It's not great, Dan.

Baelor’s jaw worked before he answered. His gaze drifted briefly toward the open pages again rather than his brother. “I don’t intend to consummate our union until she’s–”

“Seven Hells, Baelor, this isn’t your first time at this. You can’t truly be that daft.”

“I refuse to push her on this.”

“She wears the colors of your eyes on a chain around her neck, for Seven’s sake. You do her more disservice than good refusing her your first night together.”

“Maekar–”

“She’s marrying the heir to the throne, she well knows her duty–”

“To the seven with duty, I won’t force–”

“Baelor, have you spoken to her like I told you to?”

One look at Baelor gave him his answer. With a heavy sigh, the fight seemed to leave him then. “All your wordsmithing and for what?” The mockery began to ebb from Maekar’s expression. He edged closer instead, studying his brother more carefully now. “You could go to her now and avoid all of this.”

Baelor stared down at the open book for so long Maekar almost thought he would not reply.

When he finally spoke, his voice came low and rough. “She trusts me, Maekar.” His fingers tightened against the edge of the binding.

“The way she looks at me…” Baelor paused, almost lost in thought. “…like I’m some knight from a song.” His voice broke as if the words hurt him. His eyes raised skyward, ruefully. “I won’t squander that by overwhelming her.”

He couldn’t shake the dread of Saerys enduring him, of watching her trust give way to fear the moment she realized only too late the full force of his want for her.

Maekar watched him carefully then, and for perhaps the first time that evening, he understood the true shape of his brother’s problem. “Baelor,” he said haltingly, “you speak as though she didn’t choose this.”

Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose and spoke before he could stop himself. “You speak as though my wanting her is some gentle thing.” He pointed a finger at his brother, heated. “Wasn’t it you, not long ago, who warned that I would terrify her?”

Maekar at least had the decency to look regretful. “I did, I’m sorry for it.” He swallowed before continuing with a small admission. “We can both admit this stopped being mere acceptance some time ago.” He made a gesture with his hand. “There’s a tenderness between the two of you now.”

Baelor looked away, shame and frustration warring plainly across his face before only fear remained. “If I start,” he admitted quietly, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself at tenderness.”

For a moment the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. For perhaps the first time that evening, he stopped seeing the brother who reached for duty like a favored cloak. He saw the widower who had spent twelve years convincing himself that wanting anything too deeply inevitably ended in loss.

Maekar finally spoke again. “You speak about tomorrow night as though she’s being dragged to the Sept,” he scoffed softly. “She’s marrying the man she asked for.”

Baelor tensed and looked away sharply at that. ”She didn’t—”

“—She went to you,” Maekar pressed. “Not father. Not me. You.” The words landed like blows. “And now, you’re so busy fearing your own bloody urges that you’ll likely have her wondering why her husband can barely bear to touch her.”

“I would never shame her.”

“No,” Maekar agreed dryly. “You’d just gallantly make the decision for her again, forsaking what she might actually want.”

Silence stretched taut between them. Again. The possibility in that word sliced through him like a blade. Hadn't he already made one irrevocable choice on her behalf? The implicit accusation lodged beneath his ribs, and Baelor replied in kind.  “I’m finished with this conversation.” He bit out sharply.

“With me? Fine,” Maekar groused. He turned toward the doorway before pausing long enough to throw one final barb over his shoulder.

“You see gratitude because it’s safer than seeing the truth.” Baelor’s gaze snapped toward him.

“You rescued her, yes,” Maekar said dryly. “But no woman alive looks at a man that way simply because he was kind to her.” Then he stalked from the room.

After the door closed behind his brother, silence reclaimed the study. The fire crackled softly in the hearth while somewhere beyond the windows the Red Keep settled gradually into night. Even at this hour the castle had not fully surrendered to sleep. He could still hear distant voices drifting faintly upward from the yards below where preparations for tomorrow continued beneath torchlight, the sound carrying just enough to remind him that by this time tomorrow he would be a married man.

No woman alive looks at a man that way simply because he was kind to her.

The words lingered stubbornly. Against his will, memories rose to meet them.

The tack room. Dust motes drifted through shafts of morning sunlight while the scent of leather, hay, and notes of lavender lingered in the air around them. He remembered how close she had stood that day, close enough that he could still recall the amber flecks hidden within her dark eyes, he could still summon the feeling of her soft inner wrist under his fingers. For one suspended moment the world seemed to contract around the space, leaving only the sound of her breathing and the dangerous awareness of how little separated them.

The captain's interruption had shattered the moment before either of them could discover what might have followed, and afterward Baelor had done what he always did when confronted with something he did not wish to examine too closely. He had found an explanation. They were newly betrothed. The circumstances had been unusual. Proximity had created an illusion of intimacy where none truly existed.

Yet the memory lingered, just as the memory of the steps below the keep beckoned still. Rain had fallen so heavily that night, water streaming from battlements and rooftops alike. He remembered the immediate rush of relief at returning home, accompanied by the realization that she was there waiting, the hour and the rain an afterthought.

He remembered the way her face had brightened when she saw him. How he leaned close enough that he could feel her breath on his lips. Even now he could feel the ache of how badly he wanted to kiss her, with rain falling around them and half the keep looking on.

She had worried for his safety. She had missed him. She trusted him. All of those things were true, and each explanation had provided another stone with which to reinforce the wall he had carefully built around his own hopes.

Gratitude was simple enough to accept. It allowed him to remain what he had promised to be, her protector, her safe harbor, the man who would ask nothing of her that she was not prepared to freely give. It could be borne as readily as countless other burdens had been before it.

Could it be though, that when she looked at him she saw not merely the prince who had rescued her, nor the future king she had agreed to wed, but the man himself, with all the inconvenient wants and hopes Baelor had spent years teaching himself to ignore? The thought felt almost arrogant.

For months he had named that caution wisdom and carried it like it was honor, yet sitting alone in the quiet of his study with Maekar's words echoing stubbornly through the room, Baelor found himself wondering whether some part of him had simply been too afraid to believe that Saerys might want him in return.

If the look he sometimes caught in her eyes had meant what he dared to hope, then that threatened to change everything.

Had his restraint ever been truly tested? Perhaps it had been merely aided by the crutch of a belief that Saerys could not possibly desire him as desperately as he desired her.

If that belief proved false, then tomorrow would demand something far greater than restraint. It would demand trust that she knew her own heart. Trust that she understood what she was offering him. Trust that when she reached for him, she did so with the same certainty that already threatened to undo him.

The thought lingered as the fire had burned low. Baelor stared down at the open pages before him, once more his gaze caught on a line he had marked earlier in careful ink:

Nymeria and Mors had not begun in love, only trust enough to set fear aside and build something greater together.

Slowly he closed the book, and quit the room.

Saerys had become more and more meticulous in her grooming as the days ticked down to the wedding.

This night she worked a brush through her hair with oils, stubbornly convinced it still didn’t feel soft enough. She’d long since dismissed Alerie for the evening, not wanting to burden her with the strange fixations that had overtaken her as of late. The endless brushing of her hair, scrubbing herself raw in the bath. The anxiety that ran through her seeking something, anything to control.

She’d begged the queen to have this night alone even though the castle was swirling with guests eager to bestow wisdom and well wishes. She just needed quiet, surely that would ease her mind rather than give it free reign to run rampant.

Tomorrow she would be Baelor's wife. The thought spiked her pulse each time it returned. She had seen the warmth in Baelor's eyes often enough since he returned. Had caught him looking at her when he thought she did not notice. She knew he desired her. That certainty no longer frightened her as it once might have. What frightened her was everything that came after.  Wanting was one thing. Living beside her was another. Could she be the wife he deserved once the ceremony was over and the music had stopped? She had spent so many years expecting to endure marriage that she scarcely knew how to prepare herself for one built upon kindness.

Her brush slowed. Her mind betrayed her at once with memories of dancing in Baelor’s arms. The warmth of his hand spread across the small of her back. The roughness in his voice whenever his composure seemed to fray. The way his gaze lingered upon her now when he thought no one else was looking. And gods help her, the realization that she wanted more of it.

Oh, she wasn’t going to get any sleep this night. 

She was interrupted from her reverie by a knock at the door. “Come in.”

Alerie stepped in. “My Lady, the Prince stopped by to speak with you.” She eyed Saerys by the mirror, clad only in a heavy robe and nightgown. “I can tell him that you’ve turned in for the night.”

Saerys took in a steadying breath. Surely Baelor would only call on her at this hour with a matter of import. She assured Alerie, “It’s quite alright, you may show him in.”

She fixed a pleasant smile on her face and drew the robe tighter around her. It was plenty large enough to ensure her modesty

When Alerie returned with the Baelor, Saerys stood to greet him. “My Prince” 

Baelor spoke to Alerie, though his eyes remained on Saerys. “I merely wished to speak with the Princess regarding tomorrow.” His implication reached Saerys when he didn't continue further.  He wished to speak to her alone.

Baelor and Alerie watched the understanding dawn on Saerys’ face. Her chin tipped up and her shoulders tensed, a stance Baelor recognized instantly. He felt a pang in his chest at her reaction, but only stood still, waiting. It was not for him to dismiss Saerys’ maid in her own chambers.

Saerys took a deep inhale. She felt as if a spectre hovered, just beyond her periphery. She had been here before, in her chambers with a prince, the night before a new path. Even now she could feel the remnants of that night down her back. Her eyes closed involuntarily. She had to forcibly remind herself, This is not that night, this is not that prince. 

This was Baelor, her Baelor.

Her Baelor who was gentle, patient, and kind. Who had never once given her reason to distrust him.

She took another measured breath and nodded. “You may leave us, Alerie.” 

She nodded with a curtsy and saw herself out. I’ll be right in the antechamber my lady.” Close enough to hear if you but raise your voice. 

“Do come in, your Grace.” Saerys gestured to a table and chairs set by the fire.

Baelor walked in slowly. His eyes studied her as he made his way closer, entering the room as he would enter the grounds with a skittish colt. There was a melancholy in his eyes that he couldn’t quite mask when she met his gaze again. She gestured to a carafe and goblets. “Would you care for something to drink?”

“If you’re having some.” She began to pour. “Wine?” he asked. 

“Mead, actually.” Baelor smiled at that. Every chance to know her better, cherished. 

His gaze was steadily fixed on her as she made her way over to him. She set the glasses down in front of them as she took a seat to his side. Her voice was breezy, almost too much so, as she asked, "What did you wish to discuss?”

He began, “I wanted to make sure we discussed the details of tomorrow. I worry with my absence I’ve been remiss in adequately–”

It was only now that she was closer to him that he could properly take in the robe she wore tied closely around her. Heavy, familiar red brocade on black, far too large for Saerys’ frame, and in a men’s cut.

“–Saerys” he said, cutting himself off with a tug at the corner of his lips, “if I return to my chambers, will I find I’m missing a dressing robe?” He knew that robe. He'd worn it through winter evenings at his desk, and to see it hanging from her shoulders... Something settled unexpectedly warm beneath his ribs.

Saerys ducked his gaze with a small smile as she toyed with the edge of her sleeve “I might’ve…employed some help in borrowing it.” She looked up shyly. “I craved something of yours while you were gone. It makes me feel warm. Safe” 

Safe. He felt that pang in his chest once more, a warning. “Saerys,” he said as he began to reach for her hand, his gaze intent on her face, “did you feel unsafe when I was gone?

She swallowed and ducked his gaze again. “I feel most safe when you are here”. 

Baelor took in another deep breath. “That’s not quite what I asked.”

She looked up at him again with a sheen to her eyes as they moved over his face. “You’re back now,” she said quietly.

He nodded and took her hand in earnest. “Come tomorrow, it’ll be much harder for me to be parted from you.”

“I’m glad for it,” Saerys said as she offered him a small smile.

He cleared his throat and began to smooth his thumb over the back of her hand. “I’m sure my mother has walked you through the ceremony many times over–” Saerys nodded again.

“This is perhaps the one event where I will not be torn constantly from your side. I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll open up the evening festivities once again. And after that–” he swallowed and leaned closer to her.

“When evening comes.” He broke off, thinking of Maekar's remarks, all that wordsmithing. He met her gaze and carried on. He could do this, for both of them. He drew her hand closer.

“Saerys, when evening comes, I can stave off a bedding.” Her eyes met his wide, and he continued. “I can make sure a guard is at our door to ward off those who would listen. I can not prevent bawdy japes and leering eyes or the expectation that comes with this night and I am sorry for it.”

“I know my duty, my Prince.” Her use of the word, duty, chafed at him but he carried on.

His voice dipped even lower if it was possible. “We’ll spend the night here in your chambers.” He let himself smirk slightly. “Far easier to carry you here than clear across the keep and up a–”

“Baelor, surely you do not intend to carry me all the way to–”

He fixed her with a look that was mirth and promise all in one.

“--I know my duty, Princess”

She smiled at that and the pressure in his chest lightened a touch. They both seemed to bask in the lighthearted moment. Baelor was loathe to move past it but he must. 

“Saerys, I know you’ve been without a mother.” He said as he held her gaze, “For both of us I must ask…” He trailed off, and her brows puckered in question. “If you feel comfortable, that is, I would ask what you’ve been taught about what is to come.” 

She nodded and her gaze fell back down to their hands again. “Dyanna spoke to me some, as well as our Septa at Summerhall.” She raised her eyes past him considering, as she said with a small smile, “My new ladies have offered some very helpful advice.” Baelor’s lips twitched despite himself, he could well imagine the kind of instruction Saerys might’ve received from the ladies of Dorne.

When his gaze found Saerys again, though, she had gone stiff. Her gaze was far away as she took in a measured breath. Baelor tensed in response to her posture. The ghost that entered the room with them when he asked to speak to her alone seemed to loom over them now.

“I should tell you that…” She took in another breath, this one shakier than the last.

“By the time I reached my majority, Aerion was well assured I would be wed to him.” She swallowed roughly. “He took great enjoyment in informing me just what he had planned for me.” Venom had begun to seep into her voice. Baelor went very still.

Saerys swallowed again as if it was bile, and she held herself so stiffly she almost seemed to shake. Her eyes fixed upon their joined hands as she drew in another breath, her fingers tightening in Baelor’s grasp. “He believed the arrangement granted him ownership of my body and the thoughts in my head before vows had even been spoken.” Her shoulders drew tighter still.

Baelor squeezed his eyes shut briefly before forcing himself to ask the question. “Saerys…did he ever take liberties with you? Did he ever harm you?”

“I’m a maiden, my Prince. I swear it.” She said, holding his gaze, almost too steadily.

He couldn't ignore the fact that, once again, she had not truly answered him. “I ask not out of concern for your virtue,” he said quietly. “But for concern for your well-being.”

Something unreadable passed across her face before she gave the barest nod. “The night before we left for the keep, I made the mistake of believing he might actually be reasoned with.” The words were sharpened now, anger beginning to war openly with distress. Her jaw tightened. “I was prepared with every argument I could think of as to why he should choose another bride. Why we would both surely be happier freed of the arrangement.”

Saerys swallowed hard, her voice dropping lower still. “His wrath that I even thought to thwart him was unlike anything I'd experienced before.” Saerys gaze went almost unseeing, as if she’d been transported elsewhere.

Baelor went almost preternaturally still. “What did he do?”

Then suddenly she jerked away from him, pushing her chair back from the table hard enough for it to scrape sharply across the floor. Fear sharpened his voice “Saerys—what has he done?”

“It’ll be easier to show you,” she bit out. Baelor felt bile in his throat as he rose to stand behind her.

Facing away from him, Saerys loosened the ties at the neck of her nightgown until the fabric pooled and slipped down her shoulders. Then she pushed the heavy robe down after it, exposing the expanse of her upper back.

At first all he saw was angry raised flesh, then recognition struck him like a physical blow. Burned into the skin between her shoulder blades lay the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, scarred deep enough that he could still make out the shape of each twisted neck. Horror struck with such force that the room seemed to tilt beneath him.

“Oh, Saerys,” he whispered, feeling as though he’d just taken a lance to the chest.

His hand shook in earnest as he reached toward the mark. Though she tried to fight it, she flinched at the touch, curving inward around herself.

“I could smell my own skin burning,” she said, her voice beginning to shake in earnest now. “And all the while he called me an ungrateful whore, for surely I wanted the freedom to seek out other men at court.”

Something cold and murderous unfurled low in Baelor’s chest.

Venom bled back into her words now, fury briefly overtaking grief. “The most unsettling part was his eerie calm as he listed all the things he would do to me once I was truly his to punish.”

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her back firmly against him, heedless now of propriety, restraint, any of it. His head came down on her shoulder.

“I’m here now,” he vowed to her, each word deliberate. “As long as my heart beats, I will not allow anyone to harm you ever again.”

Her head fell back against his chest as she leaned into him. Her arms came up to grasp his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as the shaking began to abate. 

Baelor shook his head, his heart broke a little as he swore, “Sweet girl, you have nothing, nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry that I’m coming to you as this tarnished, broken thing.”

Baelor, if possible, pulled her even closer still. “You are coming to me a queen amongst women.” His breath caught. “You are brave, you are strong.” His voice broke then. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld.”

He felt her breathing begin to even out and he moved to release her but she clung to him still. “Don’t let go, not yet,” she pleaded. Baelor paused in his retreat. “I can’t remember the last time I was held like this.” Saerys whispered, as she leaned back into him, luxuriating in the feel of him strong behind her, his arms secure around her.

