Quiet Dreams

​Among the crowd of polished lords and perfumed ladies, his figure stands out like a mountain in a field of hills. The knight sits uncomfortably in his seat, his massive frame barely fitting the chair provided.

Beside him, little Egg is busy stuffing his face with lemon cakes, looking far too amused by his friend's gaze directed at you, complicitly laughing at some comment Maekar has whispered into your ear.

“Don't look at her too much, father won't like it,” the young prince struggles to swallow the rest of his pastry so he can scold the knight, who eventually turns to look at him, his brow wrinkling slightly in confusion.

“Why are those two hovering over her like guarding hounds?” he ventures to ask once he clears his throat, genuinely interested in knowing.

But as Egg thinks he's just cracking a joke, he rolls his eyes, unamused by his little attempt at humor, and goes back to devouring his plate of food.

When the moment comes for the two of them to go over to the big main table where you're sitting, he can feel his heart about to burst out of his chest.

He had seen high-born ladies before, but not one quite like you, with your silver hair braided with pearls and your eyes ablaze like flames of violet, making him feel as if he is in the presence of a goddess herself.

​“Your Graces,” Dunk salutes your brothers, bowing so low his head is nearly level with the table. That brings a sweet smile to your face. “And to you, M–my Princess... a very happy Name Day. May you have seventy more, each as— as beautiful as the last.”

Baelor raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Name Day, Ser Duncan?”

​“Aye, Your Grace,” Dunk responds, his gaze drifting back to you, his expression one of pure, wide-eyed adoration. “It’s only right that the whole city celebrates. I’ve traveled from the Reach to the Wall, but I’ve never seen a wonder quite like the Princess. You’re... well, you’re like a sunset over the Summer Sea.”

Dunk, feeling bold just because he thinks he is merely being a kind knight to a young maiden, looks at Baelor and Maekar with a sympathetic expression.

​“It must be hard for you two,” he then says earnestly.

​Maekar’s eyes narrow, already irritated by how much the knight has spoken. “Hard? In what way, boy?”

​“Well,” Dunk continues, completely unaware of the cliff he is walking off, “having such a sister. You’ll have to beat the suitors off with clubs!” He blows air like a boy in love, “a woman this beautiful is a full-time job for any man—I can see why it takes both of you just to keep her from being stolen away by a better-looking lord.”

He turns back to you, missing the puzzled, frowing looks on the faces of the two brothers by your sides as they both stare at him.

Ser Duncan just gives you a toothy, innocent grin. “You're far too much woman for just any ordinary man to handle, anyway, Your Grace.”

The silence that comes after his words isn't instantaneous; it's a ripple that spreads from the high table and fills the Great Hall like winter itself has just walked in. The strumming of a lute dies on a sour note, and the clinking of glasses stops all at once.

Prince Aerion is mid-gulp when Dunk finishes his little speech. The sheer absurdity of the hedge knight's words—treating both of your husbands like a lowly chaperones—sends the wine straight into his windpipe. A sharp, mocking bray of laughter crawls up his throat, clashing with the liquid.

“A—a sunset...” Aerion manages to choke out between violent coughs and laughs, clearly more amused by the situation than everyone else. “A sunset over the Summer Sea! Gods be good—”

Beside him, Valarr doesn't look nearly as amused. He reaches over and delivers a heavy, bruising slap to Aerion’s back—ostensibly to help him breathe, but in reality, he’s trying to knock the wind out of him to shut him up.

Dunk, still beaming with his big, innocent smile, looks around as he senses a crowd of eyes locked on him and his smile gradually begins to fade from his face.

The murmurs break out immediately after, like a disturbed hornet's nest.

Egg, standing right behind Dunk, slaps a hand over his face, totally crushed by embarrassment. He drags his palm down his features, his fingers digging into his forehead as a flush of crimson heat crawled up his neck, turning his ears the color of a tomato.

At your side, the temperature seems to drop ten points. Maekar becomes so rigid that for a moment you fear he has morphed into a statue beside you. His knuckles, clenched over the table, are white, and his icy eyes, frozen on Dunk, promise a slow and painful execution.

