~EcLipse.My.Soul~

You loved being on your knees for your man. You loved being around Maekar all the time. Summerhall was different with you on it, and Gods know that if it was up to you, and the kids weren’t here, you two would fuck like rabbits on every room.

Not that you haven’t tried. Or done. 

“You’re so big” you say to him, your hand stroking lazily the base of his cock. 

“Am I?” He asks softly, chuckling. His hand on your hair, fistful full of loose hair, as you never got them properly braided. He didn’t care, as Summerhall was his, and if his wife wanted to be indecorous… let her be.

“Yeah. So big” your tone is practically drunk, the tip against your mouth as you speak, moving to suck him. 

His cock was heavy and leaking, you’d always found him like that when you undid his breeches; Hard, leaking precum and his balls full of cum. Make your mouth water.

Maekar groans, seeing you bob your head against his cock, not having a single drop of decorum. 

“Get up.” He says, pulling you out of his cock by the hair, and you love it when he pulls your hair.  

At this hour, after having midday meal with all of Maekar’s children, he had sent them off to the yard for training , even if it was unreasonable, and welcomed both Daella and Rhae to train if they wished as well.  No wonder why, as he wanted you all to himself for a few hours. 

“Come here” His mouth has a smirk as he pulls you closer to the bed, your back against his chest as he moves you whoever he pleases. “So wet already” He grunts against your neck, undoing the laces of your nightshift. “Tryna make me fit inside your pretty pussy, hm?”

“Yeah, yeah” you murmur slightly dizzy from the pleasure. 

Maekar always prepared you first, realising that you needed to be a bit stretched before taking him properly so it doesn’t hurt. Even if it was a quickie.

You cannot resist your husband. He had been complaining and grunting, being all grumpy about something that Aerion had done, coming to your chambers to take a break. 

He had groaned as he sat on the chair, leaning back lazily as his legs spread wide to be comfortable, as if the bulge on his breeches would go unnoticed by you.

“Fuck, you’re always so tight” He groans, hugging your waist as he slides himself inside your warm cunt, his chest moving to press against your back.

“No, it’s that– you’re just too big!” You say trying to gain your breath, your hands flat against the mattress as if to keep your head from being buried against the mattress.

He reaches for one of those tedious and nerve-racking (in his opinion) small velvet cushions, placing them under your head, and a bigger one under your hips. 

“There” he grunts, moving back in. “You lured me into fucking you” 

You nod softly, feeling his cock slide inside once again. You feel so full, stretched against his cock in a way you can’t think of anything else. 

The first few sways of his hips were always a bit numbing to you, because it felt like too much at once. Yet Maekar always made sure the servants prepared a bath for you afterwards. 

“You can feel me all the way in, hm?” Maekar says, moving your hair to press a kiss on your shoulders. “Real deep” 

“Yeah…” you say breathlessly, feeling how he starts swaying his hips. “Fuck‐-”

“That’s it…” he soothes you, his hand moving to press down your lower back, as he starts pounding into your cunt. 

The gushing sounds were loud, as his balls slapped against your flesh, you could hear his grunts behind you, as if the task took him tremendous effort. 

Earlier on the day, before Maekar went away for his duties and his children woke up to start whining at him, he had eaten your pussy under the sheets. 

“Can’t take it, too much” you say to him, as his cock filled you to the brim. It was a delicious stretch, but overwhelming all the same. 

“Hm?” He asks, not clearly listening to your words.

“I can’t take it” you whine. 

“You can take it” He assures you, stopping for a second, kissing the side of your face. “Hm? You can, don’t tell me you can’t baby”

“It’s too big…”

 “We’ll make it fit” He promises, and he always has. 

His hands move from your skin, from your stomach to your pussy, his fingers in your folds, as his middle finger quickly finds your clit, circling it just the way you like it.

His left arm moves to wrap itself around your throat, just as you always beg Maekar to do. He doesn’t squeeze, he simply lays it here as both the movement of his fingers on your clit and the feeling of being full by his cock overwhelm you. 

When he thrusts again, you don’t feel like you can’t take it, but feel like you want him to make you cum again and again, until you can’t think. 

“There you go…” He grunts, his fingers working nonstop. “You’re always take me so fucking well”

You nod senselessly as you feel the head of his cock hit your cervix, the simple way he slides himself in makes you shake in pleasure at the feeling; you can’t help the way your eyes roll back, how your legs slightly shake and how loud you are. 

“It’s so big!” You moan loudly, “Fuck me harder, harder”

His arm squeezes your throat slightly as he moans as well, his hand moving away from your clit as he needs to support himself to change the angle. You know he will be pissy about his back later, but you cannot care now. 

“Gods, yes. Maekar, fuck, fuck, it is so big”

His hips never falter, the pace of his thrusts become more animalistic, allowing himself to do it however he wanted as you were stretched for his cock. 

You feel his arm under your chin, as you were quite trapped by Maekar. As his thrusts push you forward, his arm stops you, keeping you in place as if you were a toy for his cock. You absolutely love it.

“Harder, harder”

“As you wish, wife”

The ring of the bell is what fills the silence below the stairs..