“Dyanna passed away when I was young but even then I was old enough compared to the others that I wasn’t to be coddled but—” she let out a shaky breath. “I can’t think of the last time someone just held me and listened.”

Baelor felt her breathe out a long exhale. His head bowed, coming to rest against her shoulder again. He thought of how often he’d longed simply to hold her, never imagining that it was exactly that comfort she had been yearning for all this time.

For a long while neither of them moved.

The fire crackled softly beside them. Somewhere beyond the chamber walls the Red Keep still roared with wedding guests and celebration, yet here the world had narrowed to warmth, breath, and the steady weight of her in his arms.

He could have lived in this moment forever.

Saerys didn't know how long it had been, only that her breathing had finally slowed, her shoulders had eased. When Baelor finally spoke again, his voice conversational and mild. “Do you know what I’ve begun calling you in my head?”

Saerys shook her head slightly against him. Baelor let out the faintest breath of something almost resembling embarrassment before speaking. “My fire.”

“For you have been such a light. The warmth I feel whenever I’ve made you smile, the heat between us when we dance, the sparks that fly whenever you tease me.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “You are joy, you are vitality, you are the sun itself.” Tears pricked her eyes at that.

He felt her take in a shaky breath. “You warm me too, Baelor.” Her hands came over his. “Yours is the safe embrace of the hearth, and other times…” she swallowed. “It’s like dragon’s breath down my neck.” She felt a tremor of a different kind roll down her spine.

Baelor swallowed roughly, half agony, half hope. Leaning his head against hers he whispered, “It breaks my heart to know that you’ve been left out in the cold. That those who should’ve cared for you dimmed your light.” He breathed deeply before continuing.

“Saerys.” Baelor said her name like an oath as he brought his arms tighter around her. “You must know from this night on, these arms are yours, my warmth is yours,” he pressed a lingering kiss below her ear, “My heart is yours.”

The words settled over the room like something sacred. He felt her draw one long, trembling breath, and she turned within the circle of his arms. Then, with a hesitancy that broke his heart all over again, her arms came around his neck, returning his embrace, seeking him.

“There is one more thing I need you to know,” she pulled away from him then to meet his gaze, but he chased her, leaning his forehead against hers.

“Konīr sia daor tolie,” he said softly.

Her eyes widened in recognition. The words he had said to her in the library, an oath so quiet she’d never been able to translate it on her own.

“There were no others.” Her eyes narrowed in confusion and he brought his hands to the side of her face. “There were no others I considered for your hand.” He watched the realization dawn on her at his confession. “From the moment you asked, I’ve been yours.” 

Her breath caught. All this time she'd believed she'd been rescued. Never once had she imagined she'd also been chosen But he had wanted her from the very beginning, just as she had come to want him.

Saerys searched his face, pained devotion etched across it, something like awe rippled through her as the realization dawned.

Baelor mistook her silence for hesitation, this close to her he could no longer stave off his worst fear. He began to pull away, his head bowed in retreat, his voice thready as he fought to get the words out. “Tell me this is not what you want, Saerys, and I will master myself.”

Saerys raised her brows in question and clung to him still, drawing him back to her as she pleaded, “Baelor,” bringing a hand to the side of his face. “ I choose this,” she confessed, guiding his face so his eyes met hers. “I want this,” uttered so softly as if she might frighten him.

Before he could respond she raised herself on her tiptoes to softly capture his lips with hers. 

Baelor felt his breath leave him as if he’d taken a blow.

For one impossible moment he could only hold her there against him in stunned silence, overwhelmed that she was truly kissing him. Then she pressed herself closer, her fingers curved tentatively around the back of his head, the movement shattered what remained of his restraint. A moan scraped out of him as he returned her kiss.

Nearly every thought left him then. All that was left was Saerys.

Her fingertips cradling the back of his head, the way her lips responded to him in kind, the feel of her hair soft as silk as he threaded his fingers through the strands, yearning to have her closer still.

As if she could hear his thoughts she pressed herself against him more fully. Baelor could feel the heat of her down his body, Gods she felt glorious. He had imagined this a thousand times in weak moments of solitude.

None of it compared to the reality of her beneath his hands now.

Baelor had known affection before this. He had known duty, companionship, even tenderness. He had believed that was all a prince of the realm might ask for in a marriage. But this...

This felt like discovering an new language entirely. His attraction to her spiked his blood like the finest dornish wine. The love he had for her, yes it was love, had him chasing her lips like a man slaking his thirst at the Rhoyne. 

Saerys had been kissed before, sweet courtly things from a young squire, and then the violent plunderings from Aerion. Until Baelor she’d never dreamt that she could be held so passionately and still feel safe and cared for. She had never imagined herself capable of this kind of wanting.

His lips moved against hers with an intensity like devotion rather than dominance. Even as he leaned over her, her knees beginning to feel liquid, the surrender didn’t feel like defeat. 

Baelor’s hands slid from her hair down her back leaving heat in their wake.

By the seven, when did her chambers become so stifling?

Saerys let go of Baelor briefly, only to shrug the heavy robe to the floor. Her arms wound themselves around his neck once more as she returned his kisses with a new heat.

She could hardly think as she felt his hands on her through the thin silk. One at her neck, the other learning the shape of her hips. Her skin had always heated at his touch, even during their dances. How she hadn’t burst into flame now, she knew not. 

Baelor groaned into her mouth at the feel of her, only one blessedly thin layer between his hands and the heat of her body. He was spinning out, truly now. The way she arched against him, the way she breathed him in between kisses, all of her own volition. The trust she placed in him was a heady thing, he was going to be driven to madness.

Fire burned through him as he brought one arm lower around her hips, hauling her off the floor against him. Saerys gasped into his mouth at that, and Baelor took the opportunity to tug at her bottom lip with his teeth, The mewl Saerys let out in turn wiped his mind almost completely blank save one primal urge.

He’s moving now with one singular purpose. How lucky, the dragon inside him thought. They were already in her bedchambers.

He turned at the last moment as he reached her bed bringing her astride him as he sat at the edge. Even in this haze he would not presume to overcome her.

Saerys, it would seem, held no similar compunction.

Once he reached her bed she was upon him immediately, reaching up to card her fingers through the short trim of his hair. All it took was the light feeling of her nails against his scalp, and suddenly he was the one breaking away in a gasp. He returned his mouth to hers with a vengeance, rife with the need to taste her everywhere.

His lips slipped down the corner of her mouth, across her jaw to her neck.

Yes.

Her lovely graceful neck, that he would drape in fine silks and jewels, finally where it belonged. With a pulse that he was making race and sounds that he was teasing out of her.

He’d been so patient, and she was gasping for him so prettily that he couldn’t resist licking up the column of her throat like a man dying of thirst.

Saerys’ head fell back on a whimper and her whole body arched against him.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so uninhibited, the way her lips parted, her eyes half closed with bliss. This was the future he had scarcely dared imagine in the Riverlands, when even the memory of her smile had felt like enough to sustain him. Seeing her like this, with him, choosing him, touching him with abandon. The beauty of her in this moment threatened to bring him to his knees.

He couldn't help but smile against her skin, murmuring, “Gevie,” as she began to move her hips against him. Gods. He kissed lower still.

It was only when his mouth found skin where he expected to meet silk that he came back to himself, albeit slowly.

Saerys was breathless astride him, her robe gone.

His fingers flexed as they gripped her thighs.

Baelor went still. For one terrible moment he had nearly disregarded his restraint entirely.

At last he dragged himself back enough to grasp her hips and pull away from her, though not without visible effort.

“Princess,” he breathed shakily. “Forgive me.”

“Whatever for?” She asked softly, chasing his lips. He leaned back further, relenting, and brought a hand to her neck once more so he could ease her back. 

He swallowed thickly. “This isn’t why I came here tonight.” 

She let out a small laugh, leaning into his ear as she brought her hands to his chest, and his eyes slipped closed again. Her voice was low as she asked, “Why did you come here tonight, my Prince?”

Seven. Fucking. Hells. His eyes opened again, locked on her in warning. Careful, Princess. Though he didn’t think he’d fare well hearing her refer to him by name in this moment either. 

He leaned back even further. “I came here,” he swallowed again, “to make sure I do right by you tomorrow evening.”

She continued to follow him with her body. Baelor reached a hand behind him to steady himself. 

Her hands came up to twine behind his neck again as she rose up to her knees fully. “Then I believe you accomplished your goal.”

“My goal wasn’t to compromise you before our wedding night.”

“I do at least know enough to know that isn’t the case,” she said with an impish smile as she leaned into his neck, laying an open mouthed kiss there.“Yet, at least.”

His head canted back at that and he fisted the furs on her bed with a white knuckled grip.

“Saerys…” He sighed her name on a brittle laugh. “You could at least pretend to have mercy on me.” 

Saerys leaned back at that, lowering herself to sit astride him again, his hands immediately coming to her waist. Her eyes flicked up to his as they both felt the way his length pressed against her.

She kept her gaze on him as she marveled at him. The Heir to the Iron Throne, below her on her own bed. Throat exposed, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving.

When she agreed to their match she never once considered the power that she might have over him.

Her gaze wandered over his face, over the taut restraint she found there. “As you wish, my prince,” she sighed at last as she dismounted from him, before looking back at him coyly.

As she walked from the bed to retrieve the robe and pull it on, Baelor took the opportunity to adjust himself.

Baelor shook his head as he tried to come back to himself, even as a young man he can’t remember the last time he was so addled by lust.

Saerys pretended not to notice the deep breaths he took to steady himself as she busied herself with their abandoned goblets. 

Once done she turned to face him. His gaze was softer now, some but not all of the heat worn off. “I should leave, Saerys. Before I forget every honorable intention I arrived here with, and fire consumes me completely.” He took her hand pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. 

Saerys smiled at that. “What a lovely way to burn,” she murmured dreamily. Baelor’s eyes flashed to her once more.

That was all it took, it would seem. The barest hint that she ached for him as he did her and he was at the end of his tether yet again. So this, he realized, was what it felt like to not carry longing alone.

He felt the strain in his neck as he leaned his forehead to hers. “Am I to be awake all night with yearning, my little fire, or will you allow me to take my leave?”

A small smile graced her lips. “Until tomorrow then, my prince.”

Baelor bowed deeply to her before leaving the room. “At least one of us should get some sleep,” Saerys could’ve sworn she heard him mutter on his way out the door.

Once in her antechamber, Alerie rushed to open the door to the hall for him.

She hesitated for a moment as he started down the hall.

“Your Grace?” She called after him.

He turned quickly, eyebrows raised. She pursed her lips for a moment considering.

“I need you to know that I wouldn’t betray my lady’s confidence unless I thought it was absolutely necessary.” 

The Prince only tilted his head.

Alerie continued. “The princess often suffers from nightmares. Terrible things, she’s pulled from sleep begging and screaming. Sometimes it takes her a moment to remember where she is. She needs gentle hands and a soothing voice when she wakes.”

Baelor felt as if his stomach had turned to lead. Once he regained his composure he nodded.

“Thank you, Alerie, for confiding in me.” He swallowed roughly. “And for serving my lady so well.”

“Of course, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace.”

He merely nodded then took his leave.

He found the wine cellar much depleted upon his inspection.

The wine cellar was cooler than the chambers above, heavy with the scent of oak, dust, and spilled arbor red. Rows of casks sat half-emptied already from the wedding feast preparations above. Baelor exhaled slowly through his nose as he descended the last stair. He needed something stronger than sleep tonight.

“They’ve already taken all the good stuff up to the kitchens I’m afraid,” came a sluggish drawl.

Baelor looked over and saw Daeron the Younger sprawled against the wall, flagon in hand, eyes glazed. He walked over to him. “You should get some sleep, my boy.”

Daeron only gave him a lopsided smile. “Where would the fun in that be?”

Baelor gave him a melancholy smile in return. “Madness for lack of sleep can rival the madness of drink. Trust me.”

Daeron replied to him, “And the madness of nightmares perhaps the worst of all.” He winced, squeezing his eyes shut, and when they opened again Daeron was lucid once more. He extended his flagon towards him. “Trust me, Uncle.”

Baelor froze at that. Daeron was always the most unsettling when he slipped into lucidity.

Baelor was still holding Daeron’s gaze when Maekar walked in. “Fucking hells,” he said, shaking his head. “Daeron, out now. Go sober up for the morrow.”

Baelor helped haul him to his feet. “Good tidings, Uncle,” he slurred as he departed.

Maekar sighed as he watched him go.

“Fancy running into you here,” he muttered as Baelor busied himself running a hand among the remaining casks.

“Yes, well I needed something to take the edge off.”

That sent Maekar’s head reeling. He eyed Baelor up and down. “Took my advice then did you?”

Baelor took a deep inhale through his nose. “I think I took it perhaps a little too much.” 

Maekar tilted his head at that. “Oh?”

He then took in more of Baelor’s rigid posture.

“Oh,” he bit out sour with a disturbed look.

Maekar rubbed a hand down his face, the humor finally fading from him entirely.

“Did your visit at least…” He hesitated visibly now, searching for words he clearly did not want to say aloud. “…Allay your fears?”

Baelor’s posture eased only slightly. Maekar swallowed. “Will she be ready?”

Baelor was quiet for a long moment before answering. He did not know what tomorrow would ask of either of them. There would be fear still. There would be memories that neither love nor vows could erase in a single night. But now he knew with certainty that the trust between them would carry them through whatever came.

"She is," he said quietly.

Maybe Baelor had been right, Saerys thought begrudgingly as Alerie lightly jostled her awake, because despite how impossible sleep had seemed the night prior, she now found herself burrowing deeper beneath the blankets with all the stubbornness of a child.

“You don’t want to sleep through your wedding day, my Lady,” her handmaid informed her with entirely too much glee for this hour of the morning.

Saerys made a deeply unconvinced sound into her pillow. Surely she could have slept another bell at least.

Yet by the time she finally forced her eyes open, the sheer flurry of activity already overtaking her chambers had proven tonic enough to banish the last remnants of sleep entirely.

The room had transformed overnight. Ladies moved through it in a constant swirl of silk and perfume while steam curled upward from the bath being drawn near the hearth. Folded ceremonial layers awaited carefully atop chests and screens in shimmering pools of cream and crimson, and velvet-lined boxes sat open upon the vanity displaying the jewels selected days ago for the ceremony. Somewhere near the windows one of the seamstresses muttered furiously about missing pins while another carefully arranged the maiden’s cloak Saerys’ would wear into the sept.

Gods, it was real, it was finally here.

Hands descended upon her almost immediately once Alerie finally managed to coax her from the bed. The next couple of hours was a flurry of bathing, hair brushing, and painstaking grooming all to ensure Saerys was the perfect picture of a Targaryen maiden eager to wed her prince. Internally at least, this was no feat.

“You’re fidgeting again,” Laena Penrose observed from near the dressing screen where she stood inspecting one of Saerys’ sleeves with surprising seriousness.

“I am not fidgeting,” Saerys lied at once.

Laena’s brow lifted. “You nearly frayed the hem of your chemise earlier.”

A softer wave of laughter moved through the room while Saerys pressed her lips together against her embarrassment, warmth already beginning to creep steadily into her face. The chambers themselves seemed far too warm this morning, though perhaps that was merely her nerves. Before the day was through half the realm would watch her wed the heir to the Iron Throne, she would endure a ceremony, a feast large enough to drown the keep in wine, and somewhere amidst all of it there remained the simple impossible fact of Baelor himself.

Alerie clicked her tongue softly as she guided Saerys toward the vanity. “Sit still long enough for me to braid your hair back and perhaps we might preserve some dignity before the realm arrives.”

“I think dignity fled this situation several months ago,” Sarella remarked slyly from across the room as she organized the jewels that had been set out, perfectly at ease amidst the chaos surrounding her.

Rosamund glanced up from the ribbons she sorted nearby. “Roughly around the time the prince began finding entirely new reasons to linger wherever Saerys happened to be.”

Saerys made a weak sound of protest beneath her breath.

“Laena noticed first,” Sarella continued thoughtfully.

“Only because Prince Baelor suddenly developed opinions regarding court musicians and garden suppers,” Laena replied dryly as she crossed the room carrying another folded length of silk. “A man does not spend twenty years avoiding half the entertainments of court only to discover a passion for poetry readings overnight.”

“He was even willing to stay for the discussion afterwards, though his attentions did seem diverted elsewhere,” Rosamund added mildly.

Saerys covered her face outright then, earning another softer round of laughter from the room while even Alerie failed to suppress a smile as she began carefully threading pearls through the first sections of Saerys’ braid.

Baelor had used all the days since his return to the keep to soak up as much time with Saerys as possible, often finding himself patiently bemused besides Saerys at whatever gathering attended with her ladies without a single complaint.

Kiera’s expression remained gentler than the others as she crossed the room carrying Saerys’ gown. She paused beside Saerys’ chair long enough to smooth one sleeve lightly between her fingers before saying quietly, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Saerys blinked up at her. Kiera smiled then, warmth softening her features. “Baelor lingers after dinners, Valarr relaxes more, and even Matarys has begun to come out of his shell.” She looked back toward Saerys then, affection plain upon her face. “The family feels more complete somehow.”

The words settled warmly somewhere low within Saerys’ chest, surprising her slightly with the force of it.

“And selfishly,” Kiera added more lightly, “I’m glad my friend will be staying.”

Before Saerys could answer, another knock sounded at the chamber doors, and the room quieted almost immediately.

Queen Myriah entered moments later clad in deep copper silk and gold, regal as ever despite the unmistakable warmth that softened her expression the instant her gaze settled upon Saerys.

For one long moment the Queen simply looked at her before breaking into a warm smile.

“Oh,” Myriah murmured softly. “There she is.”

Saerys laughed quietly despite herself. “You say that as though I had gone somewhere.”

Myriah crossed the room and gently smoothed one thumb beneath Saerys’ eye where Alerie had only just finished touching powder to her skin. “Gone is the girl who first arrived at court wanting nothing but to fade into the background.”

Warmth touched Saerys’ face at that, though whether from pleasure or embarrassment she could not entirely say. Myriah’s smile lingered another moment before she gestured lightly toward the others gathered throughout the room. “Leave us for now”

Predictable protests immediately rose from every direction. “We’re helping.”

“You’re hovering,” the Queen corrected calmly.

“We are witnessing history.”

“You are tormenting the bride.”

“Only lovingly,” Sarella clarified without shame.

Still, the ladies gradually dispersed toward the adjoining chambers and dressing screens, though not nearly far enough for true privacy. Sarella in particular made absolutely no effort whatsoever to move.

Myriah noticed immediately. “You remain.”

“Your Grace,” Sarella replied with lazy dignity, “if you desired privacy you should not have invited this many Dornishwomen.”

Even the Queen failed to suppress a laugh at that.

“Fine,” Myriah relented at last. “But if you scandalize my good daughter before the ceremony I shall blame you personally.”

“I scandalized her weeks ago,” Sarella replied serenely. “Today we are merely ensuring she remembers what she learned.”

Saerys covered her face outright once more while Myriah’s brow lifted with immediate understanding.

“Ah,” the Queen said mildly. “So that explains the parcel Addam almost intercepted yesterday.”

“It was educational,” Sarella defended at once.

“Selene nearly fainted reading one of the titles,” Rosamund contributed helpfully from somewhere behind the dressing screen.

“It mentioned anatomy before marriage,” Selene called back. “I was unprepared.”

“Gods save me,” Saerys muttered into her hands, though the helpless laughter threatening at the edges of her voice robbed the complaint of any true conviction.

Myriah, traitorously, looked amused rather than scandalized.

“Well?” Sarella asked then, and though amusement still lingered upon her face, something more sincere softened her expression now. “Have the books reassured you at all?”

Saerys swallowed softly before answering. “Some.”

Sarella nodded once, apparently satisfied enough to continue. “And you understand now that your comfort matters every bit as much as his?”

Myriah reached over then, taking one of Saerys’ hands gently between both of hers. “Listen to me carefully,” the Queen said softly, and the room quieted almost immediately.

“You are not being sent to survive a marriage to an arrogant princeling or some distant lord.” Her voice remained calm and certain, steady as stone beneath the din and anticipation overtaking the castle beyond those walls. “You are walking toward a man who already cherishes you dearly.”

The words landed low and aching somewhere within Saerys’ chest.

“He is nervous too,” Myriah continued, amusement flickering briefly now. “Though my son would sooner face a battlefield than confess such a thing.”

Sarella hummed softly from the settee nearby. “I suspect Prince Baelor has spent half the last month reminding himself restraint exists.”

“Oh to the Sept with you” Myriah informed her, though laughter lingered plainly in her voice now.

Still smiling faintly, the Queen turned her full attention back toward Saerys.

“Baelor has spent most of his life carrying responsibility,” she said gently. “Duty. Restraint. Expectation.” Her thumb stroked softly across Saerys’ knuckles. “You've given him something precious, with you he’s lighter, happier.” Myriah's smile softened. “I do not think anyone expected that part.”

Saerys blinked. “Your Grace?”

“We knew he would be a kind husband to you,” Myriah said simply. “That was never in doubt.” A note of quiet affection entered her voice. “What surprised us was how much ease you would bring him in return.”

Emotion tightened unexpectedly in Saerys’ throat at that, enough that Myriah noticed at once.

“Oh no,” the Queen warned softly. “None of that. Today is already far too long without tears ruining all Alerie’s hard work.”

Alerie smiled immediately from behind the chair. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Another softer wave of laughter passed through the room before Myriah’s expression gentled once more.

“You are ready for this, Saerys.”

The words settled deeper than reassurance alone.

“For the crown?” Saerys asked quietly.

“For all of it.” Myriah held her gaze steadily. “For the noise, the demands, the endless eyes watching you,” she said softly. “And for the joy of it too.”

Saerys drew in a careful breath then, because that was the overwhelming thing this morning, wasn’t it? Not fear, but joy so large it scarcely fit properly inside her chest, anticipation sharp enough to leave her restless beneath her own skin whenever she allowed herself to think too closely on the fact that before the day was through they would belong to one another entirely

Myriah smiled as though she could see the realization moving plainly across Saerys’ face.

“Above all, never lose sight of the joy. There is so much of it to come, for the both of you” the Queen murmured warmly.

This time Saerys smiled without restraint, joy flooding through her, banishing the nerves so that she could finally stand the remaining preparations for the day.

The wheelhouse ride to the sept was quiet. With all other guests already gathered, Saerys and the King would be the last to arrive. She hoped she didn’t betray her nerves as she watched the city go by. The king brought a gentle hand to hers where it laid on her shaking knee, a gesture of calm.

She turned her gaze to him from the window. “I apologize, your Grace.”

He merely shook his head. “Grandsire, especially today, dove.” His gaze was fond and gentle. “Jitters are only natural, Saerys.” She tried to return his smile. “Besides it’s not every bride who enters the Sept that will one day be Queen”

She looked away again, staring at a far off point, and after a deep breath she managed, “It does weigh on my mind, Grandsire.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I hope I'm worthy of it.” she swallowed "worthy of him."

Daeron meets her gaze and holds it taking in her solemnity “We wouldn’t have chosen you for this if we didn’t have complete faith in you” 

Saerys looked down again. It would not do for her to question the king. “I will be forever grateful.”

Daeron nodded at that. “Be grateful if you must.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you think you will be happy?” 

She had spent so long preparing herself merely to survuve marriage that the possibility of happiness still managed to unsettle her whenever someone spoke of it plainly. She looked up with a small smile and nodded. “I think I will be very happy.”

“Good.” Daeron’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, a lingering tension eased from the king's shoulders. “You know, you remind me so much of Myriah. If your marriage with Baelor takes the same cadence, you shall both be happy indeed.”

She felt the wheelhouse begin to slow and took in another deep breath. As they neared the steps of the sept, Daeron gave her hand a little squeeze. “It is time.”

She had never seen a sept so full. The cavernous space was filled with onlookers trying to get a glimpse of her. But Saerys only had eyes for one as she took the king's arm and made her way through the crowd.

Baelor stood atop the high steps beside the High Septon, framed between the Father and the Mother. Black velvet and crimson caught the noon light, the broad red sash across his chest stitched with threads of gold. The sight of him threatened to steal the breath from her lungs. Maekar next to him gave her a slight nod and a rare smile.  

Baelor straightened the instant she came into view. Something akin to awe broke cleanly across his carefully maintained composure. “Gods,” he breathed.

His father chuckled at the look on his face, but oh how she was a vision in ivory silk, patterns of red and gold dragon scales embroidered over her waist and shoulders, Rubies at her ears, and throat, crowned with the diadem he’d gifted to her moons before.

A smile lit Saerys’ face as their eyes met and Baelor once again felt that chord pull around his heart as she made her way up the steps, to him.

Once Saerys joined him, her hand grazing his, he led them up the final steps. Once they reached the final step she was finally able to take him in, the joy in his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to ease an unseen burden in her presence. He leaned his forehead to hers for but a moment before he nodded to the High Septon.

The Septon began the words. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Saerys looked to him as he unfurled a stunning velvet and brocade cloak of black and crimson, her eyes widened as she recognized it as the one Myriah had shown her, the queen's hands moving lovingly over the dragon embroidery, the very one Daeron had brought her under his care with.

The weight of it settled across her like history itself. Saerys’ closed her eyes for a moment as she felt Baelor’s hands linger at her shoulders.

He stepped away just a beat too late as the Septon began again. “Your Graces, My lords, my ladies, we stand here before gods and men to witness this union of man and wife, in the Light of the Seven."

Saerys’ gaze locked on his as they reached for one another. Baelor began to smooth his thumbs over the backs of her hands. The simple gesture settled something inside her. Months ago she would have stood unsteady before a stranger, instead she stood before a man she knew. She knew the gentleness of his hands, the quiet patience he carried into every room, the way he steadied her. That knowledge calmed her more than all the blessings of the Seven combined.

The septon drew out a red ribbon and they raised their hands to him as he began again.

“Let it be known that Baelor of House Targaryen and Saerys of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever.” Saerys inhaled deeply as the septon wrapped the ribbon round their hands. “Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." Baelor’s shoulders straightened just a touch.

The Septon gestured that they raise their hands higher. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and say the words.”

Saerys and Baelor began, the certainty in Baelor’s voice giving strength to Saerys’ own. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger." 

"I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days." 

"I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Baelor’s gaze turned molten as she uttered the word “mine”. She’d barely finished her vows when she felt his free hand come up to cup her cheek as he declared, "With this kiss, I pledge my love." He pulled her close, careful restraint gone as his lips found hers.

Oh thank the seven, Saerys thought as she felt her back arch as Baelor leaned over her. Thank the gods Baelor had the foresight to kiss her senseless the night before so she was prepared. The way his lips felt as they moved over hers, sweet and sure. She might’ve melted into the steps of the sept had she no prior inkling of what was coming.

Applause, cheers and laughter rippled through the crowd. Saerys smiled into the kiss as she brought her hand to Baelor’s cheek. This time she was the one to pull away first, Baelor leaned his forehead against hers mirroring her smile. “Ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys,” he whispered, his eyes warm. Now those words she knew, “my sweet wife,” having heard Daeron refer to Myriah similarly.

The words settled through her as Baelor finally drew back just enough to look upon her fully once more, his expression carrying the same quiet wonder that had followed her through the ceremony from the moment she first stepped into view.

Around them the great Sept shimmered with noise and movement, lutes and strings tuning, silks whispering across stone, the low thunder of voices swelling ever louder, yet Saerys scarcely heard any of it. Baelor’s thumb brushed softly against her knuckles once more, grounding and familiar, the last lingering remnants of her trembling finally stilled. He held her hands as though reluctant to lose even that small connection before the eyes of half the realm. As though after all these months of restraint he still found the reality of her difficult to believe.

And perhaps she understood the feeling, even now, standing cloaked in their colors at his side, with the blessings of gods and men settling over them both, some part of her still expected to wake from it. She had asked for good and kind, never in her wildest dreams had she imagined this.

Above the gathered crowd, beside his queen, King Daeron watched the newly wed couple in silence while applause rolled outward through the sept beneath vaulted crystal and candlelight.

Baelor still held onto Saerys as though he might be asked to surrender her, even though he’d just declared her as his for all the realm to see. His gaze was fixed upon her with the same quiet intensity Daeron had watched steadily undo his eldest son over the past moons.

Baelor had been altered in ways only a father might notice, different from the stiff dutiful way he’d held himself the last time he’d been on the sept steps. He was not diminished by this love, but steadied. The careful vigilance his eldest son had carried for so many years seemed softer now at the edges, eased by the simple certainty of the young woman standing beside him.

And Saerys—Gods, the girl was transformed.

Not merely beautiful, though she was certainly that, but unguarded in a way Daeron realized he had scarcely ever seen her before. The careful wariness she had carried into King’s Landing seemed finally absent beneath the warmth of Baelor’s attention, as though some part of her had at last accepted that she no longer needed to brace herself for harm.

Beside him Myriah’s hand slipped quietly into his own. Daeron felt suddenly as though something deep within the bones of his house had begun to be set right. Not healed entirely — perhaps such things never truly did where Targaryens were concerned — but eased, like a long festering ache had finally begun to heal cleanly at the edges.

Since Saerys arrived at the Keep, the sight of them together had stirred some strange disquiet within him, some half-formed memory threatening to rise whenever Baelor looked upon Saerys with that terrible gentleness, whenever Saerys turned instinctively toward him as though seeking light.

Too much like old songs, like old griefs. Here though, at last, the story had bent another way.

The prince had reached her in time. Not bound helplessly by duty while she suffered beside another man. Neither of them condemned to spend a lifetime watching sorrow hollow the other. No love left to sour quietly into tragedy while the realm looked elsewhere.

Baelor stood before gods and men alike with his cloak draped across Saerys’ shoulders, unquestionably his, while she looked upon him not with obligation, not even gratitude, but with the kind of adoring trust that could only be happily given.

And in the Sept of Baelor the Blessed, beneath prismatic light and the echoes of sacred vows, Daeron hoped an old restlessness in the blood of his house might finally begin to settle. Perhaps the dour melody of their history was not wholly doomed to repeat itself.

The realization no longer arrived with surprise. It had become a constant quiet ache, following him from keep to keep, council to council, until he scarcely remembered what his thoughts sounded like before Saerys occupied them so fully.

Tonight, the ache felt sharper somehow. Perhaps because Riverrun lent itself too easily toward domesticism, with its warm halls. family supper tables, with its ladies laughing softly beside hearthfires while rain struck the windows beyond.

Everywhere he looked the castle seemed full of reminders that life could contain gentleness alongside duty. And all of it made his thoughts return to her.

He cursed each fitful night, each downpour, each discussion tabled for another fruitless argument, for all of it kept him from her. While every decadent meal, every picturesque sunset over the Tumblestone, every wry observation traded with Lord Medgar became another thing he wished she had been beside him to witness. What he would have given to share his frustrations with her—or better still, to forget them entirely beneath the simple grace of her smile.

Baelor leaned back heavily in the chair beside the hearth, dragging one tired hand slowly across his face before letting his gaze drift once more toward the dagger that rested upon the table nearby. Her ribbon remained tied securely around the pommel still, her correspondence rested beside it.

Otherwise, I confess I might have been quite the pining heroine waiting for her gallant knight to return.

Saerys likely did not even realize what that line did to him, the longing amidst the self-deprecation of her words. Somewhere back in King’s Landing, amidst wedding preparations and the endless noise of court, Saerys missed him too. And Seven take him, that knowledge had become nearly unbearable from this distance.

Memories returned in cruel fragments against his solitude. Saerys before him in the tack room, pale dawn spilling around her like light through silk. The softness in her voice when she admitted she did not want him to leave. The sight of her looking up at him with all that nervous honesty laid bare between them. Trust, mixed with something he dared not dwell on in her eyes as she allowed him to unlace the ribbon from her sleeve.

He remembered it still, the warmth of her wrist beneath his fingers. The slight tremor in her pulse. The way she watched him while he loosened the silk inch by careful inch as though neither of them quite knew how to survive the intimacy of it.

The absurdity of all of this had not escaped him. He was nearly forty years old, a widower, and heir to the Iron Throne. And yet here he sat, alone in his rooms, mooning like some green boy because the woman he intended to marry had looked at him softly before he rode away.

He had been half out of his mind by the time they parted and she likely had no inkling of it.

Saerys scarcely knew how to be alluring, she had no notion of how dangerously lovely she could be. And yet she excelled at it without the barest intention of doing so. It was precisely that vulnerability which devastated him.

There was nothing calculated in it. She offered him honesty when others offered charm, kindness while so many at court bartered for every smile. Her earnest affection left him longing for her more fiercely than any deliberate flirtation ever could.

"I didn’t imagine you ... I didn't imagine how hollow I would feel at the thought of weeks without you."

Her quiet confession still echoed through him. That somewhere amidst libraries and dances and quiet conversations beside hearthfires, he had become just as vital to Saerys as she had become to him.

Worse still, he no longer felt alone in his madness, he even dared to hope that Saerys might yearn just as keenly for his touch as he ached for hers.

Perhaps that was the cruelest torment of all. For once he allowed himself to dwell there, it became dangerously easy to slip further.

The way she let him caress her face in the garden. The way she sat close enough to him in the library that he could smell jasmine and lavender in her hair while candlelight traced her face. The soft sigh she let out right before he was about to kiss her .

Baelor exhaled slowly through his nose, though the breath did nothing whatsoever to cool the heat that roiled beneath his skin now. Absence had stripped away distraction until all that remained was awareness. Awareness of how often he thought about her eyes, her mouth, her hands. The softness of her body against his during dances that felt far more intimate in memory than they ever had in the moment.

And gods help him, lately he had begun imagining what it might feel like when he no longer needed to stop himself after every lingering touch. The thoughts came easier in solitude than it ever would have in her proximity.

Saerys in his chambers late at night with her hair unbound over her shoulders while she read beside the hearth. Saerys looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes after saying something quietly clever to draw his laughter. Saerys finally beneath his hands without layers of silk and propriety separating them.

The sensation alone struck hard enough that Baelor bent forward slightly in the chair, forearms braced against his knees while he dragged one rough breath after another slowly into his lungs.

His composure had become exhausting. Around Saerys every instinct narrowed toward gentleness, patience, toward proving again and again that she remained safe with him. Alone he could finally admit how badly restraint chafed.

The way she wet her lips. The slight catch in her breath whenever he touched her unexpectedly. The way her eyes darkened when she forgot herself long enough to look at him honestly. If Saerys ever truly beckoned him closer, Baelor no longer trusted the leash he kept on himself.

The realization pulsed through him with enough force that he finally rose from the chair altogether, he crossed toward the hearth before stopping there with one hand braced heavily against the stone mantle. Rain whispered softly beyond the windows. The fire cracked low beside him. And all the while his thoughts remained hopelessly fixed upon her.

If they had been given another godsdamned minute in that tack room—Baelor swore quietly beneath his breath.

Because that was the truth of it, another minute and he would have kissed her properly, thoroughly. The kind of kiss that would have delayed the entire company, that could've made departure afterward impossible entirely. He dragged his hand slowly across his mouth as though that could somehow erase the temptation from it.

His breathing had roughened considerably now, the growing heat beneath his skin impossible to ignore any longer. Yet even then, he hesitated. This too felt tied to her trust, to the softness with which she had begun looking at him. To the careful hope growing quietly between them both. But this heat, this ache, it could not be borne. He pressed his eyes shut.

Fuck it- Baelor sank back heavily into the chair beside the hearth, one rough breath leaving him as his hand finally drifted lower undoing the laces of his breeches, reaching in and grasping himself fully. His eyes closed almost immediately, his head fell back against the worn leather while thoughts of Saerys flooded into him once more.

Gods, her mouth. He had thought about kissing her far too often these past weeks. His hand tightened instinctively as he imagined it now with painful clarity, his hand at her waist pulling her body against the length of him at last, while the other slid into the softness of her hair. He imagined the gasp pf pleasure she would make against his mouth, the way she might cling to his shoulders once she realized he intended to keep kissing her beyond stopping after a single careful touch. The thought sent heat careening through him hard enough to draw a low curse from beneath his breath.

He imagined the startled softness of her breath when he finally touched skin he had thus far known only through silk and accidental brushes of fingertips. He wanted to hear the way his name might sound upon her lips once restraint no longer stood between them—not Your Grace, not my Prince, but simply Baelor, warm and breathless while he kissed his way slowly down the delicate line of her neck. From there temptation only beckoned, what more would he discover with his lips alone?

The thought nearly undid him.

His hand moved more firmly now, Baelor’s jaw tightened as desire surged sharply lower through him, years of discipline fraying alarmingly fast beneath weeks of denied longing. His head tipped further back against the chair while one hand gripped hard against the armrest, knuckles whitening briefly beneath the strain of holding himself together, even now.

Yet the worst part — the truly catastrophic part — was that tenderness remained tangled through all of it. He imagined Saerys smiling softly against his mouth afterward. Imagined how her body would respond to his gentle caresses, Imagined the trust in her eyes deepening, rather than shattering beneath his hands.

His hand tightened again, working himself harder now as imagination overtook restraint entirely.

Saerys beneath candlelight with her soft ebony hair spilling over bare shoulders. Saerys arching softly into his touch while he coaxed pleasure from her with lips, teeth, and tongue, patiently enough to make her unravel again and again. How her face would look, the way her brows would pucker, her eyes glazed in ecstasy, her lips parted as she pleaded for him. How she’d writhe against him as he held her close enough to feel them both fall over the edge. Baelor, from her lips, breathless for him alone.

A rough sound escaped low in his throat as satisfaction finally broke through him all at once, sharp enough that he bent forward abruptly afterward, gasping unsteady while spend, heat, and relief pulsed slowly out of him in waves.

For several long moments afterward he remained there motionless, save for his chest heaving beside the dying fire while rain whispered softly against the windows beyond. Slowly his breathing steadied.

Yet even afterward, with the sharpest edge of desire finally dulled, the ache of missing her remained stubbornly intact beneath it all. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

At the outset, Baelor had intended to handle the Riverlands dispute with the patience they were owed. By the third week, his patience had become considerably harder to summon.

The great hall at Riverrun had long since grown stifling with grievances dressed as principles. Blackwood men spoke of stolen timber and insulted honor while Bracken envoys answered with accusations older than Baelor himself, each side presenting ancient slights as though they had occurred yesterday rather than generations ago.

At first he had listened with his usual discipline. By now, he found himself wanting to throttle them both.

“The boundary stones were moved deliberately—”

“They were moved after your men crossed the river armed—”

“Your Grace, if I may—”

"No, you may not," Baelor interrupted flatly. He drew a slow breath through his nose. Silence dropped heavily across the chamber.

Baelor remained seated at the center of the long table, one hand pressed against the bridge of his nose while rain battered steadily against the tower windows behind him. Gods, even the weather here felt argumentative. Three weeks, three weeks trapped between feuding Riverlords while the capital lingered at the edge of every thought, specifically the princess waiting for him there.

His gaze drifted briefly downward before he could stop it. The crimson ribbon remained wound securely around the pommel of his dagger. He had touched it unconsciously so often that he scarcely noticed himself doing it anymore.

Unfortunately, Ser Donnel had noticed. “Your Grace.”

Baelor lowered his hand slowly. “What.”

The knight stood beside the wall with remarkable calm for a man watching the heir to the Iron Throne lose his will to live by increments. “Lord Blackwood was speaking.”

“I am aware.”

“You appeared elsewhere.”

Baelor leveled a flat stare at him. Ser Donnel, damn him, did not even have the decency to look ashamed. Across the chamber the two river lords shifted uneasily beneath the growing weight of the prince’s displeasure.

Baelor straightened slowly in his chair. “We are ending this now.” Both men blinked.

“The crown did not send me halfway across the realm to spend weeks adjudicating which of you insulted whose grandfather first.” His voice remained measured, though exhaustion had sharpened it into something colder. “If either of you were acting in good faith we could hear both sides reasonably. Instead I shall settle this in the crown’s stead”

“The boundary will be restored to its previous markers. Timber rights will be shared until the next harvest season. Reparations will be paid for the dead on both sides.” His gaze swept across them. “And if either house resumes this blood feud before year’s end, I shall return with enough crown levies to remind you both that these lands belong to the Iron Throne before they belong to either Blackwood or Bracken.”

Neither lord appeared particularly pleased then. Good.

Baelor rose. “We are finished here.”

They bowed stiffly as he swept from the chamber, Ser Donnel falling into step beside him once the heavy doors slammed shut behind them.

For several moments only the sound of boots against stone accompanied them down the corridor.

“We are riding hard for King’s Landing then.”

It was not phrased as a question. Baelor glanced sidelong toward the knight. “The matter is settled now.”

“It could have been settled yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“And yet we depart before nightfall”

Baelor’s jaw ticked faintly as he took and released a measured breath. Ser Donnel’s mouth twitched.

“You are becoming remarkably observant in your old age.”

“I was observant before,” Donnel replied mildly. “You were simply less obvious.”

Baelor exhaled sharply through his nose.

Outside, the rain had finally begun to ease into a gray mist by the time they crossed the courtyard toward the stables. Men were already moving quickly at the prince’s command, saddling horses and securing provisions with renewed urgency now that departure had finally been ordered.

The company had expected another several days in the Riverlands at minimum. Instead Baelor intended to hasten their return journey. Ser Donnel watched him silently for a moment while squires rushed around them gathering tack.

“At this pace,” the knight observed carefully, “half the company will curse your name before we reach the Crownlands.”

“They may curse it from horseback.”

Donnel huffed a quiet laugh. Baelor reached for his gloves from atop a barrel near the stable entrance before pausing briefly as another thought surfaced.

“How many days to King’s Landing if we push?”

“If the weather holds?” Donnel considered. “Eighteen perhaps. Less if you intend to murder the horses.”

Baelor slid the gloves on. “Can we get it closer to a fortnight? " he spoke quieter now, though no less firm.

“Your Grace—”

“I only sound like I'm asking,” Baelor interrupted, the steel showing in his voice.

Donnel studied him for one long moment before surrendering with the weariness of a man who had clearly realized resistance would accomplish nothing. “As you command, my Prince.”

Something in Baelor eased at the acquiescence. “Some of the company may lessen their pace and accompany Lord Medgar when he rides south for the ceremony if they wish.”

Ser Donnel nodded and went to relay orders to the men. Baelor mounted soon after. The moment he settled into the saddle, something like relief flooded through him, finally motion, purpose. Home.

Back to King’s Landing, back to her. The thought arrived instinctively now, without the resistance that had once hindered it.

His eyes lifted toward the southern road stretching beyond the castle gates. Somewhere ahead waited the Red Keep gardens warm beneath late summer sunlight. Quiet evenings in libraries. The sound of Saerys laughing softly beneath her breath.

And gods help him, he wanted back to it with an intensity that had become increasingly difficult to disguise from anyone around him. Baelor gathered the reins. For the first time in weeks, the road led somewhere he wanted to be. “Ride on.”

The company surged forward at once beneath the gray Riverlands sky. And for the first time since leaving King’s Landing, Baelor felt like he could properly breathe again.

The Queen’s Gardens had settled into one of those languid golden afternoons, even the Red Keep itself seemed briefly willing to forget the endless bustle of King’s Landing beyond its walls.

Warm sunlight spilled across pale marble paths and flowering hedges while the sea breeze drifting in from Blackwater Bay stirred softly through the citrus trees Queen Myriah had imported north years ago from Dorne. The whole keep seemed eager to soak up the pleasant weather in between coastal storms. Somewhere deeper within the gardens fountain water murmured steadily against carved stone while musicians played faintly from one of the open terraces overlooking the harbor below.

Saerys sat beneath an arbor heavy with climbing roses, a book resting open but largely neglected across her lap while Rosamund reclined nearby with a fresh letter unfolded between elegant fingers. Across from them Sarella and Selene remained midway through a game of cyvasse that had long since abandoned any pretense of civility, while Laena embroidered quietly beside the fountain with the expression of someone pretending not to listen despite following every word.

The peaceful warmth of the afternoon was disrupted only when Rosamund laughed softly beneath her breath while reading farther down the page.

Saerys glanced up immediately. “What is it?” Rosamund’s smile widened at once in a manner Saerys had already learned to distrust thoroughly.

“Oh, nothing terribly important,” the Tully woman replied with a smirking innocence. “Only that my brother informs me your Prince has finally exhausted what little remained of his patience for the Riverlands.”

That succeeded in drawing the attention of the entire garden almost instantly. Sarella lifted her head from the cyvasse board. “Oh? Has he drowned Lord Bracken after all?”

“Not yet,” Rosamund said mildly. “Though Medgar seems to imply the possibility came alarmingly close by the end of the negotiations.”

Warmth had already begun gathering low within Saerys’ chest at the mere mention of Baelor’s name despite her best efforts. She lowered her gaze toward the abandoned book across her knees in a woeful attempt to appear nonchalant while Rosamund continued to read.

“The dispute is settled at last,” she went on. “Apparently neither side departed particularly pleased, which according to my brother means Prince Baelor likely judged correctly.”

“No surprises there,” Laena observed quietly without lifting her eyes from the embroidery frame resting in her lap.

Rosamund hummed in agreement before another line farther down the page caught her attention. Her brows lifted almost immediately afterward. “Oh.”

Sarella narrowed her eyes. “What does ‘oh’ mean?” Now Rosamund looked positively delighted.

“Well,” she said slowly, lowering the parchment slightly toward Saerys, “It would seem Prince Baelor in fact cut the dispute short.”

Saery's brows pricked at that. Rosamund continued reading aloud before she could possibly gather herself enough to respond.

More interesting however, Prince Baelor ordered departure with such haste that half the household scarcely realized negotiations had concluded before the baggage trains were already being packed. The remaining company will ride at a more reasonable pace as escort for Rhialta and I for the wedding.

His Grace and a smaller contingent intend to reach King’s Landing considerably sooner.

A brief silence settled afterward, though not one remotely empty of meaning. Then Sarella leaned back slowly against the stone bench with unmistakable satisfaction. “Well.”

Selene’s mouth curved faintly around the rim of her wine cup. “That does seem rather difficult to misinterpret.”

Laena glanced up from her embroidery. “I think most men would have welcomed at least a couple days respite after weeks spent mediating feuds.”

Rosamund folded the letter neatly against her lap. “Prince Baelor apparently disagrees.”

Warmth spread steadily into Saerys’ cheeks while Sarella regarded her for one long knowing moment.

“Gods,” the Dornishwoman sighed at last, tilting her face toward the sunlight above them. “Imagine inspiring that level of urgency in a man known almost entirely for his patience.”

“You are all being ridiculous, once again,” Saerys murmured, though the words lacked conviction enough to persuade anyone.

Rosamund replied, entirely unconvinced. “Splitting the company so he might ride ahead does suggest a certain…eagerness to return. My brother made it seem like he rides very hard for the Capitol”

That earned a slow smile from Sarella, altogether too feline to bode well for anyone involved. “And I expect,” she mused thoughtfully while plucking another grape from the cluster beside her, “that within a few weeks’ time we may receive firsthand reports from Saerys herself regarding precisely how hard the prince is capable of riding.”

Selene choked outright on her wine. Even Laena’s embroidery faltered visibly this time. “Sarella!”

The Dornishwoman only looked delighted with herself. “What? I merely expressed confidence in His Grace’s stamina.”

Rosamund collapsed almost helplessly against the cushions beside her while laughter overtook the entire garden outright now, even Selene failing entirely in her attempt to disguise it behind one elegant hand.

“You are unbearable,” Saerys informed Sarella with what remained of her dignity, though the effort was undermined somewhat by the fact she could no longer properly meet anyone’s eyes.

“Oh entirely,” Sarella conceded serenely. “Though, notably, not incorrect.”

“That is enough,” Laena interjected at last, though even she sounded dangerously close to laughter herself now.

Unfortunately that only encouraged Rosamund further. “Oh gods,” the Tully woman managed between laughter. “The poor Prince rides himself half to death for her and now she shall never survive the wedding feast without blushing herself unconscious.” That finally even made Saerys laugh.

Baelor had left the Riverlands in haste. Not merely returning dutifully once obligations allowed, nor lingering to enjoy Riverrun’s comforts after weeks spent buried beneath quarrels and rain, but riding hard enough to outpace part of his own household simply to begin the journey south sooner. To return to King’s Landing sooner, to return to her, dare she hope.

The thought landed somewhere deep and trembling beneath her ribs with enough force that for several moments the voices around her softened into little more than distant warmth beneath the sudden rush filling her chest. Six weeks had already begun to feel impossibly long. Long enough for his letters to become precious things she reread beneath candlelight before sleeping. Long enough that some stubborn part of her had begun instinctively measuring the passing of days by whether ravens had arrived from the Riverlands.

She missed him with an ache that no longer startled her in its presence. It appeared in strange quiet moments now. In libraries when she reached automatically for a thought she wanted to share with him. During meals when she caught herself glancing toward seats he ought to have occupied. Late at night when the Keep had finally gone still and she found herself wondering whether he remained awake somewhere far to the north beneath the same moon.

And now he was finally riding home. The realization warmed her so suddenly and completely that even Sarella’s scandalous teasing became difficult to resent properly. Because beneath all the embarrassment and laughter lingering around the gardens, something softer and far more dangerous had already taken root inside her during these weeks apart.

Nigh on a fortnight had passed since Lord Medgar’s letter, and the household had begun to prepare for Baelor’s arrival toward the end of the week.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Keep had settled into the familiar restless rhythm that accompanied the arrival of noble guests. Servants hurried through corridors carrying bolts of fabric and inventories for the wedding feast while musicians drifted endlessly in and out of rehearsals that seemed to consume half the castle by now. And through all of it, Baelor's absence lingered strangely at the center of her days, as though the preparations themselves had been arranged around the space he had left behind.

His letters continued to arrive from the road south, though less regularly now that the company traveled harder and faster through worsening autumn weather. Some were brief updates sent hastily from keeps along the Kingsroad while others arrived several days late altogether, rain-smudged and carrying the scent of travel with them still. Yet Saerys tucked each of them carefully away within the carved wooden box upon her bedside table as though the parchment itself had become something precious.

The days had begun stretching longer again now that Baelor’s return drew nearer. The anticipation of it lingered quietly beneath nearly everything she did. Every evening she found herself wondering where along the kingsroad he might be sleeping that night. Every storm rolling in from the bay left her thinking instinctively of rain-soaked roads and exhausted horses somewhere farther north. Sometimes she caught herself listening for hoofbeats in the courtyards below without consciously meaning to.

“He’ll ruin half the horses in the royal stables at this pace,” Myriah had remarked one evening with obvious amusement.

Daeron, seated beside her, snorted quietly into his wine. “Lord Medgar makes it sound as though Baelor declined even another night’s hospitality.”

“Father did?” Valarr looked mildly surprised.

Maekar nodded from farther down the table. “He set out before sunset, it seems.”

“Lord Medgar might've been rather put out,” Daeron mused, “were he not expected here for the wedding himself.”

“Still” Myriah admonished. “It’s rather unlike Baelor to press a journey that hard.”

“Well.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “It would seem Baelor found little reason to linger.”

Saerys lowered her eyes toward her plate before anyone could notice the warmth blooming immediately into her cheeks.

Storms rolled across Blackwater Bay throughout the week, slowing ships within the harbor and cloaking the city beneath intermittent rain that turned the outer courtyards slick with mud and torchlight reflections after dark. The weather worsened enough by the third evening that even Rosamund finally conceded the roads might delay the prince longer than anticipated.

Which was why the hoof beats that echoed across the wet cobblestones below caught Saerys so completely off guard as she prepared to retire one night.

At first, the sound barely registered beneath the steady hiss of rain against the windows. The Red Keep never fully slept. Messengers came and went at strange hours, wagons rattled through the gates beneath torchlight, guards changed posts through the night. But these hoofbeats were fast, urgent. Too late for the keep to be receiving visitors unless—

Saerys crossed quickly toward the window, pushing aside the heavy curtain just enough to peer down into the rain-dark courtyard below. Torchlight flickered gold against slick black stone. Stablehands rushed from beneath awnings while servants hurried to pull open the great doors against the storm. Through the blur of rain she caught sight of Targaryen heraldry first, then Ser Donnel riding several lengths ahead of the company. Behind him, another rider passed beneath the torchlight. Baelor.

Her breath caught so suddenly she nearly laughed at herself for it. For one foolish heartbeat she simply stood there gripping the curtain.

He was early.

The keep below had already begun springing to life around his arrival. Stableboys shouted over the weather while servants crossed the yard carrying lanterns through the rain. Somewhere below a horse stamped sharply against the stone. Through the open window Saerys could smell wet earth, rainwater, and woodsmoke carried upward on the storm wind.

Before she fully realized she had moved, she was already turning from the window. “Alerie,” she called quickly. “My apologies, but I must dress again. The Prince is arriving earlier than expected.”

Alerie hurried her into a simple gown and pulled her hair back with only the barest attention to pins. Saerys was already moving toward the door before her maid had finished, descending in thin slippers with little more than a shawl for warmth despite Alerie’s protests.

A good wife would greet her husband upon his return from a long journey, she told herself as she made her way through to the steps. The thought arrived almost too quickly, as though her heart had already decided before her mind sought a respectable excuse.

The keep had begun stirring more fully by the time she descended Ser Donnel’s arrival had already set half the household into motion. Fires would be lit in Baelor’s chambers, sheets turned down, hot baths drawn. That was not her purview, not yet.

Saerys arrived upon the stairs just behind the King’s steward, Ser Roland trailed behind her. Rain blew inward through the great archways while below horses stamped restlessly against the slick cobblestones. Addam nearly collided with her outright in his rush out to the bailey steps to bring a dry cloak for the prince upon his dismount. He caught himself sharply and bowed.

“Apologies, my lady.”

Then his expression shifted as he took in her state — the thin shawl, slippers already dampened by the rain drifting inward. “Princess,” he said apologetically, “had I known you’d be joining the reception, I would’ve brought one for you as well.”

“It’s no trouble, Addam,” Saerys assured him softly. “It is my own folly for rushing.”

Relief crashed through her when she finally laid eyes on him again, he was home, he was safe. She couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed as she took him in, a shuddering breath heaving through her.  One hand rose unconsciously toward the pendant newly resting against her throat, partly from nerves. Her fingers curled around it instinctively as the rain drifted colder across the steps.

Saerys held off to the side while Baelor spoke with the steward below, not wanting to distract from business with the added benefit of shielding herself from the rain, or some of it at least. Even from the stairs Saerys could see the exhaustion plainly upon him now. Rainwater darkened the strands of hair, new length from time on the road clinging damply at his temples while mud streaked the lower hem of his cloak and boots.

Addam replaced Baelor’s soaked travel cloak swiftly across his shoulders while the steward continued speaking over the storm. As Addam stepped away, Baelor looked up and noticed Saerys, as he noticed everything, waiting upon the steps attempting to sidestep the rainfall.

Baelor’s gaze softened at once upon his future bride beneath the torchlight, braving the cold and the storm to welcome him home.

The harsh ride south had carved faint strain around his eyes Saerys noted and though he still carried himself with princely discipline, there was something run ragged about him tonight, as though exhaustion and longing had stripped away some layers of restraint. Yet the moment he saw her, warmth broke clean through it.

Baelor murmured something low to the steward before clasping the older man briefly upon the shoulder in dismissal. Then he crossed toward her immediately.

Saerys attempted a careful curtsy upon the slick stones, cautious of slipping in the rain. Baelor’s hand closed around her elbow before she could lower fully.

“Princess,” he said softly, touched by the effort despite the weariness roughening his voice. “You needn’t have troubled yourself at this late hour.”

Saerys lowered her gaze briefly beneath the warmth in his expression. “I only wished to greet you properly, my Prince.”

Baelor’s hand lingered at her arm before his fingers rose beneath her chin, guiding her face upward toward his.The closer he stepped, the easier it became for Saerys to hear the roughness in his breathing beneath the rain. He must have ridden brutally hard through the storm to arrive this quickly.

“You honor me, Saerys.” His voice softened further then, “I only ask that you not deprive me of your gaze when I have been parted from you for so long,” he murmured.

The words sent a kind of heat low and aching through her chest. Before she could answer, Baelor reached upward toward the clasp of his fresh cloak.

“Baelor, you mustn’t—”

He ignored her protest entirely. The heavy fabric slipped from his shoulders before he drew it instead around her own, cloaking her gently with his warmth.

“I would not have my lady catching a chill in this rain.” His tone left no room for argument as he pulled the cloak around her shoulders.

Saerys could only murmur her thanks with a soft breath of surrender as she gathered the cloak more tightly around herself. Her fingers moved once more toward her pendant.

The motion caught Baelor’s attention immediately. A singular design, a vibrant purple amethyst and a burnished topaz nestled in the loops of a silver dragon upon a silver chain.

Baelor went very still. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the pendant from her delicately between his fingers. The topaz caught the torchlight first, a familiar warm sepia, then the amethyst beside it, regal and unmistakably his. His breath caught softly.

For a long moment he simply stared at it, undone, the realization settling across his face. His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly against the chain before steadying again.

“Saerys…” He was a man so rarely lost for words.

"I commissioned it with the help of your generosity. I thought…" She swallowed beneath the intensity of his gaze. "I wanted something that would remind me of you, always."

Something like wonder moved visibly across Baelor’s face at that. She knew he had missed her. His letters had seen to that. But seeing it laid bare upon his face was something else entirely.

His hand slid behind her neck almost unconsciously, fingers threading gently into the damp hair at her nape as he drew her nearer before either of them seemed fully aware of the movement. The rain seemed to fade around them as her forehead came to rest against his.

For a moment he only held her close then pressed a deep lingering kiss against her forehead, “My little fire,” he breathed. The words brushed warm against her skin.

“Do you know what it does to me?” His breath came rough again. “Coming home to you and finding the colors of my eyes around your neck?”

Something deep within Saerys tightened almost painfully at the word home. She had spent so much of her life passed between households and obligations that she had never once considered the possibility of being someone’s home instead. Without thinking, she leaned into him. Baelor remained close enough that she could feel his warmth despite the cold rain between them.

“The entire time I’ve been gone,” he whispered softly, “I’ve been haunted by the kiss I never got to give you.”

Saerys’ pulse quickened as Baelor’s eyes lowered, his other hand tightening faintly at the back of her neck. He came closer to her still. "I’ve spent weeks turning over all the sensible things I ought to say when I saw you again." His thumb brushed lightly across her lip as though testing the shape of restraint itself. "I've forgotten every single one of them."

Her breath caught. She could see the struggle in him now, exhaustion and longing wearing dangerously thin against the edges of his usual control. Even amongst the arriving company, it seemed he might finally forget himself entirely.

She should've been ashamed of the sigh she let out as her eyes drifted down to his lips.

“—Son.”

Daeron’s voice cut clean through the moment. Their surroundings bit by bit bled back into place.

Baelor stepped away too slowly, one hand lingering stubbornly against the back of her neck another heartbeat before finally releasing her. Saerys sank immediately into a curtsy.

“Father,” Baelor greeted, composure returning only in pieces. “You needn’t have roused yourself.”

“Nonsense, especially after a rough journey.” Daeron replied mildly as he approached beneath the awning. His gaze passed once between them with far too much awareness for Saerys’ comfort before settling upon his son. “My steward tells me you were pushing the company hard.” Baelor glanced downward briefly, almost contrite. “Most eager to return home, I see.”

Baelor’s hand found Saerys’ almost instinctively then, fingers curling warmly around hers. “Most eager,” he admitted quietly.

Daeron’s mouth twitched faintly as though suppressing amusement. “Well,” he sighed at last, “let us get that poor girl out of the cold.”

Color rose immediately into Saerys’ cheeks. Baelor, damn him, looked entirely unrepentant. Instead he only tucked her hand securely into his arm and led her inside beside him while the rain continued falling steadily against the darkened stones behind them.

Warmth met them almost immediately upon crossing the threshold of the keep. Torchlight flickered gold across damp stone walls while servants moved briskly through the corridors carrying fresh linens, steaming water, and armfuls of dry clothing toward the Tower of the Hand.

Somewhere deeper within the hall a fire crackled softly against the storm still raging outside, the air thick with woodsmoke and warmth after the bitter rain, yet Baelor scarcely noticed any of it. He was far too aware of Saerys beside him — of the weight of his cloak draped around her shoulders, of the rainwater still glimmering faintly against the dark strands near her temples where the damp had loosened her careful pins, and of the warmth of her hand resting against his arm as though it belonged there.

He had not released her since the courtyard, nor did he particularly wish to. His thumb brushed once across her knuckles almost unconsciously as they walked, and he felt rather than saw the slight hitch in her breathing at the touch. The memory of her standing beneath the rain with his forehead pressed to hers still burned hot beneath his skin. He could still feel the softness of her mouth beneath his thumb, still see the way she had leaned toward him without hesitation when he had reached for her.

Had his father arrived only moments later, Baelor no longer trusted how much discipline remained between his wanting and the edge of his resolve

Beside him, Saerys glanced upward as though she sensed the shift within him, and for one suspended instant the noise of the corridor seemed to fade once more into the background. Her eyes lingered upon him openly now in a way they hadn’t before There was no uncertainty left within them, no careful distance maintained out of duty or politeness. There was only warmth, trust, and perhaps something else, something infinitely more incendiary than either.

Dinner within the Queen’s apartments seldom resembled the grand spectacle court imagined whenever too many Targaryens gathered beneath one roof.

Daeron preferred quieter meals whenever possible, especially when half the Keep was already consumed by wedding preparations and visiting nobility. Nights like these were what he had multiple sons and a small council for, he insisted.

A few days after Baelor returned from the Riverlands, his youngest son returned from time fostering with the Dondarrions. As a result, the gathering that evening remained comparatively intimate by royal standards, limited to immediate family and a handful of attendants moving discreetly through the background. Even so, the atmosphere within the Queen’s hall felt livelier than it had in weeks.

Matarys had arrived scarcely a few hours earlier from Blackhaven, road-weary and windblown, and had immediately transformed the mood of the household. His copper hair shone beneath the candlelight while his bright, expressive eyes tracked every conversation around the table with poorly concealed enthusiasm. At thirteen, he remained unmistakably Baelor's despite the time spent amongst the Marcher Lords.

The fostering at Blackhaven had roughened some of his edges, though not enough to disguise the gentler temperament beneath. “And then Lord Dondarrion swore the hounds had cornered a boar near the eastern ridge,” Matarys said while gesturing enthusiastically with a piece of bread. “Only when we arrived it turned out to be Ser Gawen’s horse trapped in the brush after it threw him crossing the stream.”

Valarr snorted softly into his wine. Seated farther down the table beside Saerys, Baelor lifted one dark brow mildly. “And Lord Dondarrion permitted the hunt to continue after discovering his men could not distinguish horses from boars?”

Matarys grinned immediately. “He said he’d find a beast and slay it himself, if only to justify the ordeal of putting on armor.”

A faint smile touched Baelor’s mouth despite himself, though Saerys noticed the way his attention remained fixed steadily upon Matarys throughout the exchange, listening with the quiet attentiveness of someone carefully measuring not merely the story itself, but the boy telling it.

Across the table Daeron leaned back slightly in his chair with the relaxed ease of a man thoroughly enjoying the return of noise to his household once more. “And what precisely,” the king asked, “did Lord Manfred teach you besides how Marcher lords injure themselves?”

“Hawking mostly,” Matarys replied readily. “And hunting trails through the Marches. Though Lady Jeyne said I asked too many questions during hunts.”

A faint smile touched Baelor’s mouth. “That sounds more like you.”

Matarys frowned slightly. “I only wanted to know why everyone preferred boar hunting to cyvasse if it involved so much mud and broken bones.” Soft laughter moved quietly around the table at that.

Saerys lowered her gaze briefly toward her wine, though beneath her amusement came a small unexpected pang of recognition. She remembered all too well what it felt like to ask earnest questions in rooms where everyone else already seemed to understand the rules of belonging.

“Lady Jeyne remained remarkably patient with you then,” Daeron observed mildly.

“She mostly gave up chastising me by the end,” Matarys admitted.

Something about the answer caused Baelor’s expression to soften almost imperceptibly. “You were there to learn their customs,” he said evenly. “Not make yourself smaller for their comfort.”

The table quieted slightly at that.

Matarys glanced toward him quickly, some tension easing from his shoulders so subtly Saerys suspected most would have missed it entirely. “Yes, Father.” The words settled softly into the room.

Saerys suspected the fostering had not always been simple for him despite the affection clearly shown by Lady Jeyne and much of the household. Matarys lacked the harder edges the Stormlands admired. There was a gentleness to him difficult to miss once one looked beyond the Targaryen name — an earnestness that might have flourished more easily amongst maesters than Marcher lords.

Warmth rolled easily around the table afterward while servants moved quietly forward to replace dishes between courses. Conversation drifted naturally between stories from Blackhaven, preparations for the upcoming wedding, and increasingly exaggerated accounts of Stormlands weather.

"Lady Jeyne sends her regards," Matarys finished. "She was very disappointed she could not attend."

"She'll be missed," Myriah said warmly.

Daeron turned his cup thoughtfully between his hands. "I imagine half the Stormlands has been speaking of little besides the wedding these past few weeks."

Matarys gave a cautious nod. "There was...some discussion, Your Grace."

"I'm sure there was," Daeron said mildly. "How did Lord Manfred remark upon the news?"

The boy hesitated again before answering carefully. “He…wondered whether the Marches ought to expect continued Dornish influence at court afterward.” A brief quiet settled across the table, not tense exactly, merely thoughtful.

“The Stormlords continue convincing themselves Dorne means to conquer them through marriage feasts,” Valaar observed lazily.

Beside her, Baelor remained entirely still. Saerys felt suddenly, acutely aware of her late mother’s Allyrion blood. Not enough to mark her truly Dornish in the eyes of most of the realm, apart from her looks perhaps, but evidently enough for Marcher lords to notice all the same.

“And what answer was given?” Daeron asked mildly, returning to the matter at hand.

Matarys looked toward Baelor instinctively before answering. “Lady Jeyne told him House Targaryen had already survived marrying the Princess of Dorne herself, so another generation was unlikely to destroy the realm.”

That finally drew soft laughter from Daeron. “Wise woman,” the king observed.

“She also told him Prince Baelor has spent half his life cleaning up other people’s grievances and was unlikely to surrender the kingdom to Dorne merely because his future wife’s mother was born further south than Storm’s End.”

Valarr laughed quietly at that. Baelor however only exhaled softly through his nose, somewhere between amusement and resignation. “That sounds very like Jeyne.”

“Did that seem to pacify him?” Daeron asked with a keen eye.

Matarys shifted faintly. “He said the Marches remember things longer than the rest of the realm.” The words settled heavier this time.

Saerys could almost feel the years beneath them. Raids. Burned keeps. Old blood. Old fears. The long shadow left by generations who had spent centuries teaching their children to look southward with suspicion. Within these walls, she had almost begun to forget that her Dornish blood might still be counted against her beyond them.

Baelor’s expression never wavered. “The Marches are permitted their memories,” he said evenly after a moment. “So long as they remember who sits the Iron Throne before they decide old grievances matter more than peace.” Daeron regarded his son quietly for a moment before nodding once, seemingly satisfied.

Baelor’s marriage to Jena Dondarrion years earlier had served a purpose — convenience dressed in diplomacy, binding a difficult Marcher house more securely to the throne during a period when Daeron’s Dornish alliances still sat poorly with much of the Stormlands. Jena herself had passed in the birthing bed, twelve years ago now, long before Saerys had come to court.

The room remained easy despite the undercurrent beneath the conversation. None of this was new to any of them. Lord Manfred Dondarrion had never pretended particular affection for Dorne nor overwhelming devotion toward the crown itself, though he had remained pragmatic enough to maintain both peace and advantageous ties where necessary.

Valaar, who had remained comparatively quiet through much of the exchange, finally set aside his wine cup. “The Marches remember everything,” he observed calmly. “Usually selectively.”

Kiera glanced toward him with immediate amusement. “An impressive talent shared by most noble houses.”

Daeron huffed a quiet laugh into his cup. Matarys meanwhile sensed the shift towards good humor,. “Lady Jeyne says marcher lords treat insults like heirlooms.”

“That,” Valarr observed, “may be the most astute thing ever spoken in Blackhaven.” Even Baelor smiled faintly at that.

Kiera turned her attention toward Saerys now, sensing that politicking was done for the night. “You should know half the court has become terrified of the wedding seating arrangements.”

Saerys blinked softly. “Already?”

“Mm,” Valarr said. “Three Reach houses are apparently convinced seating the Dornish delegation too near the Stormlords will result in either murder or diplomacy.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“You say this as someone raised away from court,” Kiera replied. “Given enough idle nobles and sufficient wine, seating charts become matters of state.”

The conversation eased considerably after that. Matarys meanwhile looked visibly relieved as the subjects had drifted back toward easier waters. “You brought back more books than armor again, I take it,” Baelor observed after a while, sounding entirely unsurprised. That brightened Matarys instantly.

“Only somewhat.”

“That means yes.”

Even now there remained something deeply fond beneath Baelor’s dry patience, and Saerys found herself unexpectedly captivated by it. Not simply because of his affection — but the particular shape that it took. Steady. Attentive. Protective without suffocating. The sort of care that noticed discomfort before it required naming. Matarys meanwhile had already continued speaking.

“Maester Hollis let me copy sections from a history of Old Rhoyne. And there’s one about Nymeria’s landing that contradicts several Citadel accounts.”

“Which accounts?” Saerys asked before she could stop herself.

Matarys turned toward her instantly, visibly brightening in the way earnest people often did whenever someone engaged sincerely with the subject currently occupying their thoughts.

Baelor watched the exchange quietly over the rim of his wine cup. He had prepared himself, foolishly perhaps, for patience. For effort. For the careful awkwardness of introductions between those who would soon be closer tied. He had not prepared himself for this easy unfolding.

Matarys had always possessed an unfortunate habit of forgetting himself whenever books became the subject of discussion. Saerys, however, had turned toward the boy almost without thinking, one hand resting lightly beside her cup as Matarys launched into an explanation concerning contradictory accounts of Nymeria's migration. There was no polite endurance in her expression, no careful smile worn for courtesy's sake. Instead she regarded him with the same quiet attentiveness she brought to nearly everything she cared about, as though his thoughts possessed value simply because they were his.

The reserve fostered into him by years amongst marcher lords faded steadily as he spoke, each answer growing a little more animated than the last.

It was not merely that Saerys was kind. Rather, it was the ease with which she drew people toward her without seeming to realize she was doing it.

He had seen the same thing often enough these past months. Laena speaking more freely than she had upon first coming out at court. Addam lingering whenever messages were delivered. Even Sarella, who delighted in provoking reactions from nearly everyone she met, seemed overtly fond of seeking Saerys out. Somehow her simple sincerity accomplished what charm, rank, and diplomacy so often failed to do.

A faint smile touched Baelor's lips as he watched them. Whatever else came of the evening, it pleased him to see Matarys so quickly at ease in her company.

Matarys spoke even more excitedly now. “Mostly the numbers regarding the Rhoynar ships,” he explained. “Maester Hollis thinks later accounts simplified parts of the migration because too many records disagreed with one another.”

“And what do you think?” Baelor asked.

Matarys hesitated briefly, considering. “I think histories probably become cleaner the farther people stand from them.” The words settled quietly around the table.

“That,” Daeron said after a moment, “is a wise observation for thirteen.” Matarys looked faintly embarrassed by the attention while Baelor looked on with unmistakable pride.

Baelor regarded him for a moment longer before his smile returned. "I'm glad to hear you still found time for your studies."

Matarys tilted his head. "Even at Blackhaven?"

"Especially at Blackhaven," Baelor replied. "The Marches produce no shortage of capable swordsmen. The realm has a greater need of men who know when not to draw one."

And suddenly Saerys understood something she had not fully appreciated before now — how long Baelor must have spent away from his sons over the years in service to the crown. Long enough perhaps that moments like this became precious things, carefully guarded beneath duty and composure.

The conversation shifted naturally from there into histories, trade routes, and increasingly spirited disagreements regarding which maesters were frauds. To Saerys’ mild surprise she found herself participating more easily than she might once have expected, offering occasional observations while Matarys responded with open enthusiasm entirely free from the careful political calculation older courtiers usually carried into such discussions.

And as the conversation continued flowing between stories and interruptions and memories of Blackhaven, Saerys found herself watching the brothers with a quiet curiosity.

Valarr and Matarys possessed little resemblance in temperament. Valarr carried himself with the easy confidence of an heir long accustomed to rooms bending instinctively toward him, while Matarys still retained much of the open earnestness of youth despite his years amongst the marcher lords. Yet both had inherited the same dangerous gift Baelor possessed — that effortless ability to hold a room’s attention without demanding it through cruelty or sheer volume.

Valarr wielded it through wit and charm sharpened enough to guide conversations wherever he pleased, while Matarys managed it through sincerity so genuine people listened almost despite themselves. And Baelor… Saerys lowered her gaze briefly toward her wine before she could linger too obviously upon that thought.

Baelor simply led by example until everyone else unconsciously began orienting themselves around him, a paragon of chivalry and wisdom. And especially tonight Saerys remained aware of him beside her through all of it. The warmth of his shoulder near hers whenever he leaned back slightly in his chair. The low cadence of his voice whenever he spoke across the table. The occasional brief glance she caught him turning toward her when conversation shifted elsewhere.

At one point Matarys launched into an especially dramatic account involving a summer storm, three frightened squires, and a lightning-struck tree. During the distraction Baelor leaned slightly closer beside her. "He's taken to you rather quickly."

Saerys followed his gaze toward Matarys. "Books were involved."

Baelor smiled faintly. "Books helped." His eyes lingered on his younger son. "But Matarys isn't always so forthcoming with people he doesn't know."

Saerys looked back at the boy, surprised. "He isn't?"

"Not usually." The approval in his voice warmed something in her chest.

Later, as the conversation drifted onward once more, Matarys looked toward Saerys with an expression that suggested a thought had been turning quietly within his mind for some time before he finally voiced it.

“I do not think you are at all how I expected,” he admitted quietly.

The statement drew Saerys’ attention fully toward him. “No?” She asked, concealing a small smile.

He shook his head slightly. “People spoke of you as very withdrawn at Summerhall.”

Warmth touched her cheeks faintly, though there was no cruelty in the words, only simple honesty. “I was withdrawn at Summerhall,” she admitted quietly. She smiled to smooth away any thought that she had been slighted.

Matarys studied her for a quiet moment, as though measuring that admission against the woman who had spent the evening listening so earnestly to his stories. “But not cold, I suppose.” Matarys said carefully, something like recognition flickered across his face.

Something softened subtly in Daeron’s expression at that. “Most people mistake reserve for coldness eventually,” he observed calmly.

Matarys frowned faintly at this, his brows puckered. “That seems rather unfair.”

“Court is frequently unfair,” Baelor replied mildly beside Saerys, though the lingering reproach beneath his tone did not escape her notice.

Eventually the meal dissolved the way family dinners often did — not with ceremony, but gradually, through drifting conversation and the quiet exhaustion of a long evening finally catching up to everyone at once. Servants had already begun clearing the last dishes while candles burned lower along the table.

Matarys looked moments from nodding off where he sat, though he was clearly attempting to wage war against it through sheer stubbornness alone.

“You are falling asleep upright,” Valarr observed.

“I am not.”

“You blinked for an entire conversation.”

Matarys frowned faintly. “I was thinking.”

“An explanation that becomes less convincing when delivered half unconscious.” 

Baelor smiled at the return to rapport between his sons and Kiera chuckled softly at the exchange. Daeron waved one hand dismissively toward the younger prince. “Go on before you collapse directly into the table.”

Matarys rose obediently enough after that, bowing first toward the king before turning toward the rest of them. Saerys noticed the brief hesitation before he addressed her, as though still uncertain precisely how formal he ought to be.

“It was good to meet you properly, Princess.”

She stood to bid him goodnight with a gentle smile, warmed by the gesture. “And you, Prince Matarys.”

He looked faintly relieved by the softness in her tone before finally retreating alongside Valarr toward the doors.

Baelor watched his sons with affection as they made their way down the hall. Lively conversation between brothers filtered back to them across the stone as Saerys continued to stand next to him. “He’s a sweet boy,” Saerys observed as she watched the fondness on his face.

Baelor’s lips upturned at that and he took her hand. “Selfishly, I’m glad the Marches haven’t stamped it out of him entirely.”

“Will he go back to foster with them after the wedding do you suppose?” Saerys asked carefully, turning to lean against the table to face him.

Baelor’s head tilted to the side in thought. “We made that agreement shortly after Jena died. A gesture to honor their grief and their role against the rebellion…” Baelor sighed again. “But I’ll admit I worry over sending him to a house that doesn’t value him as he deserves.”

Saerys watched Baelor’s face carefully before she spoke. “He reminds me a little of myself at that age. Quiet, scholarly…There’s a spine to him though beyond his years. He certainly hasn’t let them mold him into the Marcher Lord that they want him to be.” She paused again before continuing, “I think that inner strength is something he gets from you.”

Something flickered across Baelor’s face at the sentiment, giving Saerys the courage to continue. “Both your sons carry the best of you.”

For a moment he could only look at her. Her words struck somewhere he rarely allowed himself to look for validation. He had spent years wondering what his sons had inherited from him beyond absence. Whether they would recall stories told beside hearthfires or long absences explained away by duty. Her words were not a kindness he would have granted himself.

Something warm crossed Baelor’s eyes as he stroked her hand and pulled her closer. He was quiet a long while before he spoke, his voice soft. “Where did you learn to be so sweet then, hmm?” Saerys demurred, looking down with a soft smile, while Baelor continued, a sardonic lilt to his voice now. “You certainly didn’t learn that from Maekar’s table.”

Saerys smiled more in earnest at that. “Some might emulate that which they have missed,” her gaze rose to meet his again, “especially amongst more forgiving company.”

Baelor’s face softened at that. He stood, drawing her a fraction closer as he did. The hall had grown quieter while servants moved discreetly through the remains of dinner behind them. Candlelight flickered warmly across the table between them and somewhere beyond the windows the city murmured softly beneath the summer dark.

Saerys became suddenly, acutely aware of how close they stood. Of the warmth of his hand around hers. The quiet steadiness in his gaze whenever it rested fully upon her like this. The dangerous ease that had begun settling between them since his return, she scarcely noticed it until moments like this left her heart stumbling unexpectedly against her ribs.

Baelor seemed on the verge of saying something else when Queen Myriah’s voice cut smoothly across the hall before he could.

“Before you whisk her off to hide in a library again,” she informed her son with impeccable timing, “Kiera and I still require Saerys for wedding preparation tonight.”

A flicker of amusement appeared immediately in Baelor’s expression, though his hand lingered around Saerys’ for another brief moment before finally releasing it.

“Do you?” he asked mildly.

“We do,” Myriah repeated as she rose from the table. “The Reach accommodations remain unresolved, Lord Bracken has apparently taken personal offense to the current Riverlands seating arrangement, and I would prefer to settle the marcher placements before someone decides proximity to Dorne constitutes a declaration of war.”

“That seems optimistic,” Daeron’s voice drifted from the head of the table. Myriah ignored him expertly.

Baelor looked entirely unrepentant. “I was unaware my company had become such an obstacle.”

“You have spent most evenings since your return ensuring very little planning is accomplished.” Myriah informed him serenely.

Even Daeron laughed quietly into his wine at that. Then at last Myriah’s expression gentled slightly as she turned toward Saerys. “We shall not keep you terribly long, my dear.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Her gaze shifted briefly back toward Baelor afterward, amusement threading beneath her composure once more. “You may reclaim her tomorrow, assuming the realm survives the seating arrangements first.”

That finally earned a low laugh from him. “As Her Grace commands.”

Satisfied at last, Myriah finally moved toward the doors, Kiera falling easily into step with her. The hall quieted considerably once the doors finally closed behind the others. Daeron remained seated for a few moments longer while servants moved discreetly around the edges of the room gathering the final dishes.

Baelor meanwhile offered his hand to Saerys before they parted, placing a light kiss on her hand as he bade her good night. Before she could step away, he leaned close once more. She could feel the faint brush of his beard against her temple. The gesture carried a dangerous naturalness to it now. As though neither of them thought twice anymore about reaching for the other.

He spoke lowly to her with laughter in his voice. “If the arrangements become too tiresome, just send word and I’ll come to your rescue.”

Saerys leaned back in laughter at that, mirth in her eyes she replied, “I think somehow I will manage, my Prince.”

She curtsied before pulling away completely, the faint pull of their fingers against each other the only hint at Baelor’s true feelings on being parted from her. Saerys could feel his gaze remain on her all the way to the doorway, warm and impossibly attentive even now.

Only once the doors finally shut behind her did the room fall properly still.

Daeron watched his eldest son in silence for a long moment while the last servants vanished discreetly from the hall and only the low crackle of the hearth remained between them.

Baelor reached automatically for his wine before seeming to reconsider midway through the motion. “You've been studying me for some time.”

“I am trying to decide whether happiness has made you more reckless or merely honest.”

That drew a tired exhale through Baelor’s nose. “I assume this concerns the bailey steps last night.”

“I must confess, I’m accustomed to seeing you exercise more restraint.”

Baelor merely rolled his neck, jaw tightening faintly. Daeron studied him carefully now. It truly was remarkable, this change in him.

Baelor had always been disciplined to the point of severity. The sort of man who wore duty so tightly wound around his shoulders that even moments of happiness often seemed filtered carefully through obligation first. Yet lately…Daeron kept catching glimpses of something startlingly younger beneath all that control.

Baelor leaned one hand against the table, gaze lowered now toward the dying candlelight. “I’ll admit that weeks away from her might’ve been detrimental for my self-control,” he said evenly after a moment.

Something deeply amused flickered across Daeron’s face despite himself. “Well,” he mused quietly, “that is at least reassuring ahead of the wedding.”

Baelor shot him a flat look.

“I am serious,” Daeron continued. “You and Saerys seem considerably more at ease together now than before you left.”

The caution that had initially haunted every interaction between them had softened steadily into something warmer, steadier. Saerys no longer looked at Baelor merely with nervous gratitude or careful politeness. And Baelor…

Baelor looked at her like a man slowly forgetting how to guard his own heart properly. Daeron watched the realization move silently across his son’s face as well. “You carried this match quite differently at the beginning,” the king observed quietly.

That finally stilled Baelor entirely. For a moment only the hearth crackled between them. Because they both remembered. The visible conflict that had hollowed Baelor out the night Saerys came weeping to him for protection. The way he had spoken then as though agreeing to marry her himself bordered somewhere between duty and failure. Good, kind, and honorable men do not marry their nieces. Daeron had not forgotten strain, the warring of desires he'd sensed in his son that night, yet the man standing before him scarcely resembled that tormented figure at all.

Baelor remained quiet for a long while before finally speaking. He had known how to be dutiful in marriage, how to be honorable, to make sacrifices. Wanting, however, had proven a far less obedient thing. “I think,” he admitted slowly, “that I spent so long convincing myself the match was something I ought to resist that I failed to notice when resistance stopped feeling honest.”

Baelor’s gaze drifted unconsciously toward the doorway Saerys had exited through only moments earlier.

“She trusts me,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I dare hope that she might grow to care for me beyond...” He swallowed roughly, he broke off, not permitting himself to continue.

Daeron waited. Baelor only shook his head. "No matter."

The unfinished confession settled quietly in the hall between them. Daeron felt something ache faintly in his chest at the sound of it. Some truths, he supposed, a man had to discover for himself.

“And do you begrudge yourself that hope?” Daeron asked gently.

Baelor stiffened at the question, taking a breath slowly though his nose. Then, slowly, something softened across his face. “No,” he admitted at last, he looked down the hall again, "Not anymore."

Daeron leaned back slightly afterward, studying his son with quiet satisfaction. He could not remember the last time the answer had come so easily

“Good,” he said simply before finally rising to return to his chambers.

Baelor frowned faintly. “That is all?”

“That is all.” A faint smile touched the king’s mouth. “The realm has extracted enough from you over the years without demanding misery in your marriage as well.”

Baelor huffed a soft laugh beneath his breath at that.

The Tower of the Hand had grown quiet by the time Baelor returned to his chambers. Addam had already banked the fire and laid out fresh sleeping clothes before withdrawing for the evening. The familiar routines of the Tower continued around him as they always had. Baelor unfastened his cloak, set aside his sword, and crossed into the adjoining bedchamber.

He opened the wardrobe, his own cloaks and doublets occupied one side in their accustomed order. The other remained empty. His hand lingered lightly against the door. 

Over the past four moons, his chambers had changed by quiet degrees, between council meetings and correspondence from the Riverlands. An empty shelf here, space cleared there. Another place made ready without much thought beyond the simple certainty that, before long, it would be needed.

For the first time since those changes had begun, he found himself looking not at empty space, but at the life that would soon fill it. Until now they had represented preparation, possibility. A future he scarcely allowed himself to imagine too closely. Tonight they no longer felt empty, they felt expectant. He closed the wardrobe gently.

“Ah," Daenerys caught her meaning.

"Her very first request after the betrothal was to join my retinue so she might better learn her role as consort,” Myriah said. “She strives terribly hard to be worthy of what’s been placed before her. Rather reminds me of someone else I know."

Daenerys smiled knowingly at that before glancing once more across the hall. Baelor still had not looked away from Saerys, nor strayed from her side.

“Well,” she said lightly, “perhaps they were fated for one another then.”

There was, however, one person in the room who was less than charmed by the display. Aerion found a corner for himself to stew in as he had been wont to do since the Dornish visit began. It was there his father found him, gripping a goblet of wine, his eyes glaring daggers across the room at Saerys and Baelor. 

“You’re too old, Aerion,” Maekar drawled, “to be sulking when someone else is playing with a discarded toy.” 

Aerion huffed. “She’s made a mockery of me. You would’ve thought she was awaiting her death being promised to me, and now there she is. All smiles for a man almost twice her age.”

Maekar rolled his eyes. “And pray tell, just what the fuck did you do to try and inspire smiles in her, hmm?”

Aerion’s jaw ticked and Maekar continued. “Yes, she’s made quite the transformation. Would you like to know the grand sorcery he pulled off to accomplish such a thing?” Aerion gave no comment. “He has courted her with time, and gifts. He has been kind to her.”

Aerion exhaled harshly, his nostrils flaring. Maekar went on. “In truth, they still barely know each other. Saerys may very well be the sort of girl to bestow that kind of affection on whomever might deign to treat her well.” He gave his son a piercing look. “You too could inspire such gratitude and affection in your next betrothed if you simply try.”

He levied Aerion with a more intense stare then. "You spent years expecting her affection as your due. He spent a mere fortnight trying to earn it. Saerys was not a forgone conclusion, neither will Daenora be. Behave accordingly.”

Before Aerion could respond, those gathered were called to feast. At dinner, Baelor and Saerys were somehow left to their own devices, and he reveled in the chance to hear of how the days had treated her in his absence. Baelor thought he might never tire of cataloguing the way her expressions shifted as she spoke.

At some point in the evening, players were called for dancing. Baelor found himself on the floor once again, any excuse to get her in his arms. He was with family, surely he was allowed, he cared not who was there to see him dote on her. 

After their reel, Morion came up once more to beg a dance from the Sunbeam. Baelor joined his brother on the side of the room and took a goblet of ale from an attendant. His eyes tracked her almost despite himself as Morion spun her, laughing through the next turn. Maekar observed the way his brother watched the floor, care and hunger equal in his gaze.

“If I didn't know better I'd scarcely recognize her here.” Baelor tilted his head at that in question. “I can’t recall the last time she conducted herself so freely or the last time she wasn’t wearing black head to toe.” 

Baelor exhaled weighing how diplomatic he should be. “It would seem King’s Landing agrees with her more than Summerhall.”

Maekar looked over at him wryly. “Yes, surely that’s it.” He paused, thoughtful. “We both know why she’s flourishing. She deserves someone who’ll care for her, someone who’ll value her.”

Baelor bowed his head. “You know I will, I do.” The fervency of his tone practically caught them both off guard. 

“And does she realize…” he gestured with his hand, “The, shall we say, depth of your care?”

Baelor tilted his head at that. “I’ve done all that I can to make time to know her better. I think–no, I know, she already thinks the gifts are ridiculous.” 

“That’s not what I speak of." Maekar rolled his eyes. “Does she realize what all is simmering under your fucking care? What heats your gaze when it finds hers?”

Baelor straightened then. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Fine, have it with her.” 

“Maekar, I swear by the seven–"

Maekar cut him off with a laugh. “You’re going to fucking terrify the poor girl, she’s not going to have any idea what’s coming for her”.

“I’m offended by what you’re insinuating. If you think for a moment that I’d be anything other than a gentlem–”

“Gods, of course not! But as things stand, she is going to be unprepared to match your–”’ Maekar mimicked gagging. “She’s just–she’s going to be surprised. You forget, I’ve been to war with you. I know how well you keep your baser nature contained.”

“What exactly are you suggesting I do, take her to some alcove and have my way with her?”

Maekar might've actually gagged at that. “Fuck no.” He took another swallow of ale and pointed with an accusatory finger. “No, see that’s where your mind goes because you’re so bloody repressed.”

Surely his brother, on his way to his second marriage, couldn’t be this dense. “Court her for seven’s sake, properly. You know how Dyanna and I were in our youth. We were inseparable. I’m sure there’s many a lady’s maid and Kingsguard who we accidentally scandalized in our efforts to know each other better.” 

“I can’t exactly get away with the lusty young prince act, now can I?” Baelor grit out.

Maekar huffed. “You make it sound so -ugh- what we engaged in was perfectly natural for a young couple,”

“Of course it was. The context for her and I is entirely different,” Baelor said quietly, “I am the crown prince taking a second wife, asking the trust of a younger woman who came to me asking for rescue. I would sooner cut off my own hand than dishonor her.”

Maekar’s expression shifted then, some of the mockery finally easing from it. “I’m not talking about dishonor, Baelor, gods. It’s just…” Maekar sighs “Saerys is hardly sheltered. But all she’s seen is the courtly prince, the dutiful hand to the king. Just have an awareness of that.”

Baelor took a measured breath through his nose. “You speak as though this isn’t something that plagues my mind daily.” 

“Kindly spare me the details.” 

“I’ve done this calculus in my head already. The minute I bend but a little I consume both of us in the fire.”

Maekar stared at him for a long moment before rubbing a hand across his mouth as though uncertain whether to laugh or pity him. “This is what I mean”. Maekar said with a knowing look. “Fucking repressed.”  

Baelor turned Maekar’s words over in his head later that night. His brother wasn’t completely out of line. 

As he went about his days, tracing the arc of his and Saerys’ courtship in his head, it always followed from chivalrous rescue, princely courting, a wedding ceremony fit for the crown, and then sailed right ahead to royal wedded bliss. Saerys seated by him at council meetings, dinners. Shared meals in the mornings, passing notes to each other through shared books, ending the day with her over a glass of wine.

His nights were a wholly different matter.

After he was torn from her side after evening meals or respites in the library, as had become their habit, he returned to the Tower of the Hand and willed himself to read, to work, to sleep, to do anything else but imagine Saerys sharing his bed with him. 

His nightly musings were bad enough without his brother’s encouragement. But now, he was coming apart at the seams.

He had made sure to keep things perfectly chaste between the two of them. Her hand tucked into his arm as he led her from one place to another, grazes of fingertips in the library, hands at her waist during a dance. Courtly kisses on the hand, soothing kisses to her temple.

Now that he thought about it, the first and only time her lips had touched any part of him was that first day in the gardens. My Prince, she had whispered as she pressed a kiss to his hand, holding his gaze. 

By the seven, the sensations that shot through him whenever she referred to him as hers. Did she have any idea what it did to him? The thought of belonging to her.

If he was hers. then he had to be worthy of her. Who was he to have earned the privilege of her hand?

Oh yes. Hand to the King, heir to the throne. But she hadn’t sought him out for that. She hadn’t sought him out at all. She’d asked for good and kind, and he’d all but leapt at the chance to be that for her. And the way she looked at him. That, he couldn’t be imagining.

The way her eyes found him across a crowded room. The way she held his gaze when it was just the two of them. The way she had glowed when he praised her beauty, murmuring my Prince so softly only he could hear it.

Though that was nothing compared to the rare times she’d grace him by calling him by name. Moments he had turned over in his head long after they passed.

How easily might her formality dissolve further in private? What would she look like seated beside the hearth in nothing but her shift while her hair spilled loose down her back? How might she say his name when there was no one to overhear it?

Baelor. Spoken softly with a smile, only for him.

Baelor, she’d let out almost chiding as he pressed a kiss to the delicate place beneath her ear while she laughed softly at something he’d said moments earlier.

He imagined hearing her whispering his name, Baelor, her breath catching as he unlaced one of her gowns.

Once his thoughts strayed they became increasingly difficult to govern. For him, wanting had always been all or nothing, and it’d been nothing for so long.

Baelor, he imagined her sighing, as he kissed his way slowly down the line of her neck and lower still. His fingers flexed as he envisioned the slow discovery of every inch of skin he had thus far only brushed accidentally in passing.

Baelor, breaking apart into breathless syllables as he worshiped at the altar between her thighs, his restraint abandoned entirely beneath his hands and mouth.

Baelor, let out on a whine as he wrung out her pleasure once, twice, thrice. And afterward—

He imagined hearing it again in startled little gasps as he finally sheathed himself in her warmth, the way she’d moan it in his ear as she adjusted to his size and the rhythm he’d set. The way the sound might sharpen into something near desperate once pleasure overtook her.

Gods. He wanted to make her beg, he wanted to make her unravel completely.

It took everything in him not to take himself in hand like a green lad. He had thought himself above this. Even though he had married young, desire had never addled him like this. Somehow he had not been inoculated to the fever that ran through him now. The agony that ripped through him, feeling that the moment he touched her he’d burn them both alive. 

Worse still, was how instinctively his mind supplied these visions now, as though some part of him had already begun treating her as his, in every possible sense. He ran a hand down his chest. The things he'd do, the things he would teach her when she was finally, truly, his…

No. 

He would not reduce her into fodder for lonely fantasies like some princeling unable to govern his blood.

Even alone, the thought felt dishonorable. Saerys trusted him. Looked at him with open sincerity and growing affection. The very idea of taking selfish advantage of that trust—even in thought alone—filled him with immediate guilt sharp enough to sour the lingering warmth of the evening.

Baelor closed his eyes briefly. Gods help him, that was perhaps the worst part. 

The wanting did not lessen beneath shame. If anything it sharpened with denial, years of rigid self-command collapsing inward now that someone had finally slipped past the walls he had built around himself. But he would endure it. Gladly.

Because if there came a day Saerys chose him freely—not from duty, not from gratitude, but because she truly wanted him in return—then he would rather wait in torment a hundred times over than cheapen it by taking refuge in shadows and imagination.

It turns out it was exactly like Maekar had said.

Repressed.

As it would turn out, Baelor received a respite from his temptation, though not in the way he expected or in a way he particularly cared for. 

His father finally looked up from the letter that had been delivered during their small council meeting. “The seven-forsaken Blackwoods and Brackens are at it again. Lord Medgar has requested our assistance in the matter.” 

“And what kind of assistance would that be?” Maekar groused from the other side of the small council table. 

“They would like us to send a representative from the crown to oversee the dispute. Someone who can call them to heel.”

All heads swiveled in one direction, Baelor need not even look up from the report to know which direction the council is leaning. “When am I leaving?” The question left Baelor’s mouth almost automatically, years of habit answering for him before the rest of his thoughts quite caught up.

He looked up with a sigh. His Aunt Elaena, master of coin in all but name, looked over at him with a dry smile.

It was only after the words settled across the council chamber that another realization followed close behind. He would be leaving King’s Landing, leaving Saerys. Daeron’s amusement softened slightly as he watched the realization settle properly across his son’s face.

Daeron looked over at him wryly. “I suppose the sooner you leave the sooner you get back. We cannot very well have you missing your own wedding.”

“Bid me the day to get things in order and I’ll head out with a company in the morning. Ser Donnel and Ser Roland will accompany me.” 

 “I trust you’ll see it done.”

Maekar’s eyes narrowed faintly from across the table, recognition flickering almost immediately behind them. There seemed to be rather less enthusiasm for duty now than there might have been a month ago.

As the small council dissolved into its usual shuffle of parchment and muttered logistics, Baelor found himself already calculating the days ahead with quiet dissatisfaction.

Baelor found Saerys seated in the gardens intent on embroidery, deep red thread on cream silk. She stitched with focus, slowly but surely crafting a pattern of dragon scales. Something shifted in his chest as he realized just what she might be working on. It pleased him more than it ought to have.

She looked up then, taking him in as he approached. He bowed before coming to sit beside her. She smiled at that, a glint that Baelor now knew to mean mischief in her eyes “I find I have an impertinent question for you, my prince.”

His lips curved upwards. “Pray tell, princess.”

“You’ve asked that I cease paying deference to you, yet you stubbornly insist on paying it towards me.” She smiled in earnest as he sat by her side. “I do not seek to be a tyrant in my own marriage, I must insist we return to equitable formality at once.”

He shook his head at that. “And here I thought that’s what we were already doing.” She could hear the smirk in his voice as he reached for one of her hands. “With you, I’m just Baelor, but you will always be my lady.” 

The words settled far more warmly than they ought to have–surely he could not have meant that to sound so intimate. Saerys kept her head lowered as she shook her head, almost unsettled, but unable to cease smiling. “We shall have to alert the king to the change in the line of succession.”

Baelor reached to brush away the hair that obscured her face from view. It heartened him how often he’d seen her wear it down. “Some days… would that I could.”

The words settled between them more heavily than the teasing that had preceded them. Saerys studied him quietly then, some of the laughter fading from her expression, as she thought she glimpsed something honest beneath the remark.

Saerys turned to look at him then. “You know, I don’t actually believe that.” 

His face lightened immediately. “Do you call me a liar, Saerys?” 

“On my honor, no.” She laughed. “I just don’t think you’d ever give it up, even if some days you think you might. Something in you would compel you otherwise.”

Is it duty, is it honor? Saerys wondered to herself. Is it the same thing that compelled you to ask for my hand? 

His gaze took in her features too. The mirth in her eyes a constant whether she was teasing him or whether she was in earnest so it would seem. And she could see to the core of him, far too well.  “There are days like today though where I yearn to shrug it off just a little.”

She took his hand as she held his gaze. “What troubles you, my Prince?”

“I’ve been called to the Riverlands,” he said at last, some of the earlier warmth fading reluctantly from his face. “A border dispute that requires a fine touch.”

Saerys straightened slightly at that. “Near the God’s Eye?” Baelor nodded once. A faint crease appeared between her brows before she seemed to realize she had reacted too quickly.“Is it wise…” she asked carefully, “to have the heir to the throne travel so far from the capital over a quarrel between river lords?”

Baelor’s expression softened almost immediately at the question. She was worried for him.

“I shall have Ser Donnel and Ser Roland with me, as well as a full company,” he reassured her gently. “The Blackwoods and Brackens are more inclined toward exhausting one another than threatening the crown directly.”

“That does not mean men cannot behave foolishly.” Saerys’ fingers tightened slightly around his hand nonetheless. “Or that roads will be without threat.”

The corners of Baelor’s mouth curved faintly despite himself. “No,” he admitted softly. “It does not.”He continued, “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.” He squeezed her hand. Back to you as soon as I’m able. “There’s a ceremony in the Capital in three moon’s time that I’m eager to attend,” he noted, a smile in his voice as his thumb stroked over the back of her hand. 

Saerys’ gaze wandered down to their hands. “I’ll await your return, your Grace.” 

He leaned in closer to her at that. Oh my fire he wondered. What was it that urged her to put distance between them once more? He brought his hand to her chin, drawing her up to meet his eyes. 

As his gaze found her again, he brought his to the side of her neck with a caress. “Am I not your Prince, Saerys?”

Even gentled, there was coiled strength in the hand cupping her neck. Her gaze slipped down to his lips and back up again. Not mine enough that I can bid you to stay. 

It felt as if a chord pulled taut between them. Saerys remembered herself only as she felt the pull in her chest. “I believe you are just as much mine as you are the crown’s.” 

Baelor felt his chest tighten. He yearned to tell her that it wouldn’t always be the case. But Saerys was right, and he wouldn’t dare lie to her, even as reassurance. He let his thumb stroke along the edge of her jaw. Saerys straightened at the sound of footsteps nearing in the gardens.

Baelor hedged at last. “You can at least be assured that I’ll belong substantially more to you soon after my return.”

She blushed at the reminder of what was to come. “May I write to you while you’re away?” 

“Of course. I’ll write to you as soon as we're settled. Then I’ll watch the horizon for each raven.” The words settled warmly through her. Baelor’s thumb still rested lightly against the edge of her jaw while the sounds of the gardens drifted closer to them, reminding them both once more that the world had not, in fact, disappeared simply because they wished it would.

Reluctantly, his hand fell away. “I should begin preparations if I mean to leave at first light,” he said, though he did not sound particularly pleased by the fact.

Saerys nodded, smoothing one hand almost absently across the ivory silk gathered in her lap, a reminder of the future still waiting for them despite the separation ahead. “And I ought to finish this before you return.”

“I shall make certain not to keep my lady waiting long.” He bowed to her deeply once more, his eyes lingering on the silk in her lap as he left.

Saerys watched him go in silence, her fingers resting motionless atop the silk long after he disappeared beyond the garden path. As the gardens settled once more into stillness around her, the absence Baelor left behind felt strangely immediate.

She shook her head as she made a controlled effort to return to her needle work. Before she arrived at Kings Landing, any dragon imagery she would have worn into the Summerhall sept would have felt like a brand, or a chain around her throat. Now it had scarce been a moon, and she herself was stitching scales on silk that she would instead wear before all the realm in the Sept of Baelor, silk that she was more eager to wear by the day.

If Aerion had been her betrothed and she was told he’d be away to the Riverlands for the rest of their courtship, she would’ve rejoiced, but the thought of Baelor leaving… At Summerhall, her only solaces were quiet moments in libraries or gardens removed from sharp tongues and watchful eyes. Here, rooms would be colder, feasts would be quieter, to say nothing of the refuge that libraries and gardens with Baelor had become. Her lived world would be emptier without him.

I believe you are just as much mine as you are the crown’s.

The sentiment stuck with him as he returned to his chambers. For most of his life he had belonged to someone else. Baelor was not unused to the warring claims of his person. Yet hearing her claim him too, so simply, so naturally, it stirred something dangerously hopeful within him. Mine. Gods help him, he found he liked the sound of that far more than he ought.

He had made it along the hallway toward the Tower of the Hand before he noticed he was no longer alone.

Daeron sat sprawled within the deep embrasure of one of the narrow corridor windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, doublet gaping open while a flagon of wine, one of his good ones, rested loose between his hands. For a moment Baelor simply watched him.

The fading light cast the younger prince strangely pale beneath his tumble of silver-gold hair, his expression distant in a way that unsettled more than the wine ever did.

“Typically, you have the decency to steal the wine and then leave before I can notice,” Baelor remarked at last.

Daeron blinked upward slowly at the sound of his voice, as though returning reluctantly from someplace very far away. “There you are, Uncle,” he murmured.

Baelor frowned faintly. “I was not aware I was being sought.”

“I don’t think I knew it either.” Daeron’s gaze drifted back toward the darkening bay beyond the window. “Not until I found myself sitting here.”

The answer did little to settle Baelor’s unease.He moved closer despite himself. The smell of wine lingered heavily about Daeron, though not enough to entirely explain the strange distance in his expression. “You should sleep it off.”

A faint smile touched Daeron’s mouth then vanished just as quickly. “I tried.”

Something in the quiet heaviness of the words made Baelor still. Daeron rolled the flagon absently between his palms for several moments before speaking again.

“You’re leaving on the morrow.” Daeron said the words as a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

Another silence stretched between them, thoughtful rather than empty. Then at last, “I dreamt of dragons again.”

Baelor felt something tighten instinctively beneath his ribs and he took a measured breath. Too many of Daeron’s dreams had curdled into truth over the years for anyone in the family to dismiss them comfortably anymore.

“One dragon flew north from the castle, great and black,” Daeron said softly, his gaze never leaving the window. “The others remained behind.” The words settled uneasily in the corridor air.

“The fair damsel was left alone in the tower as she watched him fly off,” he continued after a moment, quieter now beneath the hush of approaching evening. “And something restless circled below her.”

Aerion.

The name went unspoken between them. Daeron finally turned his head then, startlingly lucid despite the wine. “The damsel ought not to be left unattended.”

A cold heaviness began within Baelor’s chest. He held his nephew’s gaze for a long moment. “What exactly did you see?”

Daeron’s expression shifted faintly at that, something troubled moving behind his eyes. “That is the cruel thing about these dreams,” he said softly. “The dread is the only part that remains clear once I wake.”

At last Daeron dragged one weary hand across his face before pushing himself upright against the wall with considerably less grace than usual. “Perhaps it means nothing,” he murmured, though neither of them sounded especially convinced.

He drifted off down the corridor a moment later, the flagon knocking lightly against the stone as he disappeared around the corner. Baelor remained where he was for several seconds longer, unease settling stubbornly beneath his skin. Then slowly his jaw tightened.

“Find Ser Roland,” he instructed the nearest guard quietly. “Princess Saerys is not to be without escort while I am away.”

Saerys woke earlier than usual the next morning, though whether from the sounds of the keep stirring before dawn or the lingering anxiety that Baelor would soon be leaving she could not entirely say.

For several moments she remained still beneath the coverlets, listening to the distant life of the Red Keep slowly gathering itself awake beyond her chambers. Somewhere below in the yard men would already be saddling horses, securing armor, preparing wagons for the road north. The thought settled unpleasantly within her chest. She rose not long after.

Alerie was already helping fasten the final ties of her gown while the pale morning light spilled softly through the chamber windows.

A knock came at the door. “Enter,” Alerie called.

Addam stepped carefully into the chamber carrying a thick leather-bound book. “Another gift from Prince Baelor, my Lady,” he announced with some visible satisfaction, Addam seemed to have found some joy from his role in their courtship as it progressed.

Saerys felt warmth stir immediately despite herself. Of course Baelor had left something behind for her.

“What has he sent me now?” she asked softly as Addam crossed toward her.

“His Grace said he recalled your interest in the Old Gods after your discussion in the library. And in light of his travels...”

“Thank you, Addam.” Saerys accepted the book carefully into her hands with a smile.

The leather was dark and worn soft with age, its edges gilded faintly in copper. When she opened the cover she found his seal and notes already tucked neatly between several pages in Baelor’s unmistakably precise hand. Something low and tender tightened quietly within her chest. Even preparing to depart before dawn, he had still thought of her. Her fingertips lingered briefly over the first marked passage before she closed the cover once more with visible care.

Another knock sounded then, firmer this time. Alerie crossed once more toward the door, though Saerys noticed the slight surprise that crossed her face upon opening it.

“Ser Roland, my Lady.”

That pulled Saerys’ attention up immediately. The knight bowed deeply as he entered the chamber. “Prince Baelor instructed me to escort you to breakfast and remain in your service while he is away, Princess.”

Saerys blinked once in surprise before recovering herself. “Were you not to ride out with him this morning?”

The knight hesitated only briefly. “His Grace amended the arrangement before dawn.”

Saerys frowned faintly at that. Baelor was not a man given to changing plans without reason. If there was one, he had evidently chosen not to burden her with it. She nodded lightly and allowed the matter to pass without further question. The walk to breakfast felt colder than usual.

Perhaps it was merely the early hour, though Saerys suspected the absence she felt already had little to do with the chill of the corridors themselves. More than once her gaze drifted unconsciously toward passing windows overlooking the outer yards below. By the time she arrived within the morning dining chamber, Queen Myriah and Daenerys were already seated alongside several ladies of the court.

Myriah smiled warmly as Saerys approached. “You are awake remarkably early for someone not riding halfway across the realm this morning.”

Saerys managed a faint smile as she took her seat. “I found myself unable to fall back asleep once I woke.”

“Perhaps the company departing below simply ensured no one else could continue sleeping,” Daenerys supplied dryly over the rim of her cup.

At that, Saerys’ gaze lifted almost instinctively toward the windows. “Has Prince Baelor already left?”

“Not yet,” Myriah answered. “Baelor always takes his morning meal in the yard with the men before a departure. He dislikes sending soldiers onto the road hungry while he dines comfortably inside.”

Of course he did. She could picture it immediately without needing to see it for herself. Baelor seated amongst knights and soldiers alike in the chill morning air, speaking plainly with them before leading them north himself rather than merely issuing commands from afar. No wonder men followed him so willingly. Her fingers drifted unconsciously across the spine of the book resting now beside her plate. “He left this for me before he departed,” she admitted softly.

Daenerys leaned immediately across the table with unconcealed interest. “I see even absence shall not diminish his attentiveness.”

Saerys lowered her gaze at that, though the small smile that touched her mouth proved impossible to fully suppress. The reminder of his attentions quelled the sting of his parting but a little. Saerys remained only at breakfast long enough to finish the last of her tea before rising from the table.

Myriah’s gaze lifted knowingly as she set down her cup. “You are going to the yard.”

There seemed little point denying it. Saerys smiled faintly. “Only to wish him safe travels.”

“Of course,” Daenerys murmured into her tea with entirely unconvincing innocence.

Color touched Saerys’ cheeks despite herself, though she only inclined her head politely before turning toward the door. Ser Roland stepped forward immediately as she emerged into the corridor.

"If you would escort me to the stables, Ser Roland” she said softly.

"At once, my lady.”

The lower yard was already alive with motion by the time they descended into it. Stablehands crossed busily between restless horses while knights checked straps and fastenings one final time before departure. The sharp scent of leather, hay, steel, and cold morning air mingled beneath the pale dawn light stretching slowly over the Red Keep. And there amidst all of it stood Baelor, readying his destrier, all black save one familiar silver streak at the peak of its mane.

Court garb had given way to darker riding leathers and a heavy cloak clasped high against the morning chill. Without the brocade and chains of his office he looked less the heir to the Iron Throne and more the sort of man who rode at the head of armies and commanded spearmen. Somehow she found that no less striking.

Men moved constantly around him seeking instruction or approval, and he answered each calmly in turn without ever seeming hurried by it. He belonged amongst men like this as naturally as he did beside the Iron Throne.

As though sensing her attention upon him, Baelor turned. The moment his gaze found hers, surprise flashed openly across his face then warmth swiftly followed after it. That look alone nearly made the crowded yard disappear around them. He crossed toward her immediately, a smile lighting his face. “You’re awake early.”

Saerys looked down briefly toward the book tucked beneath her arm. “You left me gifts and notes for reading at dawn. It seemed unfair for me not to grant you a proper farewell in return.”

“I hoped that might help occupy some of the quieter hours while I’m away.” A smile tugged at his lips

“It was very thoughtful.” Her eyes lifted back toward him. “Though you might have condemned yourself to quite lengthy discussions about the Old Gods upon your return.”

“I shall endure somehow.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the bustle surrounding them before settling back upon her. Then gently, almost instinctively, he reached for her hand, the worn leather of his gloves smooth against her skin. “Come with me a moment.”

Saerys allowed him to guide her across the yard toward the stables themselves. Ser Roland remained a respectful distance behind as Baelor led her toward one of the open tack rooms lining the interior corridor. The door remained open toward the yard beyond, propriety still carefully observed, yet the partial privacy muted the sounds of the courtyard enough that the moment suddenly felt far more intimate than it had amidst the open chaos outside. 

For a moment neither of them spoke. Warmth flickered briefly between them before Saerys’ gaze shifted toward the yard outside where Ser Roland waited several paces distant. “You altered your escort.”

Baelor’s expression changed only slightly. “Ser Donnel is more than capable.” His lips upturned a little then. "Besides, I should hate to have you discover all those songs about my prowess were exaggerated."

The answer arrived smoothly enough that she suspected he had prepared it beforehand. Still, she found she did not entirely mind the omission, certainly not when accompanied by the image of Baelor fending for himself. Whatever had prompted the change, Baelor had evidently decided she need not spend the coming days worrying before he had even departed the city gates.

Her gaze wandered outside the tack room, the yard continued steadily toward departure. Horses stamped impatiently while men mounted one by one further across the courtyard. Somewhere nearby a groom struggled unsuccessfully with an irritable palfrey.

Baelor’s attention settled fully back upon her. “You've been carrying that book like a shield since you crossed the yard.” Her eyes flicked back to him, and he spoke a touch softer. “You came to bid me farewell?”

Saerys smoothed one hand lightly over the spine of the book before setting it down on a bench beside her. “Yes.” She answered, hesitating only briefly. “And I wished to speak with you before you left.”

Focus lit his gaze. "Then I am listening."

The words were simple, yet they seemed to steady something inside her.

Saerys lowered her eyes briefly to her hands where she toyed with one of her rings before finding his gaze again. “You asked me to speak my mind with you,” she continued, holding his gaze carefully despite the nervousness beginning to stir low within her chest. “So I shall do my best.”

Baelor stepped closer without seeming aware he had done so. Saerys drew a quiet breath. “I wish you didn't have to go.” The words landed softly between them. “I know you must,” she continued before he could answer. “And I would never dream of asking you to neglect your duty for my comfort. That's not what this is, I only…”

“—Do you feel unsafe with me leaving?” The idea stirred him to attention as he laid a hand over hers.

“That’s not it,” she murmured. And then with a small smile she added “Certainly not with a member of the Kingsguard for an escort.” Something flickered in his eyes at that.

Saerys continued. “When you were announced as my betrothed, I didn’t imagine strolls in the garden, or quiet nights in the library.” She swallowed roughly “I didn’t imagine you.”

Something in Baelor’s face changed so suddenly, so completely at those words, that for one dangerous moment she thought he might forget the open doorway entirely. Her gaze slipped briefly downward before returning to him once more. “I didn't imagine how hollow I would feel at the thought of weeks without you.” Baelor’s gaze searched hers as though the honesty of the admission surprised even him now that it had been spoken aloud. 

He spoke at last, unable to bear leaving her alone in her confession. “The gardens, the library.” His thumb moved slowly against the back of her hand. “Finding you beside me at meals. Wondering what thoughts you might have about whichever book I last left in your care…” A faint breath escaped him, almost rueful. “I find I have become rather selfish where your company is concerned.”

The vulnerability of his words struck her almost harder than if he had simply declared passion outright.

He went on. “And now I will ride half way across the realm knowing every meal, every book, every quiet moment will remind me that you are not there.” He swallowed. “I’ll feel the absence of you keenly, Saerys.”

Saerys took in a breath. It felt as if something dislodged painfully below her ribs at the thought of him missing her in turn. Perhaps it was a part of her that yearned to go with him to ease his ache. The sounds of the yard seemed strangely distant now beneath the pull tightening quietly between them.

Saerys swallowed roughly, and tried to blink away the stinging feeling in her eyes as she whispered, “I wish I had something to give you before you go.”

Baelor’s gaze tightened at that, then his eyes began to wander over her slowly. Over her hair, across her face and down her body, before finally settling upon the crimson ribbon threaded through the sleeves at her wrist.

His eyes lifted back toward hers in silent question. She gave a small nod in return. Baelor’s eyes darkened subtly at her permission, with a heat that made the narrow tack room seem far too small all at once. He removed his gloves first. Then one hand rose toward her wrist with visible care, while the other clasped her elbow.

Saerys felt her breath catch as the backs of his fingers brushed the sensitive skin along the inside of her wrist as he found the end of the ribbon threaded through the eyelets of her sleeve. She felt the sensation somewhere low in her stomach.

The world beyond the open doorway continued moving somewhere far away beyond them — horses shifting against stone, men calling to one another in the yard — yet inside the air inside the tack room seemed to crackle as if a storm was coming.

Baelor’s eyes remained on her face as he loosened the ribbon slowly, inch by careful inch drawing the crimson silk free from each eyelet. The movement should not have felt indecent. As though he were unlacing something far more intimate than ribbon alone.

Saerys became painfully aware of every point of contact between them. The way he held her gaze. The warmth of his hand against hers. The soft scrape of callouses on his fingertips. The steadiness of his breathing despite the tension gathering visibly through his shoulders. She could've measured her own heartbeat against the ribbon pulls through each eyelet.

At last the ribbon slipped entirely free into his hands, a narrow band of deep red silk stirring softly in the morning air between them.

Baelor looked down at it briefly before drawing the dagger from his belt. The scrape of steel against leather sent another sharp pulse of awareness through her. Without breaking her gaze, he wrapped the ribbon once, twice, thrice around the pommel with deliberate precision, his large hands startlingly careful as he tied it firmly into place beside the dark leather grip.

When he finished, his thumb brushed once slowly across the silk.

“There,” he said quietly, his voice low enough now that the word felt intimate. “Something of you with me close.” He returned the dagger to the scabbard at his belt.

The ribbon remained caught lightly beneath Baelor’s hand at the pommel of the dagger, though his attention had long since returned wholly to her. Saerys became acutely aware of how close he stood now within the narrow tack room, of the warmth radiating from him despite the chill morning air, one hand at her elbow still. His warm mismatched gaze traversed her features, her lips apparently his  favorite stop.

Something shifted between them then, subtle as a changing tide yet no less powerful for it. The look in his face now was no longer merely tenderness, it was heated and restrained. His breathing quickened before he brought his hand once more toward her, his fingers brushing lightly along the curve of her jaw with unmistakable hesitation, as though he were still giving himself opportunity to stop.

Saerys did not pull away. If anything, she leaned into the touch before she had fully willed it. Baelor’s breath caught softly at that. His hand slid slowly to the side of her neck, his fingertips grazing the hair at the nape only just, his thumb resting just beneath her ear as he stepped closer still. Saerys felt her breath leave her as Baelor came closer.

The world beyond the open doorway blurred entirely now beneath the sheer awareness pulling taut between them.

Saerys could feel the heat of him, the steadiness of his breathing beginning to falter. The impossible care with which he touched her despite the strain gathering visibly through him. Her mouth parted on a soft breath and her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, drawing his eye once more, only this time his gaze did not waver.

For one suspended heartbeat Saerys became terrifyingly certain he was about to kiss her.

Gods help her, she wanted him to.

Baelor leaned closer still, she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin—

Then somewhere beyond the tack room a captain’s voice rang sharply across the yard. “Mount up!”

Reality crashed violently back into place.

Something flashed across Baelor’s face then, frustration and restraint warring visibly for one perilous instant before discipline mastered him once more.

At the very last moment, he squeezed his eyes shut as if the hesitation pained him and pressed a lingering kiss against her temple instead. The contact felt unbearably tender after what had nearly passed between them.

Saerys felt his hand tighten slightly at the back of her neck as he drew her instinctively closer for one brief suspended moment, holding her against him just long enough for her to feel the reluctant ache in the embrace before he forced himself to step back.

When he looked at her again his composure had returned only in pieces. “I will return before you’ve had proper time to miss me,” he said softly.

Saerys managed a faint smile despite the ache gathering already. “I suspect that battle is already lost, my prince.”

Something achingly soft flickered across his face at that. Then at last he stepped away from her side.

Saerys stood motionless within the stable corridor as she watched him mount his horse, the crimson ribbon at his dagger catching briefly in the pale morning light before the company finally began to move through the gates of the Red Keep. Only once he disappeared beyond them entirely did she realize her fingers still rested unconsciously against the loosened sleeve where the ribbon had once been.

Myriah found Saerys tucked into one of the smaller sitting rooms overlooking the Godswood.

A book lay open across Saerys’ lap though the younger woman’s attention had drifted entirely toward the windows, her expression distant in a way Myriah recognized immediately. Baelor had been gone but a week.

“You are beginning to look like one of your heroines, pining at windows,” Myriah observed as she entered. Saerys startled slightly before laughing under her breath and rising at once. “Your Grace.”

“Oh sit down before you become too formal with me again.” Myriah waved one hand dismissively as she crossed the room. “I’ve only just managed to make you comfortable in my presence.”

A faint smile tugged at Saerys’ mouth as she obeyed. Myriah settled beside her with practiced ease, studying her quietly for a moment before speaking again. “You miss him.”

It was not a question. Saerys looked away for a moment. “Is it terribly obvious?”

“Only to anyