The lady has been chosen by the Maiden!”

You couldn’t control yourself and sobbed into the Prince’s handkerchief.

A hand smashes against the table, rattling the cups and utensils and quieting down the laughter. You look up and see the Prince’s balled fist on the table. He looked at the table where your former husband was sitting with a ferocity that made you wonder if that is how a dragon is supposed to look.

“Ser Delaney, please escort the lady and her cousins to a washroom so that she can clean herself.”

He stared at you, and all of the harshness in his mismatched eyes evaporated, and his gaze softened as he held his hand towards you. You accepted his hand, and he helped you get up. You followed the steward out of the hall with your cousins by your side and eyes staring at you, but you only hoped that the Prince still had his on you.

...

Baelor let out a tired sigh as he walked to the washroom.

The feast has gone well if you ignore the cake accident.

If Baelor had a motive, he would ban Ser Helios from the keep. He can still feel the way her shoulder tensed under his hand when that man laughed cruelly at her, and the sound of her sob echoed in his ear. He’ll make sure the lady and her cousins are settled comfortably and under his care for the remainder of the festival.

He stands in front of the door but stops the guard from announcing his presence. He listened in to the conversation. He listened to the sound of water in the basin and the two young ladies talking to each other. If his old Septa saw him now, she would pull his ear until it turned red.

“That baker is foolish!” He heard one of her cousins say. “Who puts a choking hazard on a cake? What if you had choked instead of harming your mouth?”

“Well, Prince Baelor would’ve probably saved her!" The other cousin said. “Did you see the way he ran the moment she let out that painful screech? For a moment it looked like he was flying.”

Baelor smiled softly but shyly. 

The reason why he was so quick to go to her side is because he was staring at her right until she spit out that miniature.

He didn’t mean to. His gaze just kept drifting to that table, and he couldn’t look away. She smiled beautifully, and when her gaze saddened, he just wanted to go to her and bring back that smile. When the cake was placed in front of her, his heart made a funny movement when her tongue poked out and licked the cream off the fork. Then it made another when she winced and let out a pained groan. He jumped off his chair when she leaned forward and spat out blood on the plate.

“And how would he save her? Shoving his fingers down her throat? It would’ve made it worse!”

“Probably!” She giggled. “Have you seen the size of his hands?”

Baelor unconsciously looked at his hands. They’re average for all he knows.

“They probably felt nice.” The cousin teased.

The Lady finally spoke. “By the Seven! He touched my shoulder, not my tit!”

The trio burst into laughter, and the guards at the door turned their heads away to avoid eye contact with the Prince. Baelor eavesdropped enough. With the tips of his ears red, he ordered the guard to announce his presence.

“Prince Baelor Targaryen, my ladies!” The guard announced.

The laughing stopped.

The door opens and he goes in. The three ladies go to the centre of the room and curtsy to him. The cousin, Mina, was biting her lip, trying to contain the laughter that was still stuck in her throat. The other cousin, Muriel, was looking down, begging the floor to swallow her. The Lady, the woman he came to see, was looking directly at him.

“My lady.” Baelor nodded at her. “If you need a Maester, I would be glad to send my personal maester to check on you.”

“You are too kind, my prince.” She said. “The wound has stopped bleeding, so there's no need to create such a fuss.”

"Nonsense." Baelor said quickly. He cleared his throat. “You are a guest, and your comfort is my priority.”

The Lady smiled and she wrung the handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her hands.

“If there’s anything you need… you can come to me.”

The two younger cousins share a look and have a silent conversation among themselves.

“Thank you, your grace.” She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. “Unfourtnulyey, there’s blood on the handkerchief you so kindly gave me. I’ll be sure it’s thoroughly cleaned before returning it to you.”

“Keep it.” Baelor said softly. “Will I still be seeing you at the feast again?”

The Lady smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my prince. I feel I had my fill of them.”

Baelor buried his disappointment. He understood why. There were a few Lords and Ladies whispering about the baker’s words and how the Gods make funny jests once in a while. He’s not much of a believer like his namesake, but he does wonder if the Maiden has plans for the Lady in front of him. Perhaps it’s just a silly superstition.

...

You stay up at night and stare at the handkerchief Prince Baelor gave to you. The bloodstains have faded thanks to the hard work of the laundress. Part of you, for an unknown reason, felt disappointed you couldn't smell that faint scent of musk and parchment.

You can still remember the way he looked at you. You wonder if he knows your story. If he did, you’ll never forget the way his gaze held no judgement whatsoever and looked like a true person.

The Prince told you to keep it, but as you traced the stitches that formed the dragon sigil, you decided you wanted to do more. At the first sign of light, you sat on the chair near the window and started to embroider. By noon you were done.

You walked through the halls searching for the familiar form of the Lord Hand. You found him in the gardens with his oldest son, Valarr. You smiled but you stopped yourself. Doubt starts to settle in like an uninvited guest.

Would he even accept your gift? He was just being kind to you, nothing else.

You look at the handkerchief in your hand. It’s not perfect now that you take a closer look at it when the sun is at its peak. You did it in such a hurry. The dragon you stitched was a bit crooked; the heads were different sizes, and it looked more like a gecko than a powerful dragon.

You bit your lips as anxiety flooded you. You should leave. You lift your head and your heart skips a beat when you see Prince Baelor staring at you. It starts to beat faster when he says something to Valarr and walks towards you.

You bow when he reaches you.

“My lady, is there anything I can help you with?" He asks gently.

You clear your throat. “I wished to thank you once more for the other day.”

He smiled. “As I told you before, your comfort is my priority."

“Even so, I wish to express my gratitude even more.” You presented him the handkerchief.

Prince Baelor barely looks at it and grabs your hand carefully. Your body shivers with the contact. “My lady, I told you there’s no need to return it…”

“I made it!” You stop him, and you curse yourself for speaking that way with him.

He blinked and looked at the hand holding yours, now noticing how different the piece of fabric on your hand is compared to the one he gave you. He grabs it and holds it carefully. His mismatched eyes analyse the stitches in front of him. 

He looks up at you, and his gaze looks different. Relaxed, you could say. “Thank you, my lady.”

“It’s not perfect…” You try to say it.

“It does not matter.” He says softly. “And it being made by your bare hands makes it even more… special.”

You smiled shyly. “The dragon looks like an angry gecko.”

Prince Baelor laughed. “It does look a bit like one. Thank you, once again, my lady.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome, my prince.”

You bowed one more time and left.

Your whole body felt tingly.

...

She made it for him.

She created something with her own hands just for him. Not because she wanted favour with him but because she wanted to thank him and nothing else. Something inside Baelor warmed up.

He carefully traced the stitches. It was not perfect, but he did not care. This was his.

Baelor was so focused on the cloth that he did not hear Valarr call for him until he stood right next to him.

Baelor blinked and looked at his son. “Yes, son?”

“Are you alright?” His son asks.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been calling for you for quite some time and you didn’t answer.”

"Apologies, I was..." He tried to find the words.

“Is that the lady you mentioned the other day at supper? The one whose tooth broke was almost broken by the maiden.”

“Yes, it was her.” He confirmed. “She just wished to thank me one more time.”

“She’s also the one whose marriage got…”

“Let us not speak of someone who is not here to speak for themselves, Valarr.” Baelor snapped, feeling the urge of protecting her even though he knows Valarr wouldn't say anything inflammatory towards her.

Valarr raised a brow but nodded his head. “Of course, father.”

They started walking.

“I do wish to add one thing.” Valarr said after a while. “Her ‘husband’ is quite a pathetic man if you ask me.”

Baelor remained silent for a moment.

You were no stranger to the desires of men. Dorne was not so prudish with its values and thoughts on sex. The difference between home and here was clear, however. In Dorne, sex was an exchange of pleasure and consent. Here the lords seemed to think they were entitled to your time and body. You had expected the leering looks-men were still men regardless of their nobility. It was the wandering hands that you took offence to. Back home, if a man touched you without your permission and consent, the only kiss he’d experience would be the kiss of your knuckles against their jaw. Your father and brothers had shown you how to defend yourself, to ensure you weren’t helpless. However, the rest of the kingdom frowned on such actions, considering them feral and ‘unbecoming of a lady.’ So for the sake of your family, you became an expert in dancing away from the unwanted touches while placating the egos of men old enough to be your grandsire. Still, there was only so much you could tolerate. 

The cool air was welcome after escaping the grasp of one of the princes. Dareon? Aelor? Aerion? You didn’t remember their name, but they were silver-haired and violet-eyed, with the ego that only a Targaryen prince could boast. The night was still young as you stepped out into the gardens. They were so different from the ones back home, but lovely in their own right. Paper lanterns decorated with the red and black of the Targaryens and crests of Prince Valarr’s Tyroshi bride swayed in the light spring breeze. 

The Young Prince seemed a good man, inheriting his father’s sense of honor and duty. You had met the crown prince only briefly upon your initial arrival to King’s Landing and the following feast welcoming Princess Daenerys back to the keep. He was different from what you had expected, clearly favoring his mother’s coloring instead of the standard Targaryen palette. He welcomed the whole of the Dornish contingent, recounting stories of trips in his youth to his mother’s homeland. He commanded a room without needing to raise his voice, not through fear and abuse of power, but through a genuine respect from those around him. Your father and uncles had served under him during the Blackfyre rebellion and spoke endlessly of Prince Baelor’s valor and honor. As a young girl, you used to tease your father about how he sung the prince’s praise, but having met the man in person, you now understood why everyone held him in such high regard. 

You walked aimlessly amongst the fragrant blooms until a soft breeze brought the familiar scent of blood lilies. The scent was a surprise to you and drew you deeper into the gardens. The flower was your favorite, native only to Dorne, growing along the banks of the Greenblood and introduced to the Water Gardens. You followed the floral scent to the center of the garden where several large pots held the flowers. Dipping your head, you inhaled deeply, the scent filling you with nostalgia. Memories of summer heat on your skin and playing in the pools of the Water Gardens, playful flirtations and first kisses that tasted of sour wine. Everything that reminded you of home. 

Lost in memories, you almost missed the sound of footsteps approaching. You straightened slowly, the polite mask you wore here at the keep slipping back into place. You didn’t turn as the stranger stepped up beside you, focusing on the deep red flowers in front of you. From what you could tell of the man from your peripheral, he was older, closer in age to your father than yourself, dressed in orange and black. You were saved from striking up polite conversation when he spoke first. 

“You left the feast early. You should be careful. Iit’s dangerous to wander off at night. Especially as an unaccompanied lady.” The words were spoken softly, but a prickle of fear ran up your spine. You were well aware that you were a woman alone in the garden with a man you didn’t know, who had apparently been watching you enough to notice you slip from the feast. You don’t know what you had done to deserve the attention, but you weren’t thankful for it.  

You slowly made your way around pots of flowers, your fingers tracing over the petals as you put space between you and the man. You glanced at him as furtively as you could, trying to place him or his house. His doublet held a pin representing three black castles on an orange crest, and you cursed yourself for not paying more attention to your lessons on the noble houses of the realm. You knew he wasn’t from Dorne, nor was he from one of the great houses, but you couldn’t place him. Still, you fixed a polite smile on your face despite the chill this man instilled in you. 

