wild mountain thyme

Stolen gardenia, makeshift lapel It's bad behavior but I'll never tell if you don't And you won't (Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah) Your breath on my neck through my homecoming dress I'm more patient now than I ever have been Placated by a cold flask on your hip And we're dancing (Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah) Can I tell you a secret? (Ooh) I'm desperate for you

My love is my love, it's big love for you 'Til it's your love, then it's your love And it's your problem too Here, just inches away from you Four left feet in a room Always all over you You know and I know it's just how it goes We both get too close 'til we fucking explode And I hope they bury me right next to you

Ah, aah, aah Ah, aah, aah Brought a knife to the gunfight But they shoot blanks and I'm feeling crazy tonight (Ah) But I'm secretly still scared That you'll see underneath and you'll leave me here I'll cry till my hair all falls out (Nah-ah-ah-ah) Is it just me or is this room way too loud? Don't look now, but everyone's staring at us weird And is it just me, or is there no air in here?

My love is my love and bleeds like a wound You pretend not to notice something I like about you Young and sweet, only seventeen I'm the real pig blood soaked fucking homecoming queen Fire in my eyes, I just stand here and bleed Crying in your arms, baby, can't we just leave? Everyone's watching us and I can't breathe They're all gonna laugh at me

You awaken the following morning feeling no better than you did the day before, much to your dismay.

After preparing for the day as usual, you bring Baelor his breakfast, relieving Prince Maekar of his watch.

Once Baelor has finished eating, you help him into the solar. He intends to spend some time reading the correspondence that has accumulated during his illness. At first, you object.

“I do not intend to return to work,” he sayss with a small smile. “Only to keep informed of what is happening. Valarr is carrying out my duties as Hand, as he did the last time I was ill. I should at least know what he is dealing with.”

You cannot argue with that.

He settles at his desk while you resume your place beside him with your sewing basket. Yesterday you finished hemming your new handkerchief. Now you begin embroidering a border in red thread. It is intended for Baelor.

After a time, you notice him set one of the letters aside. He closes his eyes and rubs them with a weary sigh.

“Are you feeling alright?” You ask.

“I am.” He lets out a quiet breath. “Though I am finding it rather difficult to keep the words in focus.”

You immediately set your embroidery aside and hold out your hand.

“May I?”

He passes you the letter without protest. You smooth it open and begin reading aloud. You manage only a few sentences before stumbling over your words. You try again, with the same result. You stop with a frustrated sigh.

Baelor studies you quietly. “Please tell me what is troubling you.”

“I am fine.” You keep your eyes on the page.

From the corner of your vision, you see him turn in his chair to face you.

“You are not.” His voice remains gentle. “You have not been yourself since yesterday.”

 “I do not wish to burden you with my troubles while you are still recovering.”

“If something weighs upon your heart,” he says softly, “then I want to know.”

Reluctantly, you look up. His expression is patient. Concerned.

“Did something happen with Tom the other night?”

Your heart sinks. There is no point pretending otherwise. You fold the letter carefully before setting it on the desk, and lower your gaze once more, clasping your hands together in your lap.

“I told him about us.”

Baelor leans forward slightly, listening.

“Well...” You give a small smile. “He guessed there was something between us, and I told him the truth.”

“And how did he take it?”

“He does not disapprove.” You hesitate. “Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

You draw a slow breath. “He worries that… things might change.”

Baelor's brow furrows. “In what way?”

“He said that because we are not married, that if circumstances changed… there is nothing binding us together. That my place beside you depends entirely upon your feelings remaining the same.”

You cannot bring yourself to look at him. The words hurt even more spoken aloud.

You hear the scrape of his chair. When you glance up, he is already rising. He walks around the desk and lowers himself carefully to one knee before you.

“Be careful,” you say instinctively, reaching out to steady him by the arm.

Once he has settled, he gently takes your hand in both of his. His thumb brushes softly across your knuckles before he lifts your hand and presses the lightest kiss against your fingers. Only then does he look up to meet your eyes.

“Do you truly think so little of my feelings?”

“No…” Your voice trembles. “But they could change.”

His expression softens with unmistakable sadness.

“I would never have gone before my father and asked permission to marry you if I were not certain you are the woman I wish to spend my life with.”

Your eyes sting.

“I wanted to make you my wife. I still do.” He squeezes your hand gently. “My father's refusal has not altered that desire. It has only prevented it from becoming reality.”

His smile is small, but full of warmth.

“With every day that passes, I find myself growing more and more fond of you.”

You swallow against the tightness in your throat.

“Since my father refused my request, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about what still lies within my power.” He draws your joined hands a little closer. “I may never be permitted to call you my wife before the eyes of the realm, but I want you beside me… every day. I want to share meals with you, share our thoughts, our worries, our joys. If the realm will not allow us to be husband and wife in name, then let us be husband and wife in every way that truly matters.”

Tears spill over your lashes, and you quickly brush them away with the back of your hand.

“But I am still a servant,” you say, your voice unsteady. “We cannot live as husband and wife while that divide remains between us.”

“You will not need to be.” He reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently catching the tears you missed. “I can give you a place of your own. Somewhere far better than a small set of rooms on the other side of King's Landing. Somewhere close to me, where you need not remain in service, yet I may still see you every day.”

You can only stare at him. The offer is so unexpected that, for a moment, your mind refuses to grasp it.

“A proper home. Somewhere safe.” he continues, his thumb stroking lightly across your cheek. “It is not what I wished to give you. I wished to give you my name. But if I cannot do that, then at least allow me to give you this.”