“Oh. Thought they would take longer” the valet, Grenn says, frowning as he looks at his cards. 

“Nay, she never lasts when the prince does…” the maid, Violet, says, receiving a stern gaze from the housekeeper. “Nevermind, I shall mind my tongue.” 

“And you better fetch the oils for the missus, they are in the back” the housekeeper says. “I have prepared the water so we better be quick, I’ll ask the manservant to bring the tub”

It was quite the routine, and every servant at Summerhall knew; as soon as the Prince and his wife started with their martial duties, the bell would ring requesting for a warm bath. Now, they simply arrive with the water and the linens instead of waiting for them to ask for it.

“But I have the winning hand” 

“I’ll fetch it” another of the maids said, as she moves to the back “But it is your turn to wash the lady, I washed her in the morning”

“Fine.” 

Even if everyone worked quickly, the ring rang again, longer and more persistent. 

“That’s the prince” The valet speaks loudly, trying to be heard above the ring, standing up and leaving his cards on the table. “I was going to lose anyways”

As they all walk upstairs, holding the chest with multiple oils for baths and the linens for the couple, Violet asks “You think the prince is actually big?”

“Watch yer tongue!” The other maid says chuckling, and adds “Wives always exaggerate, y’know what men want to hear.”

“Well, Grenn dresses the Prince” both pairs of eyes turn to him “Is he quite big as the lady says?”

“None of your business” The valet says, not saying a word about it as he carries the chest.

When you open the door, wearing a deep green robe,  you see your handmaidens ready for a bath before you even ask for it. 

“Oh, how did you know…” You ask as the maids bring the tub inside your rooms, next to the fire. 

You see two of your handmaids giggling softly, a bit puzzled. 

“We are always prepared m’lady”

You see Maekar roll his eyes as he lays back against the pillows, not worried about anything, but already grumpy about their ‘delay’ as he always grunts. You were a bit shy to have maids for anything, but he was used to it, not caring if they saw him naked or not. 

“What oil do you wish for today?” Violet asks softly. “We used lavender by the morning, perhaps you wish for something new, m’lady?”

“Oh… yes, I…” you feel your cheeks redden. “What would you like, my love?”

Maekar grunts “Whatever fucking smell works faster” He says, one oh his arm around his abdomen as the other moves behind his head. 

You watch as they pour the water, working easily as you wait for them to do all of the work.

“Have my children finished training?” Maekar asks the housekeeper. 

“No, my Prince. I believe they were fighting to see who could… shot an arrow more far away.”

He closes his eyes as he lets out a deep sigh. Those children…

“Fine. Go away, all of you”

“My prince?”

“I will bathe my wife, so leave all those shit there, I’ll take care of it” He waves a dismissive hand, before adding “And do not bother us , unless one of my children gets fucking shot by the other. Or if Aerion tries to challenge Daeron to a duel, again.”

“He’s my son.” Maekar says rubbing looking down at the cooing babe in his arms, the little boy holding his father’s finger in his little hand.

“He’s mine too.” You laugh, not minding that he’s stolen your baby from you. Happy he loves his children so much, him not always able to show it.

“You got to carry him for nine moons, let me hold him now.” Maekar say turning away from you as if you were going to steal the babe of him. You just wanting to kiss him.

“But-.”

“I’m sure the older boys would love some time with their mother.” He tells you, him having been working all day and unable to be with your sons.

“Would they now?” You ask raising an eyebrow at your husband. Daeron and Aerion both sleeping as it’s late. You having just read Daeron back to sleep. You giving your husband a look. “Stop sniffing him.”

“I’ve missed having a newborn.” Maekar muses swaying slightly with the boy, while kissing his forehead. “You’re already more well behaved than your brothers.”

“Maekar.” You say sternly giving him a look. “It’s time for bed.”

“Wife.” He teases a smirk apart in his face, him at his happiest with you and the children, a newborn babe in his arms.

“You get so mushy when we have a baby.” You say rolling your eyes while you get ready for bed. Letting him cuddle Aemon for a while longer, the babe needing to actually sleep in his crib for a change.

“I love you.” Maekar whispers to you later while you cuddle in bed, your head resting on his chest while he holds you close to him. All the children sleeping in their beds.

“I love you too.” You say kissing his chest softly. Tired but also wanting to spent time with just Maekar.

“Can we have more?” He asks quietly as if saying it any louder would scare the idea away.

“Isn’t three enough?” You ask, happy with any amount of children you have.

“Just a few more?” He whispers kissing the top of your head, already picturing a future with more children.

“We’ll see.”

“Thank you.” He says softly, loving you and the children more than anything in the world.