“I came to admire the gardens. I hadn’t expected to find blood lilies here, so far from home.” It wasn’t a lie, but you felt no need to tell him that you had come to escape the overwhelming company that the ball entailed.

“King Dareon had them brought over from Dorne soon after his wedding. To please his lady wife.” The man’s voice was hard as flint but with a sarcastic lilt at the end that stripped any warmth from his tone. Just as you had, he brushed his fingers over the blood red petals of the flower before plucking them off one by one and letting them flutter to the ground. 

Before you could do more than make a noise of surprised protest, he continued, “Originally he tried planting them in the garden, but the buds withered and died before they could even bloom. Twice more he tried but, to no surprise, they didn’t take. His Grace had to bring in dirt all the way from the barbaric wastes just so his bride could have her flowers.”

While his words themselves were polite, his tone, the way he practically spit out “his grace” made clear his true feelings. You glanced again at the man’s pin, something tickling the back of your mind. Your father once mentioned something about a Marcher lord who lost his castles after the rebellion for siding with the Black Dragon, yet still his house escaped you.

You could feel his eyes on you, his stare burning holes through you, so you met his gaze head on. You refused to cower under his flinty stare. Dorne did not bend or break.  “The king is a good man, to go to all that trouble just to bring a piece of home here for his bride.” Your voice remained quiet but strong. 

“The king should have learned that Dornish trash can not bloom in civilized society.” No longer did the lord hide behind false niceties, speaking his true apparent feelings. 

With broad steps, the lord followed your path around the flower pots, crowding into your space. Despite his obvious distaste for your home, his hand came up to brush along your shoulders. 

For the first time, you cursed the Dornish cut of your dress and how it bared so much skin. You tried to shy away from his proprietary touch as he pushed the dress from your shoulder, but his hand shot out to grab your wrist before traveling up to cup your neck. He was close enough now that you could smell the wine on his breath and, despite the low light, you could see how lust glazed his eyes. 

You shoved at his chest, but he was strong and held you tight, the hand at your neck moving up to grip your hair at the root. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve played quite the polite lady, so far. One could almost believe you were one.”

“Let go of me!” You cried out, louder than you intended, as you fought against his hold. You pounded against his chest, but he simply took the blows as if they didn’t faze him. You clawed at his face, but he easily captured your hands in one of his, all your father’s self defense training rendered useless in this moment of need. 

“Why so shy now? I’ve never fucked a Dornish whore, but maybe I can find out why the king is so enraptured. Why he was so willing to give space at court for a people that refused to bend the knee until their ‘prince’ could stick his cock in Daeron’s sweet sister.”

You were about to call out for help when suddenly you were free from the lord’s grasp and sent stumbling back into the flower pots. You and one of the pots went down-you heard it shatter just before your hand came down on a shard of ceramic. You hissed out as the ceramic bit into your hand, blood welling from the wound and running down your wrist to fall to the ground just like the flower petal did moments ago. A shadow fell over you, and instinctively you shrank back, expecting the inebriated lord, Instead found yourself looking into the mismatched gaze of Prince Baelor. 

You were unsure where he had come from, but you couldn’t be more happy to see the prince. “My lady, are you alright?” His voice was measured and kind as he knelt down to be at your level, but you could see the worry in his eyes. 

You gave a slightly shaky nod, your eyes darting over the prince’s shoulder to where the lord who had menaced you was pacing back and forth, partially obscured by the two Kingsguard who stood between the prince and him. He caught your gaze and you held it even as fear and adrenaline had your heart beating a mile a minute. Had the prince and his guard not shown up, who knows what would have happened. You didn’t want to think of what that outcome could have been. 

Gentle fingers touched your chin, bringing your attention back to the prince, who looked at you with a kind smile. “Don’t worry about him. Are you hurt?” 

His gaze washed over you, and before you could try to claim you were okay, he was taking your injured hand in his own. Small pieces of painted ceramic remained in the cut from your fall and dirt had mixed with the blood, causing the wound to sting. Baelor’s thumb traced along the cut, not touching it directly but ghosting alongside it as he examined the injury. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it loosely around your hand. You hissed slightly at the pressure and he gave you a sympathetic smile as his thumb brushed back and forth over the pulse beating wildly beneath the thin skin of your wrist. 

His eyes. Seven above, his eyes were distracting, both deep blue and warm brown. So different than any of the other Targaryens you had met. You recalled the violet eyes of the prince you danced with and found you much preferred Baelor’s mismatched stare. It both humanized him and gave him an otherworldly look. You understood now the presence people referred to when they spoke of the Targareyns. This was the blood of the dragon in human form.

You could feel his eyes on you as he looked over the way your dress hung from your shoulder and how the hair was pulled free from the intricate braids your maids had twisted them into. You watched as he glanced back at the lord and you saw the minute changes that turned Prince Baelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, into Baelor Breakspear, The Hammer of the Redgrass Fields. For a moment, you were sure violence was going to break out, based on the way the Prince’s face went dark, A blink of a moment later, his attention was back on you. 

“My lady, let me help you back to your chamber." Baelor gently helped you to your feet, making sure you were stable before he unclasped his cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders. The cloak was still warm from his body and enveloped you in his scent. You glanced at the other lord but Baelor stepped into your view, blocking your way as his hand came to rest on your lower back. 

He looked over his shoulder at the Kingsguard, gesturing to the lord. “Ser Donnel, ensure Lord Peake gets back to his quarters. He will be leaving on the morn. Ser Roland, please fetch Maester Lewyll to the lady’s quarters.” He didn’t wait for the Kingsguard’s response before leading you back through the garden. 

Once removed from the situation the adrenaline started to abate, and you could feel yourself shaking in a way that had to do nothing with the cool night breeze sweeping through the garden. You were acutely aware of what had almost happened. Dorne was more relaxed when it came to sex, but a woman violated? It was still a shame on your person, on your name, on your house. It was still unfortunately common that violated women were forced to be married off, either to their abuser or whoever would be desperate enough to take “ruined” stock. You were moments from a future you couldn’t even truly imagine. 

You hadn’t realized you had come to a stop in the middle of the corridor until Baelor was in front of you once more. Again his fingers found your chin to tilt your eyes up to his. “My lady, are you sure he didn’t hurt you? You do not need to fear his reprisal. He will not be permitted near you again.” There was no judgement in his voice, just concern and a flicker of steel in his gaze as he glanced over your shoulder back the way you came. 

“He didn’t. Nothing lasting, that is. You don’t need to escort me back, I assure you I’ll be fine. I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening, Your Grace. ” You honestly felt embarrassed about the whole thing now. You should have known better. You shouldn’t have let yourself get caught in that situation. You should have done more to get away. 

Your guilt spiral was halted as the prince said your name. The shock of it made your mind go quiet because up until now you hadn’t realized he knew it. He continued as if you weren’t staring up at him in mild shock, leading you along again back towards your quarters with his hand a solid pressure at your lower back. “You didn’t do anything wrong, my dear. He was watching you all evening, trailing you like a hunter tracking his prey. From the moment you entered, he had his eyes on you. When you left after your dance with Aerion, he stalked after you. He assaulted you. It is he who is in the wrong.”

You blinked up at the prince in surprise, a slight blush darkening your complexion. You hadn't realized the prince had been paying such close attention. “You were watching me?”

It must have been a trick of the candle light as you walked through the halls of the keep, because you swore you saw the prince’s own cheeks darken. “You are a ward of my aunt,” he said, as if that explained everything. 

The ward of the Princess of Dorne, who was also the sister of the king? It would look bad on both Dorne and the king if something was to happen to them under the king’s watch. It would have made perfect sense, had it been true.You were loyal to Princess Daenerys and thankful for her invitation, but you were not her ward. The events of the night either made you bold or you had lost common sense, for you raised an eyebrow in disbelief at the prince. You were not buying his explanation. 

Baelor gave an almost sheepish smile. “My aunt did ask for me to keep an eye on her ladies. While anti-Dornish sentiment has lessened some after their assistance in the rebellion, she wanted to ensure the safety of her companions. She was worried some Marcher lord would try to take advantage of the situation. The princess is clearly a wise and insightful woman. At her insistence, we’ve had city guards and knights loyal to the crown keeping watch on your and your companions.” 

You wanted to inquire on how you, the daughter of a minor lord, had earned the attention of the crown prince and his two Kingsguard, but you had reached the door of your chambers. Baelor opened the door for you but stopped you from entering with a hand to your shoulder. He peered inside as if he expected Lord Peake or some other disgruntled Reach or Stormlander to be hiding inside, and after the recent events, you were inclined in favor of his paranoia. Only after Baelor was seemingly pleased with the safety of the room did he allow you to enter.

You hadn’t realized how tense you still were until you were in your own quarters and could remove the mask of false cheerfulness you were forced to wear here at court. You moved to the pitcher of wine on the small table in the room. You didn’t really care for the overly sweet wine they tended to prefer here in King’s Landing, but if ever you needed a drink, it was now. Without thinking, you picked up the pitcher, only to let it fall to the ground with curse as you used your injured hand. 

The clang of metal on stone echoed loud in the chambers, and all you could do was stare at the red liquid as it spilt out onto the floor, soaking your slippered feet. Your hand throbbed with pain. Freshly aggravated, it started to bleed once more. You watched as the blood soaked through the fine white linen of Baelor’s handkerchief and the only thought in your mind was how you were ruining everything you touched tonight. 

You didn’t even realize you were crying until a hand was at your cheek brushing tears away. After everything that had transpired tonight, you couldn’t help the way you jumped at the sudden contact, nearly slipping due to the spilt wine. Before you could hit the ground and embarrass yourself further, Baelor had caught you and, for the second time tonight, you found yourself in his arms. Looking up at him, you once again found yourself gazing into Baelor’s striking eyes. You expected to see pity in his gaze, for you were feeling pretty pitiful at this point, but he only looked at you with kindness. 

He helped you regain your balance but didn’t immediately pull away, one hand lingering at your waist as if he was worried you would go crashing to the floor if he wasn’t there. With his other hand, he brushed the remaining tears from your cheeks. “My lady, please do not cry. Tell me how I can help you.” His voice was impossibly soft, and he kept his thumb brushing back and forth over the apple of your cheek. 

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. You don’t need to wait here with me. I appreciate everything you have done for me, but I have ruined your night enough. I’m sure the maester will be here soon. I will be fine.” You tried to instill the same confidence in your voice you had when you spoke to Lord Peake, but the events of the night had left you in shambles and your voice just came out flat. 

Baelor frowned at that, his head tipped to the side. “What do you believe you have ruined?” 

A headache was starting to form at the base of your skull from the stress of the evening. “Your Grace, it’s kind of you to pretend otherwise, but we both know this mess is my fault.” 

“What is your fault?”

With a sigh, you moved to a nearby chair, unsurprised at this point when Baelor followed with a hand to your back, and sunk into it. Looking up at the prince, you could see this wasn’t something he was willing to budge on. “I ruined your night. It's your son’s engagement feast.” 