“Baelor...” You shake your head faintly. “Surely that is too much.”

“Nothing is too much for you.”

The warmth of his smile is enough to undo you. Fresh tears gather and spill before you can stop them. You laugh softly through them.

“Please… get off your knees.”

“As you command.”

You rise at the same time, offering him your arm. He accepts it, using it only lightly as he pushes himself carefully to his feet. He seems steadier than he did yesterday.

Once upright, however, he makes no move to let go. One hand remains around your forearm, while the other lifts to cradle your cheek once more. You lean instinctively into his touch.

“You need not answer me now,” he says quietly. “I only want you to know that what I feel for you is no passing fancy.” His fingers stroke gently through a loose strand of your hair. “I want you in my life.”

Your throat tightens. You can only nod. No words seem equal to what fills your heart.

He draws you gently into his embrace. You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat while one of his hands settles protectively against the back of your head.

For the first time since Tom planted those doubts in your mind, you allow yourself to believe that perhaps your future is not quite as uncertain as it had seemed.

After a quiet moment, you lift your head. Baelor is already looking down at you. His eyes drift briefly to your lips before returning to yours, silently asking. You answer by leaning the final fraction of the distance. His lips meet yours in a gentle, tender kiss.

The last of the tension you've been carrying melts away. You close your eyes, sighing softly against him as, at last, you allow yourself to let go of your fears.

~

You bring Baelor his midday meal, and for the first time since his injury, he eats at the dining table instead of in bed.

Once he has finished, he expresses a desire for some fresh air, so you accompany him into the courtyard.

You settle together on a bench beneath the shade of a broad tree. Baelor sits close enough that your thighs brush, his arm resting lightly against yours. You resume your embroidery in the warm afternoon sunlight while he watches in comfortable silence.

After a time, you glance sideways at him.

“You're very quiet. Are you feeling alright?”

“I am.” He smiles. “I was merely admiring your skill.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips.

Moments later, he shifts a little closer and gently rests his head against your shoulder. Your needle stills for only a moment before you continue your stitching.

Each small movement sends the soft ends of his hair brushing against your cheek. You feel the steady warmth of him beside you, the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder.

It is such a simple thing. Yet it feels impossibly precious. For these few quiet moments, it is as though there is no distance between you at all.

-

Valarr had heard the rumours.

His wife, Kiera, had repeated the whispers her maid had overheard below stairs – that Baelor's cupbearer scarcely left his chambers during his illness, tending him herself instead of allowing a nurse to take her place. That Baelor had personally seen to the punishment of the servant who had assaulted her. That he had been seen visiting her in the servants' quarters late one evening. Some had even begun whispering that Prince Baelor had taken his cupbearer as his mistress.

Valarr had dismissed the gossip. His father was a kind and compassionate man. Servants often mistook such kindness for favour, while others delighted in inventing scandal where none existed.

Valarr arrives at his father’s chambers that afternoon, and knocks upon the chamber door. Receiving no answer, he lets himself inside.

The outer rooms stand empty. He crosses the solar and steps beneath the archway leading into the courtyard. There he stops.

His father sits upon a shaded bench, his head resting against his cupbearer's shoulder while she quietly sews. No words pass between them, yet Baelor looks… peaceful. More peaceful than Valarr can remember seeing him in years.

-

 “You're making another handkerchief?” Baelor asks.

“Yes.” You smile. “This one is for you.”

“Ah.” He leans forward to inspect it more closely, pointing towards the small embroidered dragon beginning to emerge along one edge. “That explains the dragon.”

“I hope you'll like it.”

“I shall treasure it.” He smiles. “Though I suspect I would be reluctant to use it.”

“Why?”

“I should hate to spoil something you made.”

You laugh softly. “It can be washed.”

As you lift your head, your smile falters. Prince Valarr stands beneath the courtyard arch, watching the two of you. Your breath catches, and you gently nudge Baelor with your elbow.

“You have a visitor,” you murmur.

He straightens immediately and turns.

“Valarr.” A smile crosses his face.

“Father.” The young prince inclines his head, though there is a brief pause before he speaks again. “Uncle Maekar said you wished to see me.”

“Yes.”

Baelor rises carefully from the bench. You stand with him, your hand hovering instinctively near his arm in case he loses his balance.

“Come into the solar,” Baelor says. “We shall speak there.”

Valarr's gaze flicks briefly towards you before returning to his father. Then the two of them disappear inside together. Left alone in the courtyard, you slowly lower yourself back onto the bench.

Prince Valarr had seen. A knot tightens in your stomach. Does he think less of you? Or worse: does he think less of his father?

~

Queen Myriah comes to Baelor's chambers the following afternoon, finding the two of you in the courtyard. Unlike Valarr, she does not discover you sitting together beneath the tree, but walking slowly along the courtyard's perimeter. You remain close at Baelor's side, though careful not to support him, allowing him to regain confidence walking unaided.

"Mother." Baelor smiles as soon as he notices her. "It is good to see you."

"And you." She steps into the sunlit courtyard to join him. "I am glad to find you on your feet again. How is your head?"

"Much better."

"And the dizziness?"

"It has almost entirely passed."

"Excellent."

Her gaze turns to you. "My dear, would you be so kind as to fetch us some wine?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

You dip into a quick curtsy before crossing the courtyard, disappearing back through the archway.

-

Queen Myriah waits until the outer door clicks softly shut before slipping her arm through Baelor's.

"Some days ago," she begins, "your father told me that you came to him with a rather unusual request."

Baelor's steps falter for the briefest moment before he continues walking.

"He said you wished him to grant your cupbearer's brother a lordship... so that you might marry her."

"I did."

There is no hesitation in his answer.

“Your father wondered whether your feelings might simply be akin to those of a wounded soldier falling in love with the nurse who tended him.”

Baelor stops walking altogether.

"It is nothing like that." He turns to face her. "Yes, she has cared for me when I have been ill. But that is not why I feel the way I do."

His mother's eyes soften, though she says nothing.

"She is kind." He continues, a faint smile touching his face. "She makes the world feel… lighter. When she is absent, I find myself searching for her. Whenever something happens – good or bad – she is the first person I want to tell. She sees me." His voice grows quieter. "Not as the heir. Not as a prince. But as a man. She has seen me uncertain, exhausted, frightened, in pain… and none of it has ever caused her to turn away. When I am with her, I do not feel that I must be anything other than myself."

"A rare gift," Myriah murmurs.

"I know." He lowers his eyes. "I understand why Father refused me. But I did not ask lightly. Do you think I would have gone before him if I were not certain?"

"No," Myriah says gently. "You would not."

Baelor gives the smallest nod.

"I wanted one thing that belonged to me alone, as selfish as that may be.”

"It is not selfish." She rests a hand upon his arm, studying him for a long moment. "You love her."

Baelor does not answer immediately. Instead, his thoughts drift to you. To the way your face brightens whenever you see him. To your laughter. To the quiet reassurance of your hand finding his whenever dizziness threatens to steal his footing. To the long hours you spent faithfully beside his bed. To the peace of simply sitting together in companionable silence, never needing words to fill it.

Somewhere along the way, you had become woven into every corner of his life. When he imagined tomorrow, you were there. When he imagined the years ahead, you were there too. He could no longer picture a future that did not include you.

He looks back at his mother.

"I do." A quiet smile spreads across his face. "I love her."

Myriah reaches up to cup his cheek.

"My darling."

Footsteps echo across the solar. Mother and son both turn as you emerge into the courtyard carrying a tray with a pitcher of wine and two goblets.

"Would you like the wine out here, Your Grace?" you ask.

"Oh." She smiles to herself. "I have just remembered a prior engagement." She gives you an apologetic look. "I'm terribly sorry to have troubled you, my dear."

"Not at all, Your Grace."

"Please, enjoy the wine between yourselves. I must be off."

She looks at Baelor one last time, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before departing.

You watch her disappear through the archway before carrying the tray to the shaded bench. Baelor joins you, pours a goblet for each of you, and passes one into your hands.

As he lifts his own cup, he catches himself simply watching you.

"What?" you ask with a smile.

He smiles back.

"Nothing." He raises his goblet. "I am simply glad you are here."

You laugh softly. "Where else would I be?"

~-~

The remainder of the afternoon passes peacefully. You work on your embroidery in the courtyard while Baelor watches contentedly beside you. The warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze seem to do him good.

About an hour after the sun disappears behind the courtyard walls, you return inside and bring up his supper.

He eats at the table before Arnol comes to help him wash and change. Once Arnol has left, you join Baelor in the bedchamber.

“How has your head been today?” You sit on the edge of the mattress beside him and run a gentle hand through his hair.

He closes his eyes at your touch, the sight warming something in your chest.

“It has ached very little today,” he says, turning to look at you. “Which is why I think I should forgo the milk of the poppy tonight.”

You take his hand in yours. “You're sure?”

“I am.” He strokes your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Though I confess I am not looking forward to it.”

“Because of last time?”

“Yes.” He exhales quietly. “The Grand Maester assures me it will not be as severe this time, but I cannot help dreading it.”

“Of course.” You smile gently. “Would you like me to stay with you tonight?”

“No, you must rest.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “Maekar will look after me.” He smiles. “But thank you for offering.”

A short time later, Maekar arrives to take over. You wish him and Baelor goodnight before heading downstairs.

~

“Ser Duncan?” you greet the knight with surprise as you come across him while preparing Baelor’s breakfast. “What are you doing down here at this hour?”

“Prince Maekar sent me to fetch some water.”

You frown, confused.

“There’s no need. I always bring water with Baelor’s breakfast.” You tap the side of the pitcher resting on the tray before you.

“Not for drinking,” Ser Duncan clarifies, lowering his voice. “It’s started – the ill-effects of stopping milk of the poppy.”

“Oh.” Your heart sinks. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I could bring to make him more comfortable?”

“I think just your presence will bring him some ease. You go to him. I’ll be there shortly.”

You make your way up to the Tower of the Hand more quickly than usual, the breakfast tray balanced carefully in your hands.

You push the door open with your hip and begin crossing the dining room as Prince Maekar steps out from the bedchamber, his gaze finding you instantly.

“How is he?” you ask.

“He slept little,” Maekar replies. “And could not settle. Every few moments he would shift position, throw the covers off while sweating profusely, then ask for them back again because he was cold.”

You frown. “Has the Grand Maester come to see him?”

“He was here a short time ago. He says this is to be expected. We just need to keep him as comfortable as we are able while he gets through it.”

You take in the sight of the prince before you. His usually neat hair is askew, and the skin beneath his eyes has taken on a purplish hue.

“I will take over now, Your Grace. You should get some rest.”

He hesitates a moment, then nods before heading for the outer door and stepping out.