Baelor, ever the diplomat, leans against the back of the chair and lays a hand on your lap, seeking your touch to soothe his own anger and offense and simply staring up at him with the purest of displeasure. 

​You, for your own part, bit your lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Ser Duncan, you are too kind. But this is not my Name Day. It is the anniversary of my wedding.”

Duncan blinks again, looking between the three of you, starting to feel a surge of coldness begin to creep up his body from his feet. “Wedding? But... to—to which one?”

“Both, you witless, low-born clodpoll!” Maekar finally snaps, barking back at him and making you wince. “She’s our wife!”

Duncan can definitely feel the tension in the room now, and he takes a moment to look carefully at the three of you, studying the whole scene. Baelor is no longer smiling, and his hand rests over yours on the table now, intertwining his fingers with yours. On your other side, Maekar is glaring at Dunk as if he could somehow burn him out of existence with his fiery gaze, his hand possessively gripping you around the waist.

Dunk’s jaw drops.

He looks once again at Baelor, then Maekar, then back to you and his brain seemed to short–circuit.

“Oh...” He squeaks, his mind scrambling to come up with the appropriate words. “Oh!—that... that certainly is— efficient—Seven hells—”

He drops to his knees before you, bowing his head in supplication, his ears burning with a deep, terrified crimson that matches his surcoat.

“I thought... I assumed— I have no excuse for my ignorance—I am t–truly sorry, I beg your mercy,” Dunk’s voice cracks, resembling more that of a frightened squire than a knight of the realm. He doesn't dare look up.

He squeeze his eyes shut, his massive shoulders shaking as he stammers out a final plea. “Please, Your Graces, it was my mind that was blinded by the Princess’s— I mean, the Queen's... radiance. My tongue simply tripped over my heart.”

Egg, who remains loyal by his side despite all the commotion, gives him a little kick to make him shut up once and for all. He knows all too well that the knight’s ‘compliments’ are sounding more like treason with every passing breath.

You stand up, letting your lovers' hands slide off your body, which makes them even more upset.

“Rise, Ser Duncan,” you urge him, smiling genly as you reach out to him, making a gentle gesture with your hand. “Please, before you burrow a hole through the floorboards.”

​Dunk looks up very slowly, his face a mask of pure mortification. When you extend your hand to him, he stares at it as if it were a holy relic he isn't allowed to touch. “Forgive me, Your Grace—Graces”

“We forgive you, Ser. You haven't done anything wrong,” you declare, your eyes dancing with mischief. “In fact, I should thank you. It isn't every day someone tells my husbands to their faces that I am ‘too much woman’ for them to handle. It’s a refreshing change of pace.”

​While you are enjoying the comedy, the grumpy men on either side of your empty chair are significantly less amused as they share a single glance behind you at your words, their pride stung by the knight’s clumsy suggestion that any man in the Seven Kingdoms could be a ‘better’ match for you.

Then Baelor stands up as well and he doesn't look angry—he looks disappointed, which is somehow worse.

“You would do well to remember who sits at this table before you start offering advice on ‘better-looking lords’ again, Ser Duncan,” Baelor suggests, his voice calm but carrying a sharp edge of authority. “Some mistakes cannot be laughed away.”

Dunk gulps so loudly it is audible. “Y-yes, Your Grace. Of course.”

But it is Maekar who provide the true chill, naturally. He does not stand; he simply leans forward, with his two hands propped against the table. His eyes are like chips of amethyst ice.

​“My brother is a diplomat, you churlish knight,” he hisses, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous threat. “I am not. If you ever imply again that I can't handle my own wife or that she might be stolen away by some better-looking lord, I will personally ensure you never speak another word. I’ll have that clumsy tongue of yours pulled out and fed to the hounds before the sun rises.”

​Dunk turns even paler, nodding frantically. “I understand, King Maekar. I— I'll go now. Q–quietly. Very quietly.”

​Dunk backs away, bowing at every step, nearly knocking over a wine bearer in his haste to disappear from your husbands' sights.