Baelor picked up the dropped pitcher and returned it to its place, his back facing you. “As far as I’m aware, the feast is still going on with none the wiser as to what took place in the gardens,” he voiced over his shoulder. 

“I’m sure your son would want you at his side,” you countered, admiring how the candlelight flickered over the salt and pepper hair. The prince may not have the traditional Targaryen looks, but he was still a very handsome man

Baelor poured you a cup of water from a second pitcher, responding as he sat the cup in front of you. “Valarr has barely strayed from Kiera’s side since her arrival. I doubt he has even noticed my absence.” 

“Even if that’s true, I went into the garden alone. It was foolish of me. I should have known better.” You gave voice to the thoughts that had been clanging around your head. 

Baelor settled into the chair opposite of you, taking your injured hand in his and unwrapping it to inspect the wound. “You are a guest of the king. You should be able to walk around without fear of being assaulted.” 

You sipped the water Baelor had poured you as he examined your hand, hoping he didn’t notice the way your pulse raced under his touch. If his goal was to distract you, he was doing a good job, because as he once again ghosted along the cut on your palm, all you think of was how his fingers would feel elsewhere. You had always known the prince was handsome, even before you met him. Your mother had told you that when it was announced that Baelor would marry Lady Jena Dondarrion, the women of the seven kingdoms wept at the loss. Age had only improved upon his already good looks, and being this close to him had you feeling like you did right before your first kiss. Giddy, nervous, and with butterflies the size of birds in your stomach.   As if sensing your thoughts, the prince’s eyes met yours, and you could feel your cheeks darken under his gaze. 

A knock at the door broke the moment, startling you, and you realized you had been leaning in closer to the prince. Embarrassed and hoping he couldn’t tell, you sat back quickly, glancing at the door. Ser Roland stood just inside the door with the Grand Maester, who was looking between you and the prince with a raised eyebrow. “You sent for me, Your Grace?”

Baelor stood and gestured to you. “The lady suffered a cut.” 

The maester’s eyes flicked to you and then back to Baelor as if waiting for more and you became acutely aware of the fact that the Prince had called in the Grand Maester for a cut to your hand. The Grand Maester who sat on the small council with him and helped guide the realm was here because you cut your hand. If it hadn’t been such an emotionally charged night you would have laughed at the absurdity, instead you just gave a tired smile.

“I’m sorry to be such a bother Grand Maester.”

Maester Lewyll glanced at Baelor once more, but when the prince said nothing further and just nodded at you, he took the spot that Baelor had vacated. You offered your hand, jumping slightly as the maester took it in his much cooler one. With slow precision, he picked out painted shards of terracotta from the wound with tweezers and let them plink to the table.

“I will have to apologize to the queen for the destruction of one of her arrangements,” you muttered, half to yourself. It wasn’t a task you were looking forward to having to explain.

“The gardeners will have it fixed by morning,” Baelor replied with certainty from where he stood over the maester’s shoulder, watching him clean the wound.

“Lord Peake-” you started out but froze when Baelor’s head shot up, his eyes full of fire at the mention of the man who harassed you. When Maester Lewyll paused and looked up at you with a searching glance, you cleared your throat and motioned for him to keep going. Turning your attention back to Baelor, you continued. “The man in the garden said that the king had to bring in soil from Dorne for them. That they withered without it.”

From the door, Ser Roland chuckled, and Baelor cracked an amused smile. “Yes, that is the story.” At your confused look, he continued. “My grandsire was not overly fond of my parents' union, to say the least. He hated my mother for being Dornish, but they were wed during the reign of my namesake, who was determined to bring peace between us and Dorne. So when my father insisted they bring in flowers from my mother’s homeland, King Baelor had it done.”

You hissed as Maester Lewyll stitched your hand and Baelor’s eyes shot to the maester, who was either used to such looks or was doing a damned good job at ignoring the death glare he was receiving.  

“Shouldn’t she receive something for the pain?” Baelor inquired with more bite in his voice than the poor maester deserved, but you waved him off. 

“I’m fine, Your Grace. It just caught me off guard,” you replied honestly. You had been so caught up in Baelor’s story that you hadn’t noticed the maester had finished cleaning the cut. Not that you were going to say that much. You gave a nod to the maester to continue before speaking again, “What happened next?”

Baelor eyed you as if looking for any discomfort before continuing. “The flowers died and my mother claimed that they would only thrive in Dornish soil. My grandsire said it was proof that Dorne should be stomped under the claw of the dragon that was the Targaryen might. King Baelor disagreed. He had the soil brought up, escorted by the Dragonknight himself. When grown in the Greenblood's soil, the flowers blossomed and bloomed, and King Baelor declared it as proof that the Seven themselves blessed my parents' marriage, and that the Targaryens would grow stronger with the strength of Dorne to support them.” 

Bealor’s gaze focused solely on you as he spoke, as if trying to convey something unsaid but important. Yet, under his intense attention, all you could do was pray that he mistook the flush on your face as a reaction to your injury. 

Maester Lewyll tied off the last stitch with efficient fingers, wrapping your hand and instructing you to keep it clean and dry, and impressing on you to reach out if you noticed any sign of infection or worsening pain. At your thanks and assurance, the maester took his leave, but not before casting a lingering look at Baelor that the prince met with his own steadfast stare. 

You looked over the gauze that was weaved between your fingers, down the palm of your hand, and ended just below your wrist. It certainly wasn’t the most sightly accessory, but you took small pleasure that the injury meant you had an excuse to avoid dancing with the lecherous lords who had set their eyes on you of late. After tonight, you were in no hurry to let any man get close. 

Baelor glanced over at the door where Ser Roland still stood, ever the watchful guard, and occurred to you how this could look, the two of you alone here in your quarters. With his Kingsguard in place, Baelor ensured your honor remained unsullied, even from a prince of the realm who no one would question.

“Does it hurt still?” Baelor’s soft voice interrupted your introspection and you found yourself correcting your previous thoughts. There was one man you were willing to let get close. 

“It is nothing, Your Grace. I’m thankful for Maester Lewyll’s excellent care. Though I do believe I will be sitting out the dances until this heals,” you joked, giving him a small smile. A true one, not the one you perfected for court. 

Baelor took your wrapped hand in his, holding it gently in his own, positioning it as if you were to dance. His touch was gentle, holding your hand without putting any pressure on the wound itself. “You simply need to find the correct partner, my lady.”

You ducked your head to hide your blush, choosing to change the subject. “You didn’t explain what you meant earlier about the flowers. You said King Baelor had the flowers and the soil brought in and declared it meant peace with Dorne. Yet you claim the gardeners could fix the broken one by morning. How so?”

Baelor kept hold of your hand as he spoke. “When the flowers died after being planted here and my mother said they had to be planted in Dornish soil, no one questioned it. What they didn’t know was that she and my father had been watering the flowers with boiling water and vinegar. It scalded the plants and they withered.”

You stared at Baelor in shock for a moment as you processed what he said. “Wait…why?” you questioned, trying to picture what would drive the good king to do such a thing. You had no skill with tending to plants, but even you knew the king’s actions would kill the flowers. 

Baelor chuckled, a warm sound you wanted to hear more often. “Because he knew how much his father hated Dorne, and he knew King Baelor would follow through with the request. It drove my grandsire mad when the flowers bloomed and Baelor and the Sept rejoiced. When he became king, he wanted to destroy them, but the High Septon and small council convinced him that to do so would bring more trouble than it was worth. So they stayed, and every time he saw them, he seethed.”

A laugh bubbled free as you listened. You knew that King Daeron’s relationship with his late father was strained at best and the former king had used every opportunity to take shots at him. You hadn’t known that King Daeron had fought back. 

“So the flowers don’t need to be Dornish soil? You can just replant them?” 

“We can, and we have before.” At your surprised look, Baelor continued, “You are not the first person to take a tumble in the garden. My parents raised four boys, three of us with children of our own. At some point all of those pots have been broken and replaced.” 

“How does no one know this?” you asked incredulously. Gossip spread like wildfire in the Red Keep, and yet Peak hadn’t known or deliberately lied to you. 

“Only the royal family, a few members of the Kingsguard, and chief gardener know.” Baelor hesitated before continuing somewhat sheepishly. “And now you.” 

You glanced away to hide the smile that was threatening to break free at his admission, pleased that he trusted you with this secret. Your gaze landed on your injured hand, which Baelor still held within his own hands, and you wondered if he realized he still held it. You didn’t know what you had done to earn such interest from him, but you weren’t complaining. Still, you knew it couldn’t last. 

You went to ask him again why he was so attentive to you, what you had done to earn this level of trust, but when you opened your mouth, what came out was a yawn. Your face flamed red as you reached a previously unheard of level of embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. It’s been a long night and-” 

Baelor waved off your rushed apology with a smile. “Do not apologize. It has been a long night and I have kept you from your rest.” 

You tried to protest, but Baelor just shook his head. Using his gentle hold on your hand, he pulled you to your feet and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand before letting go. The brush of his lips to your skin stole any thoughts from your head, which thankfully he seemed to take as exhaustion on your part. 

Baelor gave you a small smile, taking your silence as his cue to leave. “I will let you get your rest. Sleep well, my lady.” 

You watched as he left, your hand still tingling from where his lips had touched it. You ended up hugging yourself to keep from doing anything stupid, something stupid like reaching out and asking the crown prince to stay and take you to bed. When your fingers closed around soft velvet, you realized that you were still wearing the cloak Baelor had wrapped around you in the gardens. 

“Wait!” you called out, rushing out to the hall, “Your Grace!" Your voice carried through the hall, but thankfully it was empty, besides Baelor and Ser Roland. You skidded to a halt in front of him, closer to him than you intended. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him and could smell the scent of his cologne with each breath. Clearing your throat, you explained, “You forgot your cloak.”

Your fingers fumbled to unfasten it so you could give it back to him, but he stilled your hands, his fingers brushing against your throat and sending shivers down your spine. His hand rested at your throat, thumb brushing over the pounding pulse, as he looked down at you. 

“Keep it,” Baelor insisted, his voice soft. There was a moment where he seemed to hesitate before he leaned in, breaching the short distance between the two of you. You went stock still as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, whispering in your ear as he pulled away, “Targaryen colors look good on you.”

At your shocked silence, he withdrew, and immediately you missed the warmth of him. He gave you a final smile and nod. “Good night” 

You stopped and listened, the sound came again, so full of pain and angry despair that it made you flinch. 

For a moment, you considered turning around and running. You didn’t. You couldn’t. 

Your mind screamed at you in agony, calling you a fool, that whatever had happened here had nothing to do with you, that the only sensible thing to do was to vanish before anything worse happened.  

You had never been good at sensible. 

You stepped from the path and pushed through the undergrowth. The forest slowly darkened around you as the last remnants of daylight vanished behind thick clouds, but the direction you had chosen was right – the groaning grew louder.

A shape emerged between the trees.

A horse.

Dead.