You carry the breakfast tray into the bedchamber, where Baelor lies in bed, the blanket twisted around his feet while his upper body is exposed.

You set the tray down on the bedside table with a quiet click, and Baelor opens his eyes.

“You’re here,” he says weakly.

Beads of sweat have formed across his brow, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

“I am,” you say softly, reaching into your pocket for your handkerchief.

You fold it and dab the sweat from his brow before moving to the dampness at the neckline of his shirt, gently blotting the sweat gathered across his chest.

Footsteps approach, and you glance towards the door as Ser Duncan steps inside, carrying a basin with a cloth draped over its side. You move the breakfast tray aside to make room, and he sets the basin beside it.

“It’s cold water,” he says. “I thought it might bring some relief.”

“Thank you, Ser Duncan,” you reply gratefully.

You reach for the cloth and dip it into the water. After wringing it out, you bring the cool linen to Baelor’s face, gently wiping away the sheen of perspiration.

“I’ll be just outside if you need anything else,” Ser Duncan says.

You nod your thanks before he steps back out.

“Do you feel well enough to eat?” you ask as you move the cloth down to his neck.

His legs shift restlessly beneath the blanket, never seeming to find a comfortable position.

“I believe so.”

He leans forward, propping himself up on his elbows. You rearrange the pillows behind him, and he settles back against them.

You fill his goblet with water and place the breakfast tray on his lap, passing him the cup. He takes a long drink, as though only now realising how thirsty he is. You notice his fingers trembling faintly against the silver.

“How is your head today?” you ask.

“Mostly fine,” he says. “It is everything else that feels wrong. I cannot seem to get comfortable, no matter what I do.”

“I’m sorry,” you say sadly. “I wish I could do more.”

“You’re already doing more than enough.”

Once he has finished with breakfast – having managed barely half of it – you accompany him into the courtyard.

He sits beside you for only a minute or two before rising to pace slowly along the path. After several restless circuits, he returns to the bench, only to stand again a short while later.

“Did you bring your embroidery?” he asks.

You nod and fetch it from inside before settling beside him once more.

“Show me what you're working on.”

You know he only asks to distract himself from his discomfort, and you are more than happy to oblige. As you sew, you explain the different stitches, demonstrating each one as you speak. He watches your hands with quiet concentration, asking the occasional question, grateful for anything that draws his mind away from the unease his body refuses to let him escape.

~

When midday comes, Baelor only picks at his food, saying his stomach feels too unsettled to eat properly.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon, exhaustion finally catches up with him. He drifts into short, fitful sleeps, waking often with a start before drifting off again. Each time he wakes, you quietly dab the sweat from his brow.

He eats a little at dinner before Arnol comes to help him wash and change.

“I am sorry,” Baelor says once he is dressed in fresh clothes and sitting up in bed.

“Whatever for?” you ask from your chair.

“I have been terrible company today.”

“I’m not here to be entertained. I’m here to look after you.”

“Nevertheless, I hope this will not last much longer. I look forward to the day we may spend time together without speaking of medicines, meals, or whether I have rested enough.”

“The unpleasantness will be over soon.” You reach over and rest your hand on his. “Then we can spend our days however we please.”

A faint smile touches his lips.

“I should like that.”

A short while later, Maekar comes to relieve you, and you update him on Baelor's condition before turning in for the night.

~

Prince Maekar meets you when you arrive the following morning, looking no more rested than he had the previous day – perhaps even less so.

“He was sick in the night,” he says.

Your heart sinks.

“The Grand Maester says it is to be expected.” He rubs wearily at his brow. “He also said Baelor's wound is healing well, and the stitches can be removed once he is settled enough to sit through the procedure.”

“Well, that's something,” you say. “I will take over now, Your Grace.”

He gives you a grateful look before departing.

When you step into the bedchamber, Baelor is already sitting up, awake. His face looks pale and clammy, and the shadows beneath his eyes have returned. The sight brings a sharp pang of sympathy to your chest.

“Prince Maekar told me you had a difficult night,” you say softly as you set the breakfast tray down beside the water basin and cloth already waiting there.

Baelor gives a small nod.

“I fear my stomach began to protest as well.”

“How are you feeling now?”

“As though I have spent the night at sea.”

You offer him a sympathetic look before wetting the cloth and bringing it to his brow, brushing his hair aside with your other hand.

“Do you think you could manage some breakfast?”

He sighs. “I ought to at least try.”

You pour him some water and pass him the goblet before settling the breakfast tray across his lap.

He manages only a few spoonfuls of porridge before his expression changes. His complexion drains further, and he hastily sets the spoon down.

“Baelor?”

“I’m terribly sorry…”

You reach over at once and lift the tray from his lap. Baelor throws the blanket aside and rises, hurrying across the room to the chamberpot in the corner before dropping to his knees beside it. The sound of him retching makes your chest tighten painfully.

When it finally subsides, the room falls quiet. He remains there for a long moment, one hand braced against the wall, before slowly pushing himself upright and making his way back to the bed.

“My apologies,” he says quietly as he sinks onto the mattress.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“You should not have to deal with this.”

You lean forward, resting your hand gently on his forearm.

“Look at me.”

He does so reluctantly, plainly embarrassed.

“There is nothing shameful about being ill.”

“I wish you would not have to see me like this.”

“If it were me in your place,” you ask gently, “would you think I ought to apologise? To feel ashamed?”

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

“No.”

“There you have it.” You smile warmly.

~

Baelor manages to get a little rest between breakfast and midday. When you bring him a simple meal, you can tell as soon as you place the tray on his lap that he is reluctant.

“I cannot promise I shall keep it down,” he says, looking apprehensively at the plate before him.

“Then we’ll simply try,” you reply. “Take it slowly.”

He manages a few spoonfuls before stopping when the nausea begins to return. Thankfully, this time he does not bring anything up.

After about half an hour, when the little he has eaten stays down, he cautiously takes a few more bites.

Throughout the afternoon, Baelor cannot settle. He lies down, only to rise again a few minutes later. He walks to the window, stands there for a time, then returns to the bed. Soon after, he decides to sit in the solar instead. Barely five minutes pass before he is on his feet once more, wandering out into the courtyard, only to come back inside again.

“I feel absurd,” he says with a quiet huff, though there is little humour in it.

~

You sit beside the bed, working on your embroidery while Baelor drifts between waking and sleep, when the silence is broken by his quiet voice.

“There were a few moments today… when I wished I had not stopped taking milk of the poppy.”

You set your needle aside and look up.

“Only because I wanted… this feeling to stop.”

You reach for his hand.

“Yet you endured,” you say softly. “You have shown great strength in seeing it through. And tomorrow will be better.”

He brings your hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against your fingers.

“I hope so.”

At last, Baelor's restlessness gives way to exhaustion, and he sleeps almost without interruption until suppertime, when he manages to eat a little more.

When Maekar arrives to take over, you quietly update him on Baelor's condition before wishing them both goodnight and heading downstairs.

~

When you arrive with breakfast the following morning, Maekar is sitting at the desk in the solar.

“His attendant is with him,” he explains when you approach.

You nod, setting the breakfast tray on the table.

“How is he?” you ask.

“He slept through most of the night.”

The words bring visible relief to Maekar. You feel your own shoulders loosen, releasing tension you hadn't realised you were carrying.

“I’m so glad. And he hasn't been sick again?”

“He has not.”

You smile just as Arnol steps out of the bedchamber, his arms full of bed linens.

“His Grace is ready for you now,” he says before leaving the chambers.

Maekar rises with a quiet groan.

“The Grand Maester should be here within the hour to remove Baelor's stitches.”

“That's good,” you reply. “I'll see to him now, Your Grace.”

He nods his thanks before heading for the outer door.

You pick up the tray and step into the bedchamber, where Baelor is sitting in the chair you usually occupy. He looks up with a smile as you enter.

“The sweating has mostly stopped, so I had Arnol change the bed. I did not like the thought of sleeping on damp sheets another night.”

His complexion has improved considerably. The pallor has left his face, and the shadows beneath his eyes have faded.

“You look much better,” you say with a smile. “It seems the worst is over.”

“It would seem so.” His gaze drops to the tray in your hands. “I think I'd like to take my breakfast at the table today, if you don't mind.”

“Of course.”

You step back into the solar, setting the tray on the table and laying out the dishes and goblet.

Baelor follows a moment later, pulling out his usual chair and easing himself into it.

He finishes most of the meal before taking a long drink of water and leaning back with a contented sigh.

“I think this is the longest I've seen you sit still in the past two days,” you remark.

He chuckles quietly just as a knock sounds at the outer door.

“Enter,” Baelor calls.

The Grand Maester steps inside, his satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” he says as he approaches, then glances at the plate before Baelor. “My apologies for interrupting your breakfast.”

“Not at all,” Baelor replies, nudging the plate away. “I have eaten all I can for now.”

“You have been keeping food down?” the Grand Maester asks as he sets his satchel upon the table.

“I have not been sick since yesterday morning.”

“Excellent.” The Grand Maester smiles. “I have come to remove your stitches, if you are ready, Your Grace.”

“I am. Where would be best?”

“Here is perfectly suitable. If you would turn your chair to face the light.”

Baelor does so, and you quietly move the remaining dishes aside to give the Grand Maester room to work.

He lays out his instruments and begins the procedure. You remain close by, ready should either man require anything.

It is over much sooner than you expect. Before long, the Grand Maester is packing away his instruments.

“I am very pleased with how the wound has healed, Your Grace. There will be a scar, but not an unsightly one.”

Baelor glances your way with the faintest smile.

“I am glad to hear it.”

“My only advice now is not to push yourself. Do not return to your duties until you are truly recovered. Rest when you need to, and avoid any vigorous exercise.”

“And no more blows to the head,” Baelor adds.

“Quite.” The Grand Maester's lips twitch with amusement. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No. That will be all. Thank you, Grand Maester.”

The old man bows.

“Good day, Your Grace.”

He slips the satchel back over his shoulder and departs.

Baelor raises his fingers to the fresh scar on his forehead before turning towards you, his mouth already opening to speak.

“I still find you very handsome,” you say before he has the chance.

He laughs – a proper laugh this time, warm and unrestrained. You cannot help smiling in return.

You spend some time together in the courtyard before Baelor sends for Valarr to discuss matters of the Hand in the solar.

Later that afternoon, the king and queen come to visit, both expressing their relief to find Baelor so clearly on the mend.

~

“Father wants to hold a family dinner, now that I am feeling better,” Baelor says at suppertime.

“So soon? But you are still in need of rest.”

“He is planning it for two days hence.” Baelor smiles. “And it shall be here in my chambers, so I needn't go to too much trouble.”

“Well, there's something to look forward to – proper food.”

Baelor chuckles. “Yes, there will not be a bowl of broth in sight.”

You stay with Baelor for a while after Arnol has tended to him, working on the now nearly finished handkerchief while Baelor goes through some letters.

“You should get some rest,” you say, looking up when you hear him yawn.

“I should.” He sighs. “I look forward to the day I no longer tire so easily.”

“It shouldn't be long,” you say reassuringly. “Your body is still adjusting.”

“I certainly hope so.”

He folds the letter he has been reading and sets it on the desk.

“I am certain Maekar will be glad to have his nights to himself. Though I imagine it will take some time for him to grow accustomed to keeping normal hours again.”

“Yes. He has been living rather like a bat – sleeping through the day and awake through the night.”

“Though without the hanging upside down,” Baelor adds.

“As far as you know,” you reply, arching an eyebrow.

He laughs softly and rises from his chair, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I confess, my eyes do feel rather heavy.”

“Off to bed with you, then,” you say with mock sternness.

He crosses to you, lifting his hands to cup your face.

“Goodnight.”

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. You close your eyes, savouring the gentle touch.

“Goodnight, Baelor,” you say with a smile as he draws back.

~

You and Baelor are in the courtyard the following day when Queen Myriah arrives.

She steps into the sunlit space, approaching her son with a smile.

“You are looking better by the day, darling.” She raises a hand to stroke his cheek.

“And I feel better by the day.”

“I am so glad.” She smiles, then turns to you. “Thank you for tending to my son with such… devotion.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Grace.” You bow your head.

“Would you join me for a walk in the gardens?”

You blink, taken aback.

“If you do not mind me borrowing her for a little while.” She looks back at Baelor.

“I do not mind.” His gaze finds you, as though making sure you are comfortable with it.

“I've never seen the gardens before.” You smile.

“Then you must allow me to show you. I think you will enjoy them.”

You fall into step beside her as she leads you from the Tower of the Hand and into the castle grounds.

The bustle of servants and guards gradually fades behind you, replaced by birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves stirred by the afternoon breeze.

You cannot help slowing your pace to take in your surroundings. Flowers and plants you've never seen before bloom in every colour imaginable, their fragrances mingling in the warm afternoon air. It is unlike anywhere you have ever been.

“It's beautiful here,” you murmur.

Queen Myriah smiles. “It is my favourite place in the Red Keep. Whenever court grows overwhelming, I come here for a little while.”

The two of you continue walking at an easy pace. For a time, little is said beyond the queen pointing out particular flowers, especially those native to her homeland of Dorne.

Although you are enjoying this beautiful place, a quiet anxiety lingers beneath your wonder. You know she would not have brought you here simply for a pleasant stroll.

Your answer comes as she slows beside a softly trickling fountain.

“Baelor speaks very highly of you,” she says.

Your heart gives a small, startled leap.

“He is generous,” you reply quietly, clasping your hands before you.

“No… he is fond of you. Very much so.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks, and for a moment you cannot think what to say. Your mouth opens, then closes again without a word.

“You are not in any trouble, dear.” She smiles kindly. “I simply wish to know the woman who has captured my son's heart.”

A shy smile steals across your lips.

“What would you like to know, Your Grace?”

“He has already told me that you are kind, and that you bring him peace. But what is it you see in him? What is it you hope for with him?”

“Baelor is…” You falter.

How can one describe him in mere words? A nervous laugh escapes you, and Queen Myriah smiles encouragingly.

“I knew from the first day I served him that he is kind and thoughtful. He addresses his servants by name and thanks them. He made sure that after my brother was injured, we would not lose our home while he was unable to work. He never made me feel foolish when I made mistakes – and I did make them.” You smile sheepishly.

“But I think I truly understood what sort of man he was after I was attacked by another servant.” Your gaze drifts away, the memory still uncomfortable. “Baelor came all the way to my home, on the opposite side of King's Landing, to see me. He offered one of the Keep's maesters to tend my wounds… and he made certain the man responsible was punished.

“Most men in his position would never involve themselves in servants' affairs – in whatever happened below stairs. But Baelor showed nothing but compassion. During one of the most frightening times of my life, he was there. And when I returned to the Keep, I no longer had anything to fear because he had seen to it. He made me feel like I mattered.”

Myriah steps a little closer and places a gentle hand upon your arm.

“I am sorry you went through such a thing.”

You notice her gaze briefly linger on your cheek, where the scars, though much faded, still remain.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I think without the support of Baelor, and my dear brother Tom, I would be a much changed person.”

“Is Tom your elder?”

“Yes, Your Grace, by two years.”

“There is a special bond between an elder brother and his younger sister.” She smiles. “He will always be your fiercest protector.”

You chuckle. “I believe you’re right, Your Grace.”

Your gaze settles on the sparkling water of the fountain.

“As for your other question... my dearest wish is for Baelor to be happy.” You look back at her. “If I can bring him some measure of happiness and peace, give him a place where he can simply be himself, and lighten his days, even a little… that would mean more to me than I can say.”

“Even if you cannot marry?”

“Even then.” You smile. “Baelor never told me he intended to speak to the king about us. I only learned of it when he told me the king had refused.”

The queen laughs softly.

“From all you have told me, I have come to realise my son is quite the romantic. I never knew.”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement before growing thoughtful.

“He has always carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Even as a boy. If one of his brothers scraped a knee, Baelor somehow believed it was his responsibility to make everything right again.” She lets out a fond chuckle. “Especially Maekar. Oh, how Baelor doted upon him from the moment he was born. There were times I would go to the nursery and find Maekar gone. I would be beside myself with worry, only to discover Baelor sitting quietly with little Maekar in his lap, reading a story.”

You smile warmly at the image.

“It's difficult to imagine Prince Maekar as a baby.”

“Not for me.” Myriah's smile becomes wistful. “I do not think there shall ever be a day when I look upon my boys – my men – and not still see the children they once were.”

For a few moments she gazes into the distance, lost in memories, before looking back at you.

“Come. We should return before Baelor begins to wonder whether I have spirited you away forever.”

You both laugh, then begin the walk back towards the castle.

You part ways in one of the Keep's lower corridors and take the familiar route back to the Tower of the Hand.

As you climb the final flight of stairs, you find yourself smiling.

You step into Baelor's chambers. He looks up from the letter in his hands the moment you enter, his face brightening immediately.

“There you are at last.” He smiles. “I was beginning to think Mother had decided to keep you for herself.”

“You have nothing to fear.” You cross the room to him, smiling all the while. “I am still yours.”

~

The remainder of the afternoon passes peacefully, with you embroidering while Baelor tends to his letters.

When suppertime comes, you fetch Baelor's meal, and at his request, a second plate for yourself.

It feels wonderful to share a meal with him again.

After you clear the dishes, Arnol arrives to help Baelor wash and dress for the night. Once he has left, you join Baelor in the solar.

It begins with him reading while you embroider, but the book does not hold his attention for long. Before long, his gaze drifts instead to your hands, and he watches you work.

At last, you fasten off the final thread and remove the handkerchief from the embroidery frame.

“It is finished,” you say with a smile, smoothing the square of linen across your lap. “And now it is yours.”

Baelor sets his book aside and reaches for the handkerchief, handling it as though it were something precious. He unfolds it with great care, studying the delicate red embroidery that borders the linen. His thumb traces the stitching until it reaches the small three-headed dragon worked into one corner.

“It is beautiful.” He looks up at you with gentle eyes before holding it lightly against his heart. “It truly feels too fine to use.”

“If you are determined not to use it, then perhaps you could display it somewhere. But please do not stuff it into a drawer to be forgotten. I spent a great deal of time on it, as you well know,” you say with mock sternness.

“I think I shall keep it in my pocket, so I may take it out and admire it whenever I please. Would that satisfy you?”

“It would.” You smile, pleased.

He folds it carefully and places it upon the desk before stifling a yawn.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I am still not quite back to my full strength.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Besides, you have come a long way in only a few days.”

“Thanks to you.” He smiles.

“I think the Grand Maester deserves rather more credit than that. And your dear brother.”

“Yes.” He smiles. “I shall make sure to thank them properly.”

“But in the meantime, you should rest. I shall leave you to sleep.” You rise from your chair.

“Before you go…” he says gently, taking your wrist.

You turn back.

“What is it?”

“I've been meaning to thank you properly.”

“There is no need, Baelor,” you protest softly.

“There is every need.” He takes your hand in both of his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You stayed beside me through every difficult day. When everything felt like a struggle, the one thing I could always count on was finding you there. You were with me through it all.” He rises, releasing your hand only to lift one to your cheek. “I cannot express how grateful I am.”

“I wanted to do it,” you reply with a smile.

“I know.” He returns the smile. “And I shall never forget it.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment before leaning forward, his lips meeting yours in a slow, lingering kiss.

When you part, he rests his forehead lightly against yours. Your hand drifts to the back of his neck, your fingers slipping gently into his hair. He closes his eyes with a contented sigh.

A moment later, your fingers catch upon a tangle near the nape of his neck.

“I think illness has made you neglect your hair,” you say.

“It would not tangle so if you had not made me to keep it longer.”

“Made you?” You pull back with an incredulous laugh. “I did no such thing. You may do whatever you please with your own hair.”

He hums thoughtfully.

“I think I shall keep it longer… for a time, at least. It reminds me of when I was young.”

“You speak as though you are an old man.”

“I feel like one of late,” he says with a wry smile.

You laugh softly.

“Well, you certainly don't look like one. Come into the bedchamber. I shall comb your hair.”

He follows you into the bedchamber, where you retrieve a carved bone comb from the washstand. You gesture for him to sit on the edge of the bed, and take your place beside him. Slowly, you begin working the comb through his hair, taking care not to tug at the knots.

As you do, you notice a scar hidden amongst the strands at the back of his head – his injury from the Trial of Seven.

You take extra care around it, patiently working through each tangle until the comb glides smoothly from root to tip.

“There.” You say, setting the comb down beside you.

Baelor sighs contentedly.

“That was nice.”

You lean in and press a gentle kiss just below his ear, where his hair curls softly against his neck. His eyes close, and he draws a quiet breath. Then his expression shifts, a faint flush rising to his cheeks.

“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat.

“What for?”

You notice him shift his hands in his lap. Glancing down, you catch sight of the bulge beneath his breeches.

“Oh,” you murmur.

Emboldened by the sight of him like this – because of you – you guide his chin toward you with a fingertip and kiss him again. This time his mouth opens against yours, warm and hesitant at first. Your hand trails down his neck, over the steady thrum of his pulse, then lower, until your palm settles over the hard length of him. Even through the fabric, he feels incredibly warm. Your heart hammers so fiercely you’re certain he can hear it. You meet his eyes, searching. There is no reluctance there – only dark, hungry want.

Slowly, you close your fingers around the shape of him. Baelor’s breath catches sharply. He leans in, kissing you harder now, more desperate, as you stroke upward along his length. His hips twitch once, involuntarily, and the low sound that escapes him sends a thrill straight through you.

You press your free hand to his chest and gently push. He yields easily, letting you guide him back onto the mattress. You follow, settling beside him, your leg hooking over his as his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you flush against his body.

The fabric between your hand and his arousal suddenly feels unbearable. You slide your fingers beneath the waistband of his breeches, seeking skin. Understanding immediately, Baelor reaches down to loosen the laces with trembling fingers. He tugs the breeches down just enough, and his cock springs free – flushed dark, hard, and glistening at the tip. For a moment you simply look at him, awed. All this because of your touch.

You wrap your fingers around his bare length. He’s velvet-smooth and hot, pulsing against your palm. A small, involuntary noise slips from your throat at the feel of him. Before it can fully escape, Baelor’s mouth claims yours again, as if he means to drink the sound straight from your lips.

You begin to stroke him properly now – slow, steady drags from base to tip, learning the weight and shape of him. His breath stutters every time your thumb brushes over the sensitive head, spreading the slick bead of moisture that gathers there. His hips roll up into your fist in small, helpless motions, and the arm around your waist tightens.

His free hand slips beneath the front of your blouse, fingers fumbling at the edge of your bodice. When the laces prove too stubborn, you help him, tugging the knot free. His palm immediately slides inside, cupping the soft weight of your breast. The pad of his thumb circles your nipple and you let out a shuddered breath as warmth floods between your legs.

He buries his face in the curve of your neck, lips and breath hot against your skin. His groans grow deeper, more broken, as your hand moves faster. You feel every twitch, every throb, the way his cock swells even harder in your grip.

Then his whole body tenses. His arm locks around you, pulling you impossibly closer as he shudders violently. Warmth spills over your fingers and onto your wrist in several strong spurts as his cock pulses in your hand. He groans and gasps against your throat while his hips jerk through the last waves of pleasure.

When the trembling finally eases, he sags against you with a long, shaky exhale, face tucked against your chest.

“I… did not mean to spend so quickly. But… it has been some time since…”

“You needn’t explain.” You say, planting a soft kiss on the top of his head. “I’m glad I could make you feel good.”

He looks up, his hand finding your waist.

“Allow me to do the same for you.” he says, his eyes dark, face flushed.

You shake your head, though the sight of him sends another rush of warmth through you.

“Is something the matter?” His expression softens with concern as he props himself up on one elbow.

“Nothing at all.” You smile. “Tonight was for you.”

“But–”

You silence him with a kiss.

“You’ve spent the last week in pain and discomfort,” you say as you draw back. “If I could give you one night of pleasure, then I’m happy.”

You sit up and retrieve your handkerchief from your pocket, quietly cleaning your hand of Baelor’s arousal.

He reaches for one of his own rom the bedside drawer to tend to himself, before pulling up and lacing his breeches. Then he turns back to face you.

“Are you certain?”

“I am.” You place your hand over his.

He studies your face for a long moment, his thumb absently brushing over your knuckles.

“It is not because… you do not wish for me to touch you in that way?”

“That isn't it at all.” You lean forward until your forehead rests lightly against his. “I want you, Baelor. Believe me.”

A quiet smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a slow breath, as though he had not realised he had been holding it.

“But you are still recovering,” you continue, brushing a loose strand of hair back from his forehead. “You've only just begun to feel like yourself again. I would not want you to overtax yourself on my account.”

He hums thoughtfully.

“Then allow me to repay your kindness another time.”

The warmth in his voice sends a pleasant shiver through you.

“I shall look forward to it very much.” You laugh softly before stealing one last kiss. “Now, get some sleep. You must be well-rested for your family dinner tomorrow evening.”

“I shall try,” he says with a smile. “Though I suspect sleep may prove difficult.”

“Oh?”

“I expect I shall spend the night thinking of you.”

Warmth spreads through your chest.

“Then dream of me instead.”

You rise from the bed, smoothing your skirts.

“Goodnight, Baelor.”

“Goodnight…” He smiles softly. “And thank you.”

Your core is still throbbing with need as you hurry back through the dimly lit corridors to your own small bedchamber. Every step makes you achingly aware of the slick heat between your thighs, the evidence of what you just did to Baelor still lingering on your skin and in your mind.

The moment the door closes behind you, you lean back against the wood for a second, breathing hard. Then you cross to the bed and lie down, not even bothering to undress fully. You simply hitch your skirts and petticoats up around your waist, parting your legs as your hand slides down.

Your fingers slip easily between your folds. You’re soaked, wetter than you have ever been. The first touch to your sensitive pearl makes you gasp softly. You close your eyes and let the memories wash over you.

The way Baelor had shuddered against you. The broken sounds he made into your neck as he came. The heavy, velvet-hard feel of his cock pulsing in your hand. The warmth of his spend against your fingers. The way he had looked at you afterward – flushed and grateful.

This time, touching yourself feels entirely different from the hopeless longing after his name day feast. Now he is yours, and you are his. Soon you will have all of him.

Your fingers move faster, circling and stroking with growing urgency. You imagine it’s his hand instead – those long fingers that had cupped your breast so reverently. You imagine his mouth on your neck again, his breath hot against your skin. A soft moan escapes you as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly.

It doesn’t take long. With a sharp cry you tip over the edge, thighs trembling as waves of release crash through you. Your core pulses hard around nothing, wishing desperately that he was filling you instead.