Egg follows behind him, looking like he wants to crawl into a hole and suffocate from embarrassment as he offers you three a fleeting apologetic smile, which you are quick to return to him in an attempt to ease his distress.

You could hear the tall knight muttering to your son as they both retreat: “Why didn't you fucking tell me?!”

Finally, you turn your gaze back to your husbands. You lean in close to Maekar, brushing a lingering kiss against his sullen, stone-cold cheek to soothe the fire in his blood. On your other side, you give Baelor’s hand a firm, grounding squeeze, wordlessly urging him to reclaim his seat as you settle back into yours between them.

The tension, once thick enough to choke a whole dragon, begins to dissipate like smoke in a breeze. Seeing the Queen’s playful smile and the way she effortlessly tames the two most powerful men in the realm, the place finally exhales and the musicians scramble for their instruments.

A lively, upbeat tune—The Bear and the Maiden Fair—begins to bounce off the stone walls, the drums kicking in with a rhythmic thump that mimics a heartbeat returning to normal.

“Oh, stop it, both of you,” you tease them. “You’ve terrified the poor man. And besides... he did say I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Surely that's worth a little mercy?”

Maekar huffs humorlessly, taking a long sip of his wine to quell the rage building up in his throat. “He's lucky he's so fucking tall,” he mutters. “It makes his neck a harder target.”

Baelor blinks, his diplomatic mask slipping for a split second before a soft, disbelieving chuckle escapes his lips. “Efficiency. I don't think I've ever heard our union described as a logistical convenience before.”

“He just didn’t know,” you shrug, not really taking it as seriously as your kings do.

Maekar turns to give you an incredulous glance, but his eyes soften significantly as soon as they lock onto yours. “He didn’t know about the marriage of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Then he huffs again and this time makes an effort to convey his feelings—as you usually insist he should. “Better-looking lords... what the fuck does that supposed to mean?”

You can't help the small, knowing smirk that tugs at your lips. You lean back into the space between them, feeling the radiating heat of their possessive energy.

“Oh,” you muse softly, your voice carrying just enough tease to make them both look at you. “I see. It’s the ‘better-looking’ part that truly haunts you both, isn't it? My poor, insecure dragons.”

Baelor rolls his eyes at your silly teasing, however, he is unable to suppress a soft smile as he observes you bring his hand to your lips to lay a reassuring kiss on his knuckles.

“Don't be absurd, wife,” Maekar grumbles and he doesn't pull his hand away when you reach out to him now. “The man is a fool. His aesthetic judgment is as poor as his lineage.”

“Ser Duncan has a point, however,” Baelor whispers, leaning toward you to press an affectionate and all too slow kiss on your cheek. “It is a full-time job, my fire, handling you.”

“Oh fuck yeah,” on your other side, Maekar agrees wish whis older brother and leans close as well, his arm stretching behind your body, his hand running down your lower back. “We'll show them how efficient we can be.”

Baelor chuckles softly, his fingers tightening around yours under the table in a grounding squeeze. He leans in from your other side, trapping you in a cocoon of warmth between them.

“Look at that, Maekar,” he teases gently, his two-toned gaze fixed on your burning face. “Our Queen is as radiant as the sunset the knight described—now she's shy.”

“I am not shy,” you manage to whisper, though your voice lacks its usual regal bite, and you can’t quite bring yourself to look them in the eye.

They have turned the whole teasing on you now. United. And that's truly wicked.

“No?” Maekar hums and his fingers, still resting at the small of your back, trace the faintest, idle line upward along your spine. It is not improper. Not quite. But it is enough to make your stomach tighten. “You're all flushed, our little wife.”

Baelor laughs under his breath beside you, the sound warmer than you have ever heard it.

“She burns,” he agrees softly.

“I do not,” you insist.

Baelor raises a brow at the subtle quiver in your voice, his mismatched eyes glinting.

And Maekar's smirk grows wider, a mischievous gleam flashing in his eyes as he leans closer to you, his lips brushing your earlobe. “Good. Because the night is young, and as the dumb knight so wisely noted... we have a very important anniversary to attend to. And I intend to be extremely efficient.”