Saddle half-torn loose, some pieces of armor scattered just next to it and several paces farther on – a man, sprawled against the roots of an ancient oak, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, face streaked with mud.

Your breath caught.

Not a bandit.

A knight, or rather what remained of one.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Men in armor brought trouble. Noblemen brought even more. 

For all their faults, thieves and bandits understood the sacred rule: do not bite the hand that heals you. They knew what it was to go hungry, to bleed, to depend on the mercy of another. Noblemen rarely did.

They moved through the world as though it had been laid at their feet for their use alone. Gratitude flowed upward, never down. Kindness was expected, service demanded, and debts forgotten even before blood had dried on a bandage.

You had learned that lesson young, and life had seen fit to repeat it often. 

Yet as you watched, the man’s head shifted weakly and you heard a strained breath escape him.

Not dead, not yet at least. You cursed at your foolishness as you moved closer.

The man's hair, damp with rain, stuck to his forehead, and even the mix of dirt and blood couldn’t completely hide the fine features of his handsome face. 

The embroidery on his green doublet, the remnants of his armour, every single thing about this man screamed he was someone important, someone dangerous and surely someone far above the concerns of a village healer living alone on the edge of nowhere.

You leaned in and put your palm on his forehead. Burning hot. 

His eyes opened. Blue of the morning sky and still sharp despite the pain. A shaky hand reached for you.

"Water," he rasped before his eyes rolled back, and his body slumped back against the tree.

You stared at him, at the blood seeping through his doublet, at the straight line of his nose, the sharp eyebrows.

The sensible choice would have been to leave him. 

Instead, with a muttered curse and a prayer to every god willing to listen, you set down your basket and knelt beside the unconscious stranger.

You fetched the flask hanging from your waistband and slid one hand behind his neck.

"Easy."

His head lolled heavily against your palm and his eyes opened again, unfocused and glassy with pain.

You tipped the flask carefully.

He swallowed once, coughed, then drank again, greedily.

"Not too much," you warned, pulling it away.

His brow furrowed, whether at your words or simply from the effort of staying conscious, you couldn't tell.

For a long moment he simply stared at you. He looked confused, trying to place where he was, who you were, perhaps even remember his own name.

You set the flask aside and turned your attention to the armor.

The breastplate was dented along one side and mud had worked itself into every buckle and strap. You had to get it off but it was clear it was not going to be an easy task. 

"What are you doing?" he managed as you started to pull at the straps.

"Saving your life."

Your fingers worked at the leather fastenings, the knight frowned and his hand moved weakly toward yours.

You slapped it away.

"Stop that."

A surprised blink and then, despite the blood loss and obvious pain, something almost resembling offense crossed his face.

"I can't carry you," you said with a slight scoff. "And you can't walk carrying half a forge on your shoulders."

The final buckle came loose, the breastplate shifted and he groaned in pain as you moved his body to ease it away from him. 

You kept going – the pauldrons, the vambraces, all went off. He didn’t protest anymore, and piece by piece, all the steel fell away.

You looked at the man revealed beneath it – wiry but well built, pale and far younger than he had first appeared.

The doublet was stained dark with blood. The wound would need cleaning, stitching, perhaps, but none of that could happen in the middle of the forest.

"We need to move."

His eyes closed briefly and when they opened again, they were sharper and more aware.

"I can’t."

"You want to live, you will."

The look he gave you suggested he was unused to being argued with.

You rose to your feet and dusted off your skirts, his gaze followed you.

You offered your hand and after a moment's hesitation, he took it.

You braced your feet.

"Ready?"

"No."

"Good."

You pulled, he cried out as he put all his remaining strength in holding on to you and pushing himself upright. For a second his knees buckled and you already thought he would fall back on the ground, but somehow he managed to keep standing. 

"Seven, help me," he muttered through clenched teeth.

You quickly stepped closer, draped his good arm over your shoulders and wrapped your own around his waist.

The weight that settled against you was considerable. 

"Gods," you breathed, looking with remorse at your basket on the ground. There was no way you could lean down to fetch it without letting the man drop back into the mud. 

The two of you stood there for a moment, swaying slightly.

“Move,” you ordered. 

There was a pause but then he shifted his weight forward.

One step. It was shaky and painful, the movement drew a sharp hiss from him but it was a step.

"Good boy," you gave him an encouraging smile. 

His jaw clenched but another step followed.

Consciousness returned slowly and in fragments.

First was the feeling of warmth, then the sound of crackling fire, next came the scent of dried herbs.

Pain. A dull, throbbing ache spread through his ribs, shoulder, and side. 

Gwayne frowned, his eyelids felt heavy but he forced them open.

A low wooden ceiling, smoke-darkened beams, a small window.

Memories run scattered through his still somewhat foggy brain. 

The battle. The screams. The pain. 

The fire. The rain. The forest. 

A woman.

Beautiful, large eyes looking at him with open annoyance.

He was alive.

The realization came with a fresh pulse of pain and a ragged gasp.

The door opened and you stepped inside carrying a wooden bowl filled with steaming water.

"Look who's decided to rejoin the living," you smiled seeing the young man awake and set the bowl down.

The blanket shifted as he moved, attempting to sit up, and he instantly froze and looked down, realising there was nothing between him and the blanket. Completely, absolutely nothing.  

His eyes widened.

"What in the..." his voice sounded hoarse but it still was pleasantly soft.  

He looked pointedly at the blanket, then back at you.

You blinked.

"What happened to my clothes?" The accusation in his voice was hard to miss.

You folded your arms.

"They're drying."

A beat of  silence passed.

Gwayne's face grew steadily warmer as the implications arranged themselves in his mind and the speed with which the young man’s cheeks all over to his ears turned brightly red made you chuckle. 

"You removed them."

"You were unconscious."

"You removed all of them."

You stared.

He stared back.

Finally you let out a long, disbelieving breath. "Seven preserve me."

"What?"

"You wake up in one piece after nearly dying in the middle of nowhere and that's your first concern?"

His jaw tightened.

"You undressed me."

"I saved your life."

"You undressed me."

"I stitched your wounds!”

The man looked genuinely mortified and offended. You looked genuinely ready to throw something at him.

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again but nothing emerged. 

"Not even a thank you," your frustration spilled out before you could stop it. "Not one."

Gwayne blinked.

"I carried you out of the woods, spent half the night cleaning blood off you, used almost every bandage and pain soothing herb I had and unless you've discovered some miraculous method of treating wounds through a doublet, yes, I removed your clothes."

The room fell quiet.

Gwayne found himself staring at a knot in the wooden wall, and his ears felt suspiciously warm.

"You stitched my wounds?"

"That is generally how healing works when someone has a hole in his side."

Gwayne shut his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, the movement pulled painfully and he hissed.

The concern drove away the annoyance from your features so quickly that it caught him off guard. You immediately stepped forward.

"Don't. You'll tear the stitches."

Your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped around his torso.

"Try sitting up slowly."

Gwayne eyed you suspiciously.

"Why?"

"Because if you're going to continue being difficult, I'd at least like you to be conscious for it."

It had been on the third day that the young man finally revealed his name.

To his credit, there had been no grand announcement, no expectation that the world should stop and marvel at it.

The truth had surfaced gradually, piece by piece, through idle conversation and half-answered questions until, with visible reluctance, he admitted that he was Ser Gwayne Hightower. 

You cursed inwardly. 

A Hightower. As if sheltering a wounded knight beneath your roof was not enough trouble to tempt fate. Of course he had to be a nobleman as well. Of course he had to belong to one of the most powerful houses in the realm, a house with its hands buried up to the elbows in the bloodiest war of the century. 

Just your luck.

You dragged a half-dead stranger out of the forest and somehow ended up with a piece of the realm's troubles sleeping in your bed.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm neither of you acknowledged aloud – each morning began with fresh bandages and a new argument.

Gwayne healed quickly, much faster than you had expected. The fever broke after three days and by the end of the week, he could cross the room without needing to lean on walls or furniture. He stubbornly refused your hand whenever you offered it to him. 

He had tried to ask you questions about the course of the war. You cut him off before he could speak them out. 

"No discussions about kings, queens, claimants, dragons, battles, or whichever noble lord is currently trying to kill whichever noble lord."

A faint frown appeared between his brows.

"I merely wished to know..."

“I said, no,” you tied off the fresh bandage with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

Gwayne studied you for a moment.

"I'm too poor to have the luxury of caring who sits on the Iron Throne," you finally said and turned to face him. "When lords quarrel, villages burn. While princes decide who is entitled to crowns, common folk bury their sons. Armies take grain, horses trample fields, and healers like me spend their days stitching together whatever is left behind."

You folded your arms.

"I heal whoever comes through that door. Farmer. Merchant. Shepherd. Drunkard. When I picked you up in the woods, I didn’t ask for your title.”

Your gaze drifted briefly to the fresh bandages wrapped around his torso.

"I have no desire to be part of noble quarrels," you said at last, more quietly. "I don't want favors. I don't want rewards. I certainly don't want enemies."

A muscle shifted in Gwayne's jaw as it slowly hit him, the reason for that distinct feeling that learning his name had somehow lowered your opinion of him. 

"You think knowing my name places you in danger."

"I know it does."

The certainty in your voice surprised him.

"When you leave this place, Ser Gwayne, I sincerely hope you forget the path that brought you here."

His expression tightened.

"You saved my life."

"Exactly."

You pointed at him.

"And if, after all that, the thanks I receive is having soldiers, rivals, debt collectors, spies, or ambitious noblemen showing up at my door asking questions, then I hope every old and new god in the Seven Kingdoms curses you for the rest of your days."

For a heartbeat, Gwayne simply stared, his blue eyes met yours and something softer flickered there, something unusually sincere.

"I give you my word. No one will hear of this place from me," the solemn certainty in his voice surprised you, and for reasons you could not entirely explain, you found yourself believing him.

A week later, Gwayne Hightower discovered that recovering from a near-death injury was considerably easier than earning your approval.

Gwayne had spent most of his life knowing exactly what was expected of him.

He was a knight. A Hightower. A soldier. The son of a powerful house.

There had always been a place for him in the world, a purpose that fit as naturally as a sword hilt in his hand until he woke up in your hut and discovered that in your world he had none of all that. Even more - he was entirely useless.

The realization did not come all at once.

At first, there was the wound. No man could be expected to work while half stitched together and burning with fever but the fever broke and the strength returned.

The days passed.

You rose before dawn every morning. 

By the time he woke, water had already been fetched, the fire lit, herbs sorted, breakfast prepared.

Then the rest of the day began: children with split open knees, farmers with swollen joints, old women seeking remedies for aching backs, broken bones, cuts, fever.

You treated them all.

Then there was laundry, cooking, cleaning, mending, collecting herbs, brewing potions, the work never seemed to end, and somehow everything that needed doing simply found its way into your hands.

For the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself uncertain of where he belonged within it all. Worse still, he discovered that he wanted to belong. 

Every morning he woke to the scent of porridge or fresh bread and the soft sounds of a household already awake around him. 

It was a small life by the standards of lords and castles, a simple one, hard, undoubtedly, and demanding in ways he had never seen before, yet there was something about it that drew him in.

Perhaps it was the honesty of it, the quiet purpose woven into every task, or perhaps it was simply you.

Whatever the reason, Gwayne found himself wanting, more and more, to be a part of this strange little world fate had thrown him into.

It took him a while before he braved to offer help, but it seemed the least he could do.

A mistake.

A terrible mistake.

The first task you entrusted him with was watching the bread.

It sounded almost insultingly simple – sit by the oven, keep an eye on it, take it out when it was done.

A few distracted thoughts later, smoke began pouring from the oven and by the time he realized something was wrong and dragged the loaf out, it had transformed into a charred black brick that could scarcely be called bread anymore. 

Your face when you discovered it haunted him for days. 

The bowls proved even less cooperative. The task was to wash and dry them. 

How could anyone wash dozens of fragile things every day without breaking them?

As the third one hit the floor, Gwayne stopped and sat down with his head in his hands. 

Not that he had more luck with the wood.  You had found him standing in front of the chopping block and watching the axe stuck in the log after his first swing with absolutely no idea how to get the stubborn tool out of it. 

The truth was humiliating.

He was a knight and yet you were more capable than him in almost every practical matter that kept a household alive.

At first he found that realization uncomfortable, then impossible to stop thinking about. 

He started to watch you. Not intentionally, at least, not at first.

His gaze simply found you. Again and again. 

There was confidence in everything you did – competence earned through years of doing.

There was no one else in your life. No servants. No household staff. No family helping. Just you and yet somehow you managed it all.

And for the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself wondering if fate had dropped him into the world with nothing but his own hands, would he have managed half as well as you?

He wasn’t certain, and it made him feel both shame and admiration.  

The realization arrived gradually like the dawn creeping across a room.

No single moment or dramatic revelation, just a growing certainty.

He liked your sharp tongue, the way you refused to be intimidated by him, the way you argued with him without hesitation or the way your eyes flashed whenever he said something particularly foolish.

Gods.

Especially that.

You were infuriating and somehow he found himself looking forward to every argument.

He liked hearing your voice, just simply being near you and seeing you smile. At some point, without noticing when or how, you had become the first thing he looked for when he woke and the last thing he thought about before sleep and once he acknowledged that, the rest became impossible to deny. 

Your handsome knightly patient was getting better with every passing day and somehow it made you inexplicably sad. 

Patients came and went. Some stayed for an afternoon, some for a few days. They arrived carrying pain, fear, and uncertainty and departed as soon as their bodies allowed it.

That was how it was meant to be.

Yet lately, whenever you looked at Gwayne, you found yourself wishing his recovery would slow.

Not stop, just... slow.

The wound along his side had nearly closed, the bruising had faded. He moved easily now, no longer wincing every time he stood, soon there would be nothing left keeping him here.

The thought sat heavily in your chest whenever you allowed yourself to think about it for too long, but even if you tried not to allow it, your attention kept drifting toward him.  

The truth was, he was not at all what you had expected.

When you had learned who he was, you had imagined the worst – a proud nobleman, demanding and entitled, the sort who believed the world existed for his convenience only.

Instead, fate had delivered you a knight who burned bread, shattered bowls, and spent half an hour contemplating a log because he did not know how to chop it.

The memory still made you laugh and there was one thing you couldn’t deny – his efforts had been genuine, even after repeated failures, especially after repeated failures, he still never acted as though any task was beneath him.

Despite all his attempts to appear composed, he still blushed every time you changed his bandages.

A grown man and a knight, reduced to awkward silence and burning cheeks whenever you untied the laces of his shirt.

You glanced up from sewing the torn sleeve of his doublet.

Lost in thought Gwayne was staring into the fire again. He looked so out of place when he did that. 

He looked lonely.

You had spent most of your life alone, you were used to it, and yet for a brief, foolish moment, you found yourself imagining what would happen if he stayed.

The thought lasted all of three seconds but it was enough for you to accidentally drive the needle into your thumb.

Then common sense returned with the pain.

“Ouch,” you hissed.

He would never stay and even if he wanted to, he shouldn't. 

Gwayne belonged to castles and armies and great stone cities, to duties and responsibilities, to a world you could scarcely imagine.

You lived in a forgotten hut at the edge of a forest.

Your lives were not even supposed to touch. 

Carefully, you brushed your fingers over the healed skin on Gwayne’s side one last time.

The gash was gone, the skin had knitted together cleanly and what remained would also fade with time.

You didn’t even notice Gwayne had gone suspiciously still beneath your touch.

"Well," you leaned back. "Congratulations. You are healed."

You both glanced down at the discarded bandage in your hands.

"There is no need for another one," you said more quietly. 

You knew exactly what that meant. He could finally leave. 

You placed the bandages aside and pushed yourself off the bed as a hand closed around your wrist.

Your eyes dropped to the place where his fingers touched your skin. 

Gwayne immediately looked as though he regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.

Color flooded his face.

Gods.

You had never seen a man blush so thoroughly.

The redness reached all the way to his ears.

For a heartbeat he simply stared at your joined hands.

Then he released a breath.

Opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

You waited.

Gwayne looked like a man preparing to charge a dragon.

You blinked.

"I … I…,” he stammered. 

“What?"

A flash of horror crossed his face.

"Gwayne."

His gaze found yours again.

"Come… come with me," he finally managed.

You stared, certain you had misunderstood.

"What?"

His grip tightened slightly before immediately loosening again.

As though he feared frightening you away.

"When I leave."

The words came slowly now.

Carefully.

"I want you to come with me."

For a moment, you simply looked at him, at the handsome knight sitting on your bed with an earnest terror in his eyes.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"Gwayne."

"I know how it sounds."

"Do you?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

That, at least, was honest.

Neither of you moved but neither of you looked away.

Gwayne still held your wrist lightly. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he loosened his grip and turned your hand in his.

His gaze dropped to your fingers as he lifted your hand toward his mouth.

The touch of his lips against your knuckles was feather-light.

You could have pulled away.

You knew that.

You should have.

Instead, your hand remained where it was.

Gwayne kissed your knuckles first, one after another, slowly, eyes shut close, savouring every touch of his lips against your skin. 

When he finally looked up at you again, something had changed.

The uncertainty in his gaze remained, but now there was something else alongside it.

Wonder.

As though he could scarcely believe you were still there, that you hadn’t pulled your hand away.

Slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him, he leaned closer. 

"Gwayne..."

His gaze flickered briefly to your mouth then back to your eyes. You held your breath but didn’t move away.

Carefully, tentatively his lips brushed yours. So lightly, so briefly that at first you almost wondered whether it had happened at all, even so your heart stumbled painfully in your chest. 

Gwayne’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned in once more. His hand cupped your cheek and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers as though he could scarcely believe he was allowed to touch you.

You felt him smile faintly against your lips, a small, disbelieving thing, as if he had spent so long hoping for this moment that now he didn't quite trust it to be real.

Without thinking, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. 

It drew a soft breath from him, something between a soft moan and a whimper.

The sound sent warmth flooding through you.

Gwayne's hand, still resting against your cheek, slipped into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands before settling at the nape of your neck. The touch was careful, almost protective, yet there was nothing uncertain about it anymore.

The kiss deepened, his lips moved against yours with impossible tenderness but you could feel the quickened beat of his heart beneath your palm on his chest. 

When you finally broke apart, it was only because breathing had become necessary.

"Gods," he murmured.

"What?"

A smile appeared. It was slow but bright enough to transform his entire face.

"I was certain you were going to throw something at me."

Despite yourself, you laughed.

Gwayne drew back with the unmistakable look of a man gathering the courage to say something that mattered.

His lips parted.

You already knew what was coming.

A promise, a plan, something sensible and reassuring.

You did not want any of it. You didn’t want promises that were impossible to keep. You wanted this moment, this beautiful fleeting moment between now and then, where everything was possible and nothing was spoken out loud. 

Before he could say anything, you lifted a finger and pressed it gently against his lips.

"Hush."

He blinked.

"Don't."

There was confusion in his gaze, you ignored it.

Slowly, you guided him backward. He let you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

His gaze never left your face.

You crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. His heartbeat picked up beneath your palm. Fast. Much too fast for a knight.

You smiled.

"Don't speak," you murmured.

His throat bobbed.

"Just feel. No promises. Just this one night."

Your fingers drifted absentmindedly across taut planes of his abdomen tracing the familiar lines of the body you had spent weeks tending back to health.

Beneath your touch, every muscle seemed to go still.

You leaned in and pressed your lips to the scar on his side. Gwayne's breath caught audibly, head tipping back with a soft gasp. 

The sound emboldened you. You kissed the line of the scar again, letting your tongue trace its length. His hips twitched beneath you and a low, broken sound left his throat.

“Gods…” he breathed, fingers flexing against the sheets as if he didn’t know whether to reach for you or hold himself back.

“Schhhh, my knight,” you whispered.

You took your time exploring him with your hands and mouth, every scar, every ridge of muscle, every place your fingers had once brushed as you tended his wounds, you worshiped them now with your lips and tongue – the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, the sensitive spot just beneath his ribs that made his breath hitch sharply.

Gwayne’s head pressed back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded. You loved the soft, helpless sounds that spilled from his lips with every touch, all the quiet gasps and shaky moans. His hands finally rose to your waist, gripping lightly, reverently, as though you were something sacred he was terrified of breaking.

“Don’t…,” he managed, voice wrecked. “I… I can’t…” 

You silenced him with a deep kiss, swallowing his words as you rocked your hips slowly down against his. His fingers dug into your waist, then loosened again, trembling with the effort.

“It’s my choice,” you said firmly. “You’re mine for this one night. Unless you tell me you don’t want it.”

Gwayne swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. 

“I take it for a yes,” you smiled and started to pull your dress over your head.

You let your fingers trail the hem of his breeches. 

The moment you pulled him out, your noble knight almost stopped breathing. He was beautiful, hard and flushed, a vein running along the underside from base to the flushed tip. 

You wrapped your hand around him slowly, stroking once from base to tip with a feather-light touch and Gwayne’s chest started to rise and fell rapidly, his hands fisting the sheets. 

You stroked him a few more times, gliding your thumb over the sensitive head, drawing  beautiful broken whimpers from him. 

His hands settled lightly on your thighs, fingers trembling. He didn’t guide or rush you. He simply held on, as if touching you was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

You shifted higher on your knees, Gwayne’s gaze snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide.

“Are you sure?” he rasped. You silenced him by sinking down onto him, slowly, unhurriedly, savoring every inch. Gwayne’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands clutching at your thighs.

You stayed still for a moment, savoring the way he pulsed inside you, then you began to move. Slow rolls of your hips, rising and sinking down on him again and again. 

You loved every desperate sound your movements drew from him: the soft, needy moans, the sharp gasps and pleas he couldn’t seem to stop. 

Your proud, noble knight was completely unraveling beneath your touch. The flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut with every roll of your hips, the broken sounds he couldn’t hold back… you loved it. You loved it more than you could ever admit.