“What for?” You ask in genuine confusion, not knowing what you’ve done to warrant being thanked.

he would be clear from the beginning about needing to take it slow, and you would originally be fine with that! but then one day you're helping him with the dishes and get your shirt soaked because of how strong the sprayer is, and you see the way his gaze darkens with want... he can't stop staring at your chest for a moment, when he finally snaps out of it he's like "I'll... um, let me get you another shirt" and takes way too long to come back. (months later he admits he had to take a moment to get a grip and control himself, feeling guilty for the way his mind went immediately to the gutter at the sight of your pebbled nipples)

after that you make a game out of it because you saw it. he wants you. you've gotten to know him just enough to figure out that he just needs a little help surrendering to his own desires. and you're happy to help. you've also fucked yourself on your dildo thinking about how he'd feel for way too long in your opinion and need to expedite the process asap.

so for the first couple of months you're wearing the most scandalous outfits when he least expects it, or touching him all over when he looks 'particularly handsome' (90% of the time) and toying with the cross on his necklace, or looking at him with those eyes that make him feel insane, or having longer and longer make out sessions on the couch until you can feel how hard he is... and just generally riling him up, poor guy doesn't know what hit him and his resolve to "respect you" is crumbling fast.

he's at the confessional on a weekly basis after you fall asleep cuddling during a movie night. the words "you can stay over whenever you like" just fall from his lips and he regrets it immediately, not because he doesn't want you there but because he does. and you take full advantage of it: you go to bed on a tiny slip dress with no panties so it inevitably rides up during the night, allowing him a peek the next morning (something he starts to secretly look forward to) or, when you're feeling benevolent, you wear nothing but panties and a thin camisole that leaves very little to the imagination.

lusting after you makes him miserable, feeling like a fraud bc while he acts normal around you, when you're not there he keeps imagining scenarios where he's mostly using you for his pleasure and making you take all of his frustration.

when you eventually have sex he just can't keep his hands off you, and he feels like a glutton for indulging in this, so even though there's still so much that you wanna show him, he's apprehensive to experiment and explore more with you for the first few weeks WHICH ONLY MAKES YOU WANT HIM MORE.

one day he's so tired from work that you beg him to let you make him feel good, that you'll do all the work, and he finally, reluctantly, relents.

you undo his button up and lower his pants and boxers just enough to take out his beautiful cock. when you finally take him into your mouth he lets his head fall back, enjoying the warmth of your mouth. after a few minutes he lets you know he's close and you release him with a pop, getting up only to bunch up your skirt and remove your underwear before you straddle him and slowly sink down on him.

he looks at you like you're the only thing in the world and you slowly start to ride him for the first time, pulling at his hair and telling him just how good he feels so deep inside you as you start to quicken your pace, biting and sucking on his neck.

you ask him to choke you a little, grabbing one of his hands and showing him how. he's a quick learner and does it just right, making your eyes roll back as your walls start clamping down on him tighter and tighter.

"you're so filthy, god, what are you doing to me?" he would whisper between kisses as if it pained him, his other hand not knowing quite where to rest, grasping at any part of your body that he can reach.

your hand drops to where your bodies meet, desperately rubbing your clit until you cum on his cock, convulsing on top of him and moaning so loud that he kisses you to muffle the sound. he lets go of your neck and grabs your ass with both hands, guiding your movements as he chases his own orgasm, one hand coming up to cup at your cheek. when you take his thumb into your mouth and suck on it, that's what does it for him.

and it starts there, with the fact that he can actually just sit back and enjoy you.

he becomes more open after that, slowly but surely he starts to discover things you knew from the very beginning about him, and although he still feels ashamed sometimes, it eventually stops overpowering being comfortable in his own skin and with his desires.

you had written obviously, you had sent an army of ravens flooded to your husband, each parchment checked thoroughly by tens of hands before they were sent to ensure you were still loyal to your sister and had not let any secrets of her plans to the throne slip. you had received fewer letters in return, each one shorter than the last and your heart ached at the thought of disappointing your husband, at the idea of you abandoning the holy sanctity of marriage you had protected for so long. the last letter had been sent two weeks ago and you knew he'd be here at this meeting.

you had begged to come. rhaenyra had refused, claiming you were safer at her side. she needed you more than anything but the feral look in your eyes, cooled to a dangeous steel had daemon infront of her narrowing his own eyes at you as she sighed in resignation from behind him.

"you just don't understand," she had muttered and the tears bit down your cheek furiously.

"no, you don't understand," your shout came out hoarse, fatigued and choked with the accumulation of impatience, anger and pure longing for your lover, "you still have your husband! you call me here to war, i am here. you have forced me to abandon my home, my family and my love-"

"war requires sacrifice!" she hissed.

"this is not our war! gwayne is not the enemy-"

"he is a hightower!"

"he is my husband! i swore an oath to him, rhaenyra," you plead, "he is all i've ever wanted and known and i haven't seen him in months," you whisper in ache. "you are not the one who sleeps or walks alone. daemon will fight for you but when the time comes? it is my husband standing on the opposite line and it is because of you we are separated by this distance."

"you are my sister," her jaw sets with a familiar posession.

"and i am his wife, the two can co-exist," you refuse, a long breath is released through her nostrils in a dangerously long exhale and she nods.

"daemon will ensure your return," a hand is placed on your shoulder but all you can feel is the burden of its weight on your buzzing heart because for the first time in months, there's hope.

the hope feels like its sinking six feet deep, buried eith your desire for reconciliation at the way his body is reclined away from you. he stands proud on his horse behind his cousin, the wind and war settled in his hair, drafting the strands in a small airy dance. he is yet to look at you and you bite down your lip in anticipation.

words are shared between daemon and ormund but its deafening on your ears, its muffled as you sink under the weight of abandonment as you try and focus on him. the skin that rests under his dirty plates of armour. the calluses on his worn hands that wrap around yours, the relish of his touch.

he looks older now, the quiet settling in his bones as his focus is placed on his cousin. its only when the talking has ceased entirely and your own voice escapes your body before you can catch it.

"ser gwayne?" you call out and the subtle shift of horses and men meaning to make a move back halt at an instant. his head perks up in your direction and you get pulled into the misty ocean blue of his eyes and find yourself drowning once more. "might i a word?" you ask, timid and broken.

ormund sends him a warning glance as daemon interrupts your attempt with an escape of a cough- "i don't think that's wise-"

"i said might i have a word with my husband?" your voice comes out stronger, cemented in devotion and nights youve spent tangled up and torn in his love. gwayne's jaw sets and he nods, without sparing his cousin or your uncle a second glance his horse rides slowly to yours till you are inches away.

its silence between the two of you, the weight of this war is holding you back and you're running out of time. it wont be long before youre due to be enemies again in this cruel twisted fate but suddenly the words and feelings are too large and too fast for you to choose. "i, oh my, i" you stutter and gwayne reaches out, tentative at first and then so bodily sure that he surrenders his palm and places it so sternly and protectively over your shaking hands, bringing them up to his chest, the claminess hitting a cool sensation of his armour. its a bit of a stretch for your arms given the height and gap of your horses but its nothing compared to the ache of your heart without him.

"it's been a while," he whispers, "i've missed you wife," and he reaches across the gap to press his forehead against yours. in this moment it feels as though there is no war, there is no enemy and there is no drastic drama soon to unfold. its just you and him, the way its always been, the way it has always been meant to be.

"i didn't mean to leave you," you choke out, you've dreamed of saying this for months, to explain yourself, to tell him you still love him and there's no place you'd rather be but by his side, "i was called to the queen's side and here i shall remain," you mutter bitterly and his finger finds your chin, hooking underneath it gently and raising your gaze to his firmly. he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth and you close your eyes, relishing and savouring in the way his skin feels against yours. burning this in a memory you'll have to hold dear for more months of loneliness.

"my greatest regret is that i had not caught you in time- it was my duty to protect you," he stresses the words, a punch to his gut and a bruise to his memory, "you're as beautiful as the day they took you from me," and he knows the truth. he's read each letter, imprinted each word of your truth into his heart, sleeping with the ink and whatever little solace it brings him to know that though you are apart and on opposite sides of this dreadful battle, you are safe.

"i want to come home," you whisper and his heart shatter into a million shards, each cut slicing him open and leaving him bare and defenseless. " i want to come home to you," you plead and the glass drives further and deeper. you know its unfair, you know its impossible and leaving now will only result in irreversible carnage and politics far beyond your position. but its the way hes looking at you, the way his heart calls your name and the way you're standing infront of the enemy's army but have never felt so safe in his hold.

"i will find a way," he promises, his hands clutching yours, fingers tightly intertwined in a lock of your desperate love.

"you will?" and you beg the tear to not slip from your sore eyes but it does anyway. but gwayne catches it in an instant.

"i will, my heart," he reaffirms, "nothing, not even above can keep me from you," his brows raise in defiance and strength that when ormund calls his name he holds you tight against him. the tire and groans slip against your skin as he places a longing kiss to your hair. "stay safe and stay strong, wife."

you shake your head in disbelief, the very little time you've been granted disappearing into this horizon. "gwayne i-" you start and he kisses you a final time. he knows what comes next and he's not ready for it. will never be ready to hear any final words from you.

"you will not wish me a goodbye," he shakes his head in a pained defiance "you will write and i will answer," he softly swears, "and you will be by my side soon, my wife." he brings your interlocked hands back over to his chest. "remember little dove, this battle is not ours and my heart will forever be yours," he kisses your knuckles before he feels ormund's horse clutter close than ever.

"i love you," you whisper and he smiles, radiant as the sun as the last months of fatigue fall off his frame.

"i've waited so long to hear you say that, my heart," he breathes.

"it won't be the last time," you promise, "we will be together soon, i swear it." he nods his head slowly as his horse gears ready to leave. you're left to watch his retreating form, the way he disappears into this distance taking your heart along with him. at the final second he throws his head back, mouthing three words of an oath burned into your soul before he completely leaves your view of sight.

The stone of the Hightower did not merely hold the heat of the summer; it seemed to exhale it, thick and heavy with the scent of the sea and the distant, rotting mud of the Honeywine. From the highest solar, the sounds of Oldtown at midnight were a low, ceaseless murmur—the distant clink of armorers hammering out steel by forge-light, the braying of pack mules in the lower courtyards, and the steady, rhythmic trudge of thousands of boots echoing off the cobblestones.

The host of the Reach was gathering. The Green Dragon was lifting its wings, and tomorrow, her husband would lead it into the maw of a Kingdom tearing itself apart.

In the private Septry adjoining their bedchambers, the air was different. Here, behind thick oak doors banded in iron, the world was reduced to the sharp, sweet smell of melting beeswax, the heavy musk of tallow, and the faint, dried ghost of summer lavender.

She knelt on the unforgiving stone floor, the hem of her white linen nightgown spread around her like a shroud of fresh snow. It was a modest garment, high-necked and long-sleeved, fitting for the wife of the Voice of Oldtown.

Her hair, usually pinned in elaborate, jewel-woven braids that befitted her noble station, had been unraveled for the night. It hung down her spine in a single, thick, loose plait, the dark silk of it catching the golden, undulating glow of the candles.

Before her stood the seven alcoves, each housing an effigy carved from solid weirwood, brought down from the North centuries ago and polished until the wood looked like old bone. The candlelight flickered violently in the drafts that crept beneath the door, throwing long, twisted shadows of the Gods against the whitewashed walls. The Stranger was a mere cowl of darkness in the corner, but her eyes were locked onto the Mother, whose painted face smiled with a serene, terrifying detachment.

She clasped her hands together, pressing her knuckles against her chin until the skin turned white, her fingers trembling with a frantic, rhythmic motion.

”Gentle Mother, font of mercy,“ she whispered, her voice a fragile thing in the vast, hollow quiet of the tower.

”Save our sons and save our sires... shield them from the clashing swords. Keep the sky clear of the shadow of wings. Let the fires that burn be only the hearths of home.“

She swallowed hard, her throat tight, a stray tear finally escaping her lashes to trace the pale curve of her cheek. She did not brush it away. It fell, dark and heavy, onto the linen of her gown. She shifted her gaze to the Warrior, whose wooden sword was raised in an eternal, silent promise of defense.

”And the Warrior... let his shield be thick,“ she begged, her voice cracking, dipping into a desperate, hushed plea that felt less like a prayer and more like a negotiation.

”Let him guard my lord. Let him stand between Ormund and the steel of his cousins. Bring him home whole. Do not let the Stranger look upon him. Do not let–“

The heavy, unmistakable thud of a leather-soled boot snapped the silence of the corridor.

Her breath hitched in her throat. The words of the holy hymn died on her tongue, leaving her mouth dry. She did not turn immediately; she knew the stride. It was a heavy, grounded step, the walk of a man who carried the weight of an entire Realm on his shoulders and refused to let it bend him.

The iron latch clicked. The door groaned on its hinges.

Standing in the doorway of the Septry, cutting a massive, imposing silhouette against the dim light of the outer solar, was Ormund.

The Lord of Oldtown looked entirely undone by the weight of the coming dawn. The pristine, courtly lord who sat in the shadow of the Citadel—the man who spoke with the measured gravity of a Hightower—had been stripped away by the reality of the march. His heavy steel plate was gone, left in the armory or on its stands, but he had not fully undressed for sleep. He wore only his dark linen tunic and heavy leather riding breeches.

The tunic was completely unlaced at the throat, gaping open to reveal the stark, pale line of his collarbone and the dark, thick hair of his chest.

His face was shadowed by a heavy, rough stubble that had grown over days of council meetings and camp inspections, and his dark hair was windswept, smelling of the salt-air and the woodsmoke of the thousands of campfires burning outside the city walls.

He did not step forward immediately. He simply stood there, his large frame filling the threshold, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her. There was an intensity in his gaze that made the breath stall in her lungs—a raw, feral look that she had rarely seen in the quiet, dutiful years of their marriage.

”My husband,“ she breathed. Her hands, previously locked in holy supplication, dropped to her lap. The instinct of a highborn lady took over, and she placed her palms on the stone, preparing to push herself up to greet her lord properly.

”You should be resting. The Grand Maester said the raven from King’s Landing requires your signature before the vanguard departs. The host marches at first light, you need your–“

”Shh.“

The word was a low, gravelly vibration that cut through her frantic speech like a blade through silk.

He stepped into the holy space, his heavy strides purposeful, loud against the sacred quiet. He did not allow her to stand. Before she could find her footing, he was over her, stopping so close that the dark leather of his breeches brushed against the soft, white fabric of her nightgown.

He towered over her, a great, solid pillar of flesh and blood that completely eclipsed the carved statues of the Gods behind him. The flickering candlelight cast his shadow over her, swallowing her in his darkness.

She looked up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

”My lord, please. Let me call for the squires to pour you wine. You are burning with the fever of the march. Let me–“

”I told you to be quiet,“ he murmured. His voice was rough, scraped raw by hours of shouting orders to captains and arguing with lords from the Arbor to the Marches.

He reached down. His large, calloused hand—the hand of a knight who had won his spurs in the blood of the Stepstones—wrapped firmly under her jaw. His fingers were hot against her skin, the broad pad of his thumb resting just beneath her ear, where her pulse was fluttering visibly, frantic and fast.

With a slow, deliberate pressure, he tilted her chin upward. He forced her to look all the way up his imposing frame, exposing the long, delicate line of her throat to the candlelight. She felt entirely small beneath him, kneeling at his feet, her body trembling not from the draft, but from the sudden, suffocating gravity of his presence.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark, the pupils blown wide until the irises were almost entirely black. There was no courtly deference in his face now; there was only a heavy, desperate hunger.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he pressed the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip. The contrast was a bruising thing—his skin was rough, hardened and scarred from years of gripping a sword hilt and the rough leather of riding reins, while her lips were soft, smooth, and trembling under his touch. He applied just enough pressure to part them, his thumb sliding over the smooth edge of her teeth to taste the wet, hidden heat of her mouth.

A helpless, warm gasp escaped her, her breath puffing hot against his skin as he pushed his thumb deeper. He flattened her tongue beneath his weight, stroking the slick, wet interior of her mouth, claiming her voice before she could even think to use it. He was anchoring her, pulling her out of the spiritual Realm she had been trying to lose herself in, forcing her back into the reality of his flesh.

”Do not waste your breath on the silent Gods tonight, my love,“ he murmured, his voice dipping into a dark, rough register that made a sudden, sharp heat coil in the very depths of her stomach.

His thumb stroked the inside of her cheek one last time before he slowly withdrew it, leaving her lips wet, parted, and glistening in the candlelight.

”Pray to me.“

The sheer, blasphemous weight of his words shivered down her spine. To say such a thing in the Septry, beneath the eyes of the Seven, should have filled her with terror. It should have driven her to her knees in true repentance.

But as she looked up into his rugged face, seeing the fierce, protective desperation that lined his brow, she realized the truth: the Gods were wood and paint, silent and distant in their alcoves. But Ormund was real. He was hot, he was breathing, and he was hers.

Before she could process the thrill of her own submission, Ormund dropped heavily to his knees on the cold stone floor right in front of her.

He did not give her a chance to pray, to think, or to maintain the perfect, pious modesty she wore like armor during the day. He yanked her into his chest, his large arms wrapping around her waist with a force that knocked the air from her lungs.

He smelled of horse, iron, and the bitter tang of stale wine, mixed with the deep, musky scent of his own sweat.

His large hands immediately swept down, bunched into the heavy linen of her nightgown, and dragged the fabric ruthlessly up past her knees, her calves, and her thighs.

He did not care for the neat folds of the linen; he bundled it in his fists, pulling it up past her waist until her bare hips and her completely unprotected center were entirely exposed to the cool, candlelit air of the Septry.

His large, hot palms gripped the soft flesh of her inner thighs, parting her knees forcefully, settling himself between them.

”Ormund– the altar–“ she whimpered, her hands bunching into the fabric of his unlaced tunic, her fingers finding the thick hair of his chest as he caught her by the shoulders and pushed her backward.

The cold stone floor bit into her bare back and buttocks, a shocking, rigid contrast to the burning, radiating heat of his heavy body pressing down between her thighs. She gasped at the sensation, her spine arching as the chill of the Hightower met the fever of his skin.

He leaned over her, his rugged face hovering inches from hers, his dark eyes glittering with an unhinged, desperate intent. Below, where their bodies met, she could feel the thick, rigid length of his erection pressing hard against her weeping, unbothered cleft. He was already leaking, the heat of his pre-cum searing against her closed petals.

”Let the Gods watch,“ Ormund growled against her ear, his hot breath branding her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive lobe of her ear until she shivered.

”Let them see what I am fighting to come back to. Let them see what belongs to me, and me alone.“

His large hand reached down between them, his calloused fingers finding her already slick and swollen slit. He did not tease; he used his fingers to smear her own natural dampness up over her sensitive clitoris, making her hips jerk off the floor with a sharp, needy whine. Then, he gripped his own length, rubbing the swollen, weeping head of his cock against her dripping entrance, coating himself in her heat.

Before she could beg for him to fill the ache, his mouth crashed onto hers.

It was a bruising, desperate kiss, completely swallowing any further protests. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth, a heavy, rhythmic mimicry of what was to come, tasting her fully, drinking her in as if he were a dying man in a desert. He shifted his weight, pinning her down with the sheer mass of his upper body, and with a heavy, relentless, downward thrust of his hips, he drove his thick length entirely inside her.

He bottomed out against her cervix in one tight, unforgiving stroke.

She cried out into his mouth, a muffled, high-pitched sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure. Her fingers dug desperately into the hard, knotted muscles of his back, her nails scratching against his skin through the linen of his tunic as her hips arched off the cold stone from the sheer stretch of him filling her so completely. She had never felt him this large, this unyielding.

The pace he set was hard, fast, and demanding, driven by the ticking clock of the coming dawn.

He pulled out almost entirely, his wet, thick length glistening in the candlelight, before burying himself back inside her with a wet, heavy slap of their hips that echoed off the stone walls of the Septry. He wanted to lose himself in her entirely, to drown out the noise of ravens, war strategies, and dying men in the wet, tight, suffocating pleasure of her body.

Every time she gasped, every time a desperate, breathless sob of pleasure escaped her, Ormund caught the sound with his mouth, kissing her deeply, tasting her tears and her desire. He grabbed her wrists, breaking her grip on his back, and brought them above her head. He pinned them flat against the stone floor, locking his heavy fingers with her smaller ones, immobilizing her beneath him. The movement forced her chest to arch upward, her breasts thrusting tight against the bunched fabric of her gown, her nipples hardening under the friction.

”Look at me,“ he commanded, pulling his mouth back just enough to look down into her face. His deep lord’s voice vibrated through her entire chest, dark and demanding as his pace became more frantic. His hips hammered into hers, the friction creating a slick, loud, squelching sound that filled the quiet Septry, a sinful rhythm before the altars of the Gods.

”Tell me you feel me. Tell me I am here.“

”I feel you– Ormund, please–“ she choked out, her head rolling back against the stone, her eyes wide and locked onto his fierce, dark gaze.

The frantic friction of his pubic bone slamming against her clitoris with every deep, heavy thrust was too much. It was sending white-hot, agonizingly sweet waves of pleasure straight to her lower stomach, building a tension so tight she could barely breathe. She was entirely exposed beneath him, her nightgown ruined, her body slick with their combined fluids right in the shadow of the Seven, but looking up into his face, she realized this was her true altar. This fierce, possessive act of love was more comforting, more real, than any silent prayer she could have offered. He was her lord, her protector, her God tonight.

”You are here,“ she cried out, her voice echoing in the rafters.

”You are here!“

Her internal muscles clamped down incredibly tight around his thick length as her climax finally hit. Her body shook violently from head to toe, her hips twitching against his as she spent herself fully on the stone floor, her walls pulsing around him in desperate, gripping waves.

The tight, milking squeezes of her climax broke Ormund’s last thread of control. His breath hitched, a low, animalistic growl ripping from his throat. With a final, shattering thrust, Ormund drove into her one last, deep time, burying himself to the very root, pinning her hips flat against the stone as his own release tore through him. He threw his head back, the muscles in his neck straining, cords standing out as he pumped his hot, thick seed deep inside her core, wave after wave of his warmth filling her up until she felt heavy with him.

He trembled against her, his strength suddenly leaving him as he collapsed forward, his forehead resting against her shoulder. He panted heavily, his chest heaving against her breasts, his sweat dripping down onto her collarbone. His cock remained inside her, still twitching within her slick, filled heat, anchoring them together on the floor.

For a long time, the only sound in the Septry was the ragged, desperate ring of their breathing, and the slow, wet dripping of their combined fluids onto the cold stone beneath them. The candles flickered, some finally guttering out into columns of thin, white smoke, leaving the room darker, more intimate.

Eventually, the frantic energy faded, replaced by a heavy, aching exhaustion that settled into their bones. Ormund shifted his head, his face burying into the soft crook of her neck. His rough stubble scraped harshly against her delicate jaw and throat as he pressed a series of slow, worshipful kisses to the damp skin there—a silent, tender apology for his previous roughness, a return of the lord who cherished his lady.

”Come,“ he muttered against her skin, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

He slid out of her with a wet, soft sound, leaving her center tingling, cold, and dripping with his warmth. Before the chill of the stone floor could fully claim her body again, Ormund gathered her up in his massive arms. He stood up, lifting her effortlessly against his chest. Her ruined nightgown bunched around her waist, and she could feel his wet seed dripping slowly down the back of her thighs, a warm, heavy reminder of what they had just done.

He carried her out of the darkened Septry, leaving the silent wooden Gods behind, and stepped into their adjoining bedchamber. The bed was vast, piled high with soft down mattresses and heavy winter furs. He set her down gently in the center of the sheets, climbing in immediately after her before the warmth could escape.

Ormund dragged her back against his chest, his front flushing against her back until they were perfectly tangled together under the heavy blankets. His large hand came around her waist, resting possessively over her soft, sticky stomach, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her skin.

The rhythmic friction of his fingers brought a soft, contented sigh from her lips. He nudged his face back into her neck, his breathing slowing, his heartbeat steady, strong, and alive against her shoulder blades.

As the remaining candles at the shrine in the other room finally burned down to ash and darkness, she stared out the window at the faint, pale grey light of dawn beginning to bleed into the eastern sky. The vanguard would move soon. The horns would blow, and he would leave her.

She had not finished her prayer to the Mother.

She had not finished her plea to the Warrior.

But listening to the steady, living rhythm of her husband’s breathing, she closed her eyes and felt a strange, profound sense of peace.

She had given him his sanctuary. Now, she would wait for his return.

“Ormund,” you sighed as soon as the door to your shared chambers was closed. The feast had been uncomfortable for basically the entirety of it. Ormund shifting in his seat, eyes glaring your direction. He made conversation with anybody but you but the moment you attempted to stand to go join some of the dancing he had laid his palm across your lap. The messaging was clear. He wanted you to remain sat beside him. “I bathed this morning, my skin will grow dry.”

Lord Ormund Hightower, the man you’ve been wed to for close to four namedays now paid little mind to your concerns about skin irritation. Much larger concernes plagued his mind.

“I see now that I’ve been far too lenient.” He stood before the bath and tipped in a few vials of oil.

“lenient?” You almost laughed at that word choice. It felt like a scolding. That word hadn’t been directed at you since you were ten and two and your septa had been disappointed in some mostly innocent quest you’d gone on.

“I must be a better husband to you.” He continued and that made you frown, he was a fine husband. A entertaining and thoughtful one infact. Your hand touched his back and your brows furrowed.

“you’ve not done anything incorrectly husband-“ you began to assure him but he turned swiftly and his eyes sealed to your shoulder, collar and chest.

“I was not clear enough with you, nor firm enough.” You swallowed and your hands rose up to hold to your shoulders crossing over your chest as well, blocking where he was looking. Unease trickling down your spine.

“galavanting though my halls in something fit for a courtesan? I’ve let your humiliate yourself infront of the entire court!” His voice raised and you startled a bit.

“it’s a gown Ormund! It’s not anything proactive-“

“you do not see how they look upon you. What filthy thoughts they have about lady Hightower while you sit beside me, while you assure people they will be in your prayers on the morrow!?” You attempt to pull back from this entire confrontation but Ormund grabs your hip pulling you easily until your legs are flush to the large soaking tub. “Do you know what they think?” He growls into your ear from behind.

“I liked the color…the lace.” You reason.

“they imagine you knelt in that sacred space, bare in nothing but your veil while their name rolls off your lips.” It felt like a very specific depravity to be imagined.

“That is what you think of husband-even my collarbone startles you so?” You challenge looking over your shoulder at him. He clearly had been effected by the gown, by you specifically within in. Perhaps the dress was a bit less modest than normal but you did not think it was so shocking that lords were gawking at you?!

“I have already admitted my fault.” His hands were undoing your gowns laces, watching as it slipped down inch by inch until you had nothing but smallclothes on.

“which is?” You shive because his hand had wrapped around your waist and is currently drawing up towards your neck from your midsection.

“not controlling your beastly tendencies, letting you run about my city putting things on your body for you desire and allowing it because of mine.” His voice was deep and you felt warm in your stomach. Back leaning against him slightly. “I will cleanse you…so we might severe the gods and realm as intended.” His hands steadied over your shoulder once you were bare. He was notably still completely dressed. You assumed because whatever he was going to do if he became undressed at the same time as you would not serve the realm.

“I’m not a whore.” You sigh, slightly offended still by these dramatics. His seamstresses made the gown, it wasn’t as if you went to the markets and found some unwarranted style.

“And it is my duty to see to it that you never become one, never are perceived as one.” He nodded down to the water and waited for you to step into the tub and sink down before he went about rolling up both his sleeves. “Now,” he knelt beside the warm water and his hand touched your cheek first. “Allow me to look after you as a husband should…” he ticked on and he took up the soap and a cloth scrubbing them together and then moving it across your shoulders.

“they are too enticing to be seen by all.”

Your eyes lifted to look at his focused ones. “The gods warn against selfishness to Ormund.” You remind him knowing the next thing that was going to fall out of his mouth was going to be that only he shall see them moving forward.

You eased back until your back was against the edge of the tub and your legs were stretched out in the water, a hand holding the side so you wouldn’t drift about as Ormund made all your exposed skin sudsy.

“did you like my gown?” You ask softly when his hand dragged the cloth down the valley between your breasts. Which were bobbing in the water a bit, the occasional exposure to the cold air making your nipples bud.

“I’ve made my passion clear, have I not?”

“Yes, on others seeing me in it. But did your eyes enjoy it?” Your fingers let go of the tubs lip and your damp fingers wrap around his upper arm.

Ormund Hand lost focused and somewhere near your hips he dropped the drag. His eyes closed and brow struggled to remain stern. He had truly meant to be strict about this matter.

“you minx.” He huffed while leaned over some to meet his lips with yours. You kissed him back, small little pecks and giggled when his tongue probed for more. He was bold for alluding to your wanton-ness when he was now persuading you physically.

“Mm-I thought I needed c-cleansing?!” You gasped because his large hand settled over your mound and his fingers expertly found your clit between kisses.

“hush wife,” he growled into your neck sucking a mark roughly into the flesh there. One you’d need to cover, it was in a spot that would ensure your necklines were more than modest! “This is what you wanted?” His thumb took up position over your clit and two of his long fingers pushed down into your core. The water sloshed some, wetting his sleeve and you arched your hips up nodding.

“yes, gods yes.” You agree voice already fluttery. He knew just how to please you. “Ugh-“ your knees drew up and an arm shifted to hand around his head. He wasn’t kissing your neck any longer, he was simply just savoring feeling your pulse against his lips and inhaling the warm scent of you.

“I feel that…” he grinned and his fingers curled more. “Let go for me,” he urged and you nodded nails digging into the back of his neck. “Go on wife, get your fix so we might behave like civilized people for the rest of the night.”

You came with a gasp and when he saw you were about a give out a shout he pressed his mouth over yours.

“Will you wear that gown again?” He asked as you started to settle, limp and floaty in the tub.

Your head shook softly. “No…not if you keep making me feel like that.” You smiled softly blinking up at him.

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”