His hips started to buck up to meet you, sharp needy thrusts that almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You stemmed your feet against the bed and rode him harder, faster, grinding down, chasing your pleasure shamelessly.

Gwayne’s back arched clean off the bed with a strangled moan, one hand flying up to clutch at your waist as he kept moving against you.

“Good boy,” you moaned, leaning down and capturing his mouth in a messy kiss. 

The praise hit him like a spark to dry tinder. Gwayne whimpered into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, his tongue sliding against yours in urgent sloppy strokes. 

His fingers dug into your waist as he flipped you over like you weighed nothing. 

“Say it again,” he gasped, voice wrecked and pleading, hips slamming against yours in almost desperate rhythm. “Please…, I need to hear it.”

You moaned beneath him, nails raking down his back, as the new angle sent sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve.

“My good boy,” you breathed against his lips. “My perfect knight.”

“Fuck me harder, knight!” you moaned and a low, broken groan rumbled from Gwayne’s chest, his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering before he managed to get the hold of it and started  driving into you with deeper, more powerful thrusts. 

It didn’t take long, a broken sob of pleasure tore from you as you shattered, back arching against the bed. He kept fucking you through it, arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The tenderness never left him even as moments after he came, gasping, shuddering, groaning hoarsely against your neck.

The night passed in quiet whispers and lingering touches. Neither of you spoke much, there seemed little point.

Words belonged to tomorrow, tonight belonged only to the two of you.

Gwayne held you as though he feared the dawn, you rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

At some point during the night, when sleep still felt far away, Gwayne pressed his face into your hair.

"I never want to let you go."

The honesty of it was both beautiful and unbearable.

For a moment, you closed your eyes. Gods help you.

It would have been so easy to pretend, to let yourself believe impossible things, that the war did not exist, that he could stay or that you could follow.

Instead, you reached up and brushed your fingers through his hair.

"This was my parting gift, Gwayne."

You felt him go still and the silence that followed hurt more than any argument could have.

His arms tightened around you again.

"You could come with me."

"And go where?"

He did not reply.

You shook your head.

"You belong to your world and I belong to mine."

His breathing grew uneven, but he didn’t say anything. 

Morning arrived far too quickly, by sunrise you slipped out of bed. 

“It’s time,” you whispered. He didn’t answer.

A moment later Gwayne stood fully dressed beside the door, his sword at his hip.

The sight felt wrong.

Neither of you seemed able to find the right words, but in the end, it was you who broke the silence.

"You should go."

Gwayne looked at you, eyes moving over your face.

He took a step toward you, then stopped and nodded once. A small, broken gesture before turning and walking out the door.

You remained where you were, arms folded tightly across your chest. 

The path disappeared between the trees a short distance from the hut. 

Gwayne reached it and stopped.

Your heart betrayed you immediately.

For one terrible second, hope surged through your chest.

He turned around.

Even from there, you could see the question in his eyes.

Come with me.

Stay.

Choose differently.

Slowly, you shook your head.

No.

His eyes closed briefly, then he turned and continued down the path.

You watched until the trees swallowed him completely, only then did you allow yourself to sit down.

You did not see the tears that finally slipped down Gwayne's face once he was safely hidden by the forest.

And he never saw yours.

Years passed. The realm endured.

A fragile peace settled across the land, uncertain and imperfect, yet peace nonetheless.

Life continued.

The little hut remained where it had always been, tucked against the edge of the forest, the herb garden had grown larger, the roof needed repairing twice.

The ache had softened with time and become something quieter, a fond memory tucked carefully away, a story belonging to another life.

The afternoon sun was warm against your skin as you sat outside sorting herbs into neat bundles.

Your hands moved automatically, the work was familiar enough that your mind could drift elsewhere – toward a broad-shouldered knight with kind eyes and a talent for burning bread.

You paused, a stem of lavender still between your fingers as you couldn't shake a feeling of being watched.

Slowly, you lifted your head, the forest stood silent. Nothing there. You shook your head at your own foolishness yet looked up again. 

A movement caught your eye. A figure was standing at the edge of the woods, far enough away that another person might not have recognized him.

You did. Immediately.

Not because he looked unchanged, time had touched him, as it touched everyone, yet you would have known him anywhere.

A soft smile appeared on your lips before you could stop it. 

The figure remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, as though he needed a moment to convince himself you were real.

You’re six when you visit Tyrosh for the first time.

Your father, Lord Jason Lannister, is invited to the Archon of Tyrosh’s residence; it is not uncommon for your family to receive invites from all around the Known World, but it is rare for your father to accept them. Most of the time he either goes by himself or sends someone in his stead, but for some reason he has decided to bring you all this time. You all meaning you, your mother and your sisters, Cerelle and Tyshara. 

“I heard your father is searching for a good knight who is willing to watch over you,” your septa tells you, merely days before your departure. “That’s why the arrangements for the voyage are taking so long.”

You are not a difficult child by any means. You behave, listen to what your nurses and septa tell you, and you do everything that they ask of you. It’s just that you have… a tendency. 

Adults can be boring sometimes, and you’re always quiet, rarely interrupting their conversations. Oftentimes you find yourself involved with them simply because your father wants to show off his youngest daughter, the child who’s the perfect picture of how a Lannister should be. And oftentimes, if not always, you simply find yourself… just wandering off, once the attention isn't on you anymore.

You’re so quiet hardly anyone notices your disappearances, usually, but when someone does, it’s chaos. Your parents have a talent for always thinking about the worst scenarios possible, so, if you’re missing from a feast, then surely someone must have kidnapped you. Only for you to be found napping in the garden, curled on a bench like a cat not even ten minutes later. 

You have yet to receive any harm from this tendency of yours, and when it’s between Casterly Rock’s walls, there’s hardly any risk of harm, since it’s well guarded and there’s hardly anything dangerous in there. Tyrosh, however… 

“How many times does she have to sneak off before something bad happens?” Johanna always complains to her husband. “Yes, we are guarded, but who knows who could be hiding within these walls — there's men out there that would do anything for a single golden coin, and we surely don’t lack in that regard. When she sneaks off, nobody notices– and that’s because she’s quiet, and small, and easy to bore. But she is your daughter, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we couldn’t find her after a feast and a request for ransom is found in her stead.”

So the search for a sworn shield began. Jason is mostly looking for already experienced knights; it probably won’t be a hard job, they’ll just have to follow you around — plus, he pays good coin. If the knight really wants it, then he can surely act like a nursemaid for you. 

After good research, Ser Morren Westerling is chosen. He’s one of your mother’s distant relatives, an old man in possession of just a title, who fought in the Stepstones and has won a good amount of turneys and melees since then for your father to repute him a good enough candidate. 

Ser Morren is introduced to you the same day you're supposed to leave for Tyrosh. He's a man well in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, tanned skin and an ugly scar on his chin. He wears the newly made armour your father had commissioned for him and a red coat with silver linings, also a gift from your father. Clearly, he wants him to be recognisable. 

He looks you up and down, then looks to your father. “I assume I’ll escort your three daughters?”

Your father shakes his head and gently pushes you in front of him. “No, just her. She's my youngest and tends to wander off. Be careful to follow her and make sure she doesn't get hurt or taken.”

The knight blinks. “Ah.”

Your father raises an eyebrow, amused. “‘Tis not what you were expecting?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, it is just… I think this is the most peaceful job I have ever taken.”

The Lord shrugs his shoulders, moving a hand up to smooth his cape. “Be good at it and you'll be allowed to stay in my castle as a guard for as long as you'll like. Or, depends, for as long as my daughter likes.” he turns his attention to you, kneeling down to your level. “This is Ser Westerling. He'll accompany you during our time in Tyrosh. Be good for him.” 

He leaves you with a pinch on the nose and a kiss on the forehead, and you're now in the care of the nursemaid, Ser Westerling and under the watch of your sisters, who are more than happy to coo and play with you. They're way older than you, now almost two-and-ten each, but always ready to dress you up and make up stories for you to play with your dolls. 

The carriage ride to Lannisport is quick compared to the weeks of traveling by sea that take to get to Tyrosh; you discover that you get terribly seasick, so most of your time on the boat consists in puking in a bucket and crying while being comforted by your parents, your sisters or the nursemaid. Your mother sings to you, even if seasick herself, while your father tries to console you by telling you all the gifts he'll buy you once you reach the Free Cities, which by now to you look like a mirage. But they aren't. 

You arrive at Tyrosh at night, when you're already passed out from the nausea that's been plaguing you since the voyage started, and get welcomed by the Archon’s advisor, who shows you your chambers for your stay. 

Tyrosh is as your father promised: shiny, full of merchants with marvelous products and crystalline sea waters. By day you explore the city with the Archon as chaperone, and your father makes sure to make up for the voyage by buying you double the things he had promised to get you. But Tyrosh has a big problem.

There are people in cages. 

You don't understand why they would be there, but when your mother sees them, she makes sure to make you look the other way. That is, until you look the other way and you see something that catches your eye. 

There are two little lion cubs. They're dirty, thin and a bit mangy, surrounded by mosquitos and other bugs, sleeping but looking dead. One cry from you is all your father needs to be on high alert, immediately turning around. “What is it, love?”

You just whine, finger moving to point at the little cubs. “Daddy, I want them.”

Your father raises an eyebrow, the Archon joining you all. “What might the matter be?”

“She wants those… kittens over there,” Jason replies, wincing, clearly not too fond of flea-infested lion cubs. “I'll buy you bigger and better kept lions back at Westeros if you want them, love. Those are dirty, malnourished and probably ill.”

The Archon nods. “Those are kept for arenas. Usually they're bought with the intention of mostly starving them for games with gladiators.”

You sob. Your mother glares at your father, who raises his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine, we'll take them.” 

The cubs are a girl and a boy, so it is only fair you name them Jonquil and Florian, after the mythical lovers that Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys were once compared to. They're dirty and full of fleas, but your father has them cleaned by the staff of the palace so that their fur — the parts of it that isn't ruined, burned or fallen off — almost shines gold. 

You try to play with them in the evenings, under the watchful gaze of Ser Warren, but they don't seem to trust you. They flinch back every time you approach and barely even accept the food the servants leave for them. They wince every time a loud noise is heard and hiss when anyone tries to pick them up, baring their teeth like wild animals — which, you guess, they are. 

You start taking your meals in your chambers, only to take the beef out of your plate and bring it to the little cubs. Slowly, they start eating from the plate, soon enough from your hands — and before you even know it, they let you pet them. The boy purrs when you scratch his belly, while the girl meows happily when you caress her head and have her try on your sisters’ necklaces, which are small enough to fit on her neck. 

As they get plumper and healthier, they start following you around, hiding under your skirts and rubbing against your legs, looking for scratches and treats, climbing your gown with their little nails and meowing loudly when you don't give them what they want. Your sisters make sure to keep away from them, as they are pretty skittish and the kittens are still pretty uneasy around people other than you, and the same thing goes for your mother. The only one who actually has the courage to speak up against the cubs is your father, who gently approaches you one day about leaving them behind — either reselling them or leaving them for the Archon to deal with. 

The start of your crying is all it takes to make him relent. So, Florian and Jonquil go back to Westeros with all of you, with brand-new shiny golden collars around their necks, depicting the Lannister emblem on the medallion. 

Not even two moons later, a feast in honor of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon’s seventh nameday is held. 

You’ve never been to King’s Landing before — you’ve never really traveled that much since before this summer, actually. It’s just that you’re finally old enough for your parents to bring you along wherever they go. And, of course, wherever you go, Florian and Jonquil follow. 

They’re now four moons old — at least you think, by what the vendor had told your father — and they are growing quickly. They both still have some belly fat and are always looking for cuddles, and mainly for that, they are your best companions during the day and night. 

They sneak under the covers of your bed at night and follow you during the day; they play with you, attend lessons with you — usually sleeping or tearing down the drapes — and they even sit by your feet at the table during breakfast, lunch and supper. They have now become your favorite and most loyal companions, and the same thing can be said for Ser Warren, who never lets out so much as a cough as he silently follows you throughout the day, never complaining nor saying anything against you. So it is only fair they all follow you on the journey to the Crownlands. 

The voyage is less burdening than the one to the Free Cities, as it is completely done by carriage, and you are happy to babble all you know about the Capital to Ser Warren, who only pretends to be annoyed by it, you're sure. You repute yourself pretty good at reading people, and you just know he’s actually interested in all the facts you know. 

You are welcomed by your uncle Tyland, who’s Master of Coin in King Viserys’ Small Council. You jump into his arms before your parents can stop you, and he gleefully catches you, holding you tight. “Ooh, look at you! How you have grown, my girl!”

You giggle, hiding your face in his shoulder. “Hi, uncle Ty,”

Tywin is your father’s brother and your favorite uncle — not that you have any other than him. All their brothers died before you were born, so even if they often have some discrepancies, they hold each other deeply close to the heart. Your uncle always showers you and your sisters with gifts, cherishing the little time you spend together, as he has no kids of his own and probably never will. That being said, every occasion is the right one to dote on you three.

The days at the Red Keep are mostly spent in the gardens with Florian and Jonquil, under the watchful eyes of your mother and the other ladies of the court, occupied in gossiping and drinking tea as their husbands go on hunts and talk about politics and discuss business. Most of the ladies are with their children too, some younger, some older, all playing together — princes included. As the Queen has made it clear to your father that she doesn’t want your cubs anywhere near her, her family or her entourage, Jonquil and Florian are let out of the room specifically organised for them only for walks in the hill behind the Castle. 

Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra are never at the small parties on the same days — usually when one is present the other is absent, a thing the ladies have noticed with particular amusement, speculating about the hate going on between the two. 

You mostly keep to yourself, too shy to approach the other kids, and often tend to the flowers in the gardens, teaching Ser Westerling the meaning and provenience of each one like he’s a particularly interested botanist and not a guard tied to your side by a contract. That is, until one day you are brutally and unmannerly interrupted by the Prince himself.

Prince Jacaerys is the main reason your family is in King’s Landing, and also in line to the Iron Throne as his mother’s heir. He is rowdy and loud, like children his age tend to be, so it’s not a new thing to see him covered in mud from head to toe. He has his hands behind his back, blushing furiously under your confused gaze, as Ser Warren raises an eyebrow, glaring in an unamused way at him. The children snickering and whispering behind the Prince, combined with how red he is and the flowers the knight can see he holds behind his back, give away his intentions immediately. 

“I– I…”  the Prince stumbles upon his words, “W– would you like to be my princess in the game?” At this, he holds out the flowers he has clearly just ripped from the garden, some still with dirt and roots attached. You gasp, and being the lover of knight tales as you are, of course you accept, cheeks rosy. You take his flowers and let him drag you to the ‘fortress’ you’ll be held prisoner at — a big bench at the center of the garden — where the ‘dragons’ — meaning two boys you don’t even know the names of — try to fight off the ‘knights’ — also known as princes Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Three girls sit far across from you, huffing and puffing, probably angry that they weren’t asked to be the princess. 

You sit in your fortress-bench, counting your flowers’ petals and humming songs as the boys fight in the mud with wood swords, screaming and insulting each other. Your mother, Princess Rhaenyra and the other ladies watch from their table, chuckling between themselves — especially when it’s Lucerys who manages to get out of the scuffle first, condemning his brother to fight the other two boys alone, taking your hand in his and declaring eternal love and protection for you. 

Rhaenyra starts laughing uncontrollably, looking at your amused mother. “Looks like the children get along!” she muses. That is until Jacaerys manages to free himself from the hold of the other two kids and smacks his brother as hard as he can in the head.

“I was supposed to save her!” he screams, glaring at his brother, who smacks back. “Well, then you should have fought harder!”

You dramatically gasp, sensitive and easy to scare, and all it takes is a whimper from your mouth for Ser Warren to come to the rescue, taking you by the armpits and bringing you to your mother as you start crying while the boys continue fighting. Johanna coos and wipes your tears, chuckling a bit to herself. “My girl, there’s nothing to cry for.”

Princess Rhaenyra has gone to scold her boys, demanding an apology on your behalf; Lucerys sheepishly asks sorry, while his brother — cheeks all red — gets on his tippy toes and leaves a wet, awkward kiss on your cheek. His mother gasps. “Jacaerys!” she hisses. “That is no proper way to behave! Aren’t you ashamed?”

Your mother laughs it off, as you’re as red as a tomato, giggling to yourself and fiddling with the velvet of your gown, staring at the kid — completely enamored . “That is no problem, my Princess; she doesn't seem to be bothered by any means.”

A kiss on the cheek is all it takes for you to glue yourself to Jacaerys’ side for the days that come, clammy hands usually tied together, a smile on your face and a pout on his. The Prince is quite spoiled and grumpy, you’ve discovered in the time you spend together, but he is also pretty funny — especially when he plays pretend as King Jaehaerys and insists on you being Queen Alysanne. 

So, when one day he invites you to the training yard to see his sword skills, you can’t find it in yourself to say no — because, as your mother says, you may have a tiny, itsy bitsy crush on him. It’s probably the whole knight thing that has swooned you, because you love knights and the stories told about them. 

Ser Warren grumpily agrees to accompany you, not before openly stating his dislike for him. “I just wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up, my Lady,” he says, a bit gruff. “Boys at this age tend to be a little… inconsiderate of a lady’s feelings.” 

You don’t even seem to hear him, little feet scrambling to get a good look at the knights down in the training yard, looking for Jacaerys. There are a few other ladies on the balcony, swooning over the actual knights, giggling and blushing while whispering to each other. You take a good look at Ser Harwin, the captain of the City Watch, and even if you’re barely six summers old and definitely too young for him, you get them. Absent-mindedly, you hope that Jacaerys will look like him when he grows up. 

“So, it is true,” Ser Morren murmurs, leaning over the railing to get a better look, talking to himself — clearly not thinking you can hear him. “Good ol’ Breakbones does look like the brat. Seven Hells,”

“Ser Morren,” you tug at his cloak, “could you pick me up? I can’t see really well from here.” 

He complies, holding you steady against him but making sure you can see the training yard properly. You can see Jacaerys and Lucerys holding up wood swords against two other boys with platinum hair — the other princes, you guess — as they spar, mud coating their boots while the Lord Commander yells corrections and tips on how to perfect their stance and combat skills. 

And while Lucerys exits his battle in triumph, holding the edge of his sword to Prince Aegon’s neck while unashamedly turning to look at the ladies — his brother is not so lucky. 

Jacaerys lands in the mud on his side as his arm makes a loud crack, screaming out while Prince Aemond’s grin quickly twists into something more grim. You gasp, Ser Morren immediately ripping you away from the sight as the knights go and hover around the Prince, who’s whimpering, to examine the arm resting in an unnatural position. In the distance, as your guard drags you away, you hear someone call for a maester. 

While this situation doesn’t present any actual real danger for you, Ser Morren knows you well enough by now. You’re a sensitive girl — you once cried because you accidentally stepped on a bug — and if his instinct is right, what he fears most might come any time now–

You burst out crying. Ah, there it is. At least you’re out of earshot from the princes — he wouldn’t want them to start picking on you and calling you a crybaby. He tries to ignore your gut wrenching sobs as he focuses on just finding your mother. 

Once Lady Lannister is found — surrounded by the other ladies of the court, of course, who coo sadly at you and glare at your protector like he’s the reason you’re bawling your eyes out — she shushes you pretty easily, holding you close to her breast and patting your back soothingly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl, whatever has happened to make you so sad?” 

Not even a moment passes from when Ser Morren finishes telling her what happened to when the ladies start to gossip. “Oh, have you heard of what happened just yesterday in the Dragonpit? Prince Aemond must still hold a grudge against the princes.” 

What happened, you guess, must be one of their famous squabbles. They’re pretty common between Queen Alycent and Princess Rhaenyra’s children, you’ve found out. “That is in no way a sufficient reason to do such a thing– while Prince Aemond is one-and-ten, Prince Jacaerys is yet to turn seven summers old! It seems clear to me who’s in the wrong, don’t you think so, ladies?”

The back and forth between the gossiping courtiers goes on until your mother spots Princess Rhaenyra behind the colonnade that heads into the garden and quickly shuts her company up with a single, terrifying glare, petting your hair as you let out soft whimpers, still a bit shook from the earlier experience. 

Princess Rhaenyra approaches the group and waves a hand in the air when some of the ladies are about to get up and bow, smiling sweetly at your mother– actually, smiling sweetly at you. “Hello,” she hums softly, trying not to scare you. “My son Jacaerys is asking about you. Would you like to come with me? He’s fine now.” she holds out a hand, offering it to you. 

You look hesitantly at your mother, who nods, then hesitantly hop off her lap and take the Princess’ hand, brushing sheepishly at your dress with your other hand as she guides you into the castle, Ser Morren dutifully right behind you until Rhaenyra’s personal guard takes over. 

Princess Rhaenyra’s hand is warm but firm and she looks a little disheveled — and you wonder if she spent the last thirty minutes yelling at the servants and knights like your father does when you or your sisters get hurt. “He broke his arm,” she tells you quietly, like she’s talking to a babe, “but the maester has already fixed him up. He seemed more worried about the fact that you saw him defeated than about the fracture.”

Your lips tremble, and you look at her with your big, sad eyes. “I don’t care that he didn’t win,” you whine, “I’m sad because he got hurt, and I don’t want him to hurt.” 

She looks endeared. “Well, then, you tell him that.” 

Jacaerys is laying on his bed when his mother opens the door to his room, Lucerys’ sitting by his bedside, moping, as the maester scolds him half-heartedly about the dangers of sparring in the mud-covered surface of the training yard. “I’ll make sure to have a word with Ser Harwin,” he seethes, “oh, yes, he’ll have to hear me because there’s no–”

“Maester Gylde,” Rhaenyra interrupts, spooking him out of his mind and bringing Jacaerys out of his stupor; he grins embarrassedly when he notices you. “Please, let the boy off his shackles. Having to sleep with that thing on his arm for the next three weeks is going to be enough.” 

With that thing, she’s referencing the tight bandage wrapping around Jacaerys’ arm, bulging with a wooden log to keep the bone from fixing crooked. All it takes you is one look at it and bam– you’re ugly crying again. 

It surprises both Rhaenyra and the princes, who all startle when you start sobbing. Panicked, Rhaenyra tries to shush you by taking you in her arms and cooing softly, but it is all for naught as every time she manages to wipe away your tears, more come out as a replacement — and suddenly she understands why your personal guard always takes you to your mother as soon as you start to tear up, instead of trying to console you himself. 

“‘Tis nothing!” Jace raises his arm, hiding a wince of pain, “Look! I am perfectly fine!” 

His mother gently sits you on the bed covers, heart swelling at the thoughtfulness of her son, who still puts your well-being first despite his own injury. With his good arm, Jacaerys drags you in his arms by your sleeve, cheeks red but not nearly as puffy as yours. “Why do you always have to cry about everything?” He grumbles as you smear tears and snot over his doublet. “‘Twas nothing serious! I’d never let Aemond seriously hurt me, and you should know that a true knight never whines about pain and whatnot." 

Actually he just let his uncle hurt him, and he’s still very far from being a true knight, but that's not his concern right now. His concern is making you stop crying as soon as possible — before you drown in your own tears, at least. “But your arm’s broken!” You whine, hands gripping the front of his doublet as you pull him to and away from you like you’re trying to knock some sense into him. 

“It will heal,” he puffs his chest, feigning offense, “are you trying to tell me that I am not a true knight — and that my injury might last forever?”

For a moment, you stop crying — just to look him in the eye. Then, you pull at his hair swiftly, and get off the bed with an incredulous huff. “A true knight never thinks of a lady’s tears as a selfish whim!” You stutter, lips still trembling — he has no idea where you’ve read that, nor where you got the idea that he was trying to do that, but he’s too stunned by the way you pulled on his strands to say anything. “I’ll find somewhere else to dump my tears! Bye!” 

Before leaving, you furiously bow to the Princess, then let the door slam closed behind you — at least, as slammed as it can be by the force of a six-year-old. Rhaenyra blinks. “…Did she really do that?”

Lucerys, pleased, nods happily. “She did.”

Worried, Jace frowns. “Does she even know her way back to the gardens?”

You don’t. He finds you two hours later, crouched in a fetal position in one of the corners of the castle, crying and talking to a little flower that sprouted between the cracks of the rocky pavement. You’re babbling to the plant like it owes you a reply, lower lip sucked in your mouth when you muffle a sob, and Jace doesn’t even know if you’re still crying because of him or because you can’t find your way back to your mother. 

Without saying anything, he pokes you over your shoulder, smiling when you turn to glance at him, and takes your hand in his without too many questions. You’re back in the gardens in less than five minutes, and you throw yourself at your mother’s gowns, breath uneven. Ser Westerling looks at the Prince like he wants to skin him alive, but other than that, no harm is done. 

Later on, the seamstress has to make certain alterations to his nameday chemise and doublet to make sure that the whole bandage, wooden log included, properly fits so that at least it’s not completely clear to anyone who spares a look at him that his arm is broken. The day of the feast is close, and his parents are all but happy with the fact that he’ll spend it with one of his limbs basically useless, but it is what it is.

When his nameday finally rolls around, you’ve already forgotten all about your little spat, and spend all morning in your mother’s chambers with the latter and your sisters, who coo and swoon at the copious amount of jewels that Johanna has brought here from Casterly Rock for the occasion. Florian and Jonquil purr at your feet as your mother continuously swaps jewels and makes you try on new necklaces, rings and earrings, finally settling on golden ornaments decorated with rubies, so shiny that they make you giggle once you finally see yourself in the mirror. 

You twirl in your pink dress, happy as ever, as your sisters still stress about their clothes in the background. While this may be just a feast to you, for them it’s the possibility to scour the various lords and their sons, as in a few years they’ll be reaching the age where the women of your family begin to look for a husband. 

You play with Florian and Jonquil until the time for the feast to start comes, and throttle your way to the gardens right in front of your mother, Cerelle and Tyshara — your uncle is already there, discussing hushedly with your father, who lights up when he sees you. As you always do, you throw yourself in his arms, and he catches you without a hitch, settling you over his hip. “You’re getting too old for this,” he teases, poking your stomach as you squeal. “Just another nameday, and you’ll have to start acting like a proper lady.”

”I am a proper lady!” You insist, nudging him with the back of your hand, “Look! Mommy gave me one of her kissy rings and let me wear her sparkly things!” 

He guesses that the kissy rings are the ones people are supposed to kiss over her hand in greeting, and just to play along he kisses the back of your hand. “A proper lady calls her parents father and mother, doesn’t jump to be picked up, doesn’t have two lion cubs as pets…” 

But you’re already not listening anymore, playing with his hair to make a braid as you babble about your sisters fighting for a collier earlier, then nudging at his earring and asking why it is devious of any sparkling qualities. Your uncle laughs, but he does not look as amused as he usually is. “You’ve made acquaintances with the Prince, niece, have you not?”

You frown, then look at your father. “Daddy, what does ack-uain-tans mean?”

”Acquaintance, darling,” he corrects you, scowling at his brother. “Uncle Ty’s asking if you’ve become friends with Prince Jacaerys.”

Your eyes light up, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes! He crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney, and he said that we’re going to get married one day.” The tourney where he forced his younger brother to be the horse, by the way. A very attendable tourney, if you were to ask him. 

Your father pales a bit, but not as much as your uncle, who has to hide a nervous chuckle in his fist — something that could easily be passed off as children playing dress up as adults seems to trouble him deeply. “Pardon– married? Aren’t you too young for that?”

”I am now,” you say sagely, “but I won’t be soon enough, and then we’ll get married, and we’ll live in a big castle, even bigger than Cas-ter-ly Rock, and we’ll have lots of babies-“

”Yes, yes, that’s enough for today, have a little pity on your father’s poor heart,” Jason interrupts, coughing like just the thought is enough for him to feel ill. You coo and press a wet, soundly kiss to his cheek, “Noo, daddy, don’t feel bad, I’ll still love you!”

Some of the courtiers are staring by now, chuckling with no real malice as Lord Jason Lannister gets consoled by his own brat of a daughter, and he pats your back, trying to loosen your hold on his neck. “Yes, yes, I know, honey– listen, Uncle Ty wanted to ask you something.” He then sends a pointed look to his brother, almost glaring at him. 

Tyland coughs again. “Prince Jacaerys, in retrospect, is not the most ideal friend you could make in this court,” he nudges toward the other end of the gardens, where Jace’s uncles — Aegon and Aemond — stand, seemingly having a conversation with other boys their age. The oldest has a wine goblet in his hand, and from the redness of his cheeks, it doesn’t take a fortune teller to confidently say that he’s probably already drunk. “Queen Alicent’s kids, however, will surely pay off one day.”

You frown at way-too-old Aegon and cruel, mean Aemond, and you can’t help but think that while it was the latter who broke Jace’s arm, the oldest didn’t do anything to stop him. Besides, in your eyes, he’s far too scary to even approach, as he’s way much taller than you and has a constant snarl on his face. “They’re old, uncle,” you say in the end — because that's what an eleven and thirteen year old look to you — tightening your hold on your father for support. “And mean. They pick on Jacaerys and Lucerys, and even their little brother Joffrey. And he’s a babe.” you add that with a little indignant huff, like you can’t even imagine how someone could bully babes. 

And it is true — whenever they are around, it’s unbearable. You wish you could just play with little Joff in peace while also hoping to give a break to the Princess and various nursemaids, but no. They always have to be around, tormenting his older brothers, and once they even tried to snatch the babe from your arms before your cries alerted Ser Warren — who promptly dragged the boys by their cuffs to meet their sister Rhaenyra, who scolded them for half an hour about their unrighteous treatment of their baby nephew and how such behaviour would not be tolerated, lest they wished to follow their younger brother Daeron to Oldtown. 

(Of course, their behaviour never really stopped, because as soon as Queen Alicent was made aware of the situation, she made sure to always be overlooking when her sons pestered their nephews so that nobody would dare utter a word. At least they mostly left you and Joffrey alone for now, and you were free to continue playing house with him under the careful watch of Ser Westerling.) 

Tyland huffs. “Well, you see– not everything revolves around what you’d like to do and people you actually enjoy, and maybe it would be best if you found out sooner rather than later.” 

“Tyland,” Jason warns, “now you’re going too far. She’ll deal with that when she’s older.” 

His twin clicks his jaw, bowing his head slightly. “However you wish, brother.” He disappears in the crowd soon after without saying goodbye, and your mother and your sisters join you as soon as you lose sight of him. “Husband,” Johanna greets, tense, “what was that about?” 

Your father pats your back reassuringly as you rest your cheek on his shoulder, “Nothing,” he assures her, even if his irritation is clear as day to someone who’s been married to him for a decade and a half, “it’s just… you know how Tyland is. It seems the Royal Court has just worsened his constant concerns and scheming.” 

A lot of whispering later, your mother winces the slightest bit. “We’ll continue this conversation later,” she hisses to her husband as you play with the golden accents of his tunic, “however, you cannot avoid admitting that it is, let’s say… peculiar for Targaryens to have dark hair.” 

“‘Tis not the place nor the time to speak about that,” your father hisses in response as your sisters feign particular interest towards the flower beds, “I don’t want to hear another word about any of this — understood?” 

It’s not a secret that your parents’ union was not one born from love, and even if in the years they have built a good relationship based on mutual respect and trust, your father never refrains from reminding her to stay in her place — that is, being his wife. You look at your mother, at the hidden resentment in her eyes that she always holds for your father, and can’t help but think that you never want to end up with a man like your father — one who even after three children still hasn’t properly warmed up to his wife.

Jason Lannister is a good father, when he wants to be — which, fortunately, is often. Unfortunately, he rarely tries to be a good husband. 

Jacaerys is welcomed warmly by the guests of the feast — and most importantly, he’s accompanied by his grandsire. You curtsy like your septa and sisters taught you to, even if your balance is still not the best, and soon enough the gathering continues without a hitch — just with King Viserys I strolling around like this isn’t just a child’s nameday celebration, but a full-on political event. You guess that after all, it is one of his heirs that just turned eight. 

Even so, for children like you, pretenses are easy to forget: soon enough, Jace is poking your shoulder and pointing to the far end of the courtyard, where other children are already playing, and takes your hand to drag you with him. 

As they watch you go play with the Prince, Tyland whispers to your father, “You must understand, this is not the best friendship she could form.”

Jason laughs. “One with a prince? Tyland, she’s the same child who befriended wild lions.” 

His twin’s voice is low, so that Jason might be the only one who hears, when he says, “Lions and royal bastards are two very different things.” 

Your father’s spine straightens. “No more of this, Tyland, you hear me?” he hisses. “Royal blood is royal blood. And we’re not going to get our tongues cut just because you can’t bear to see children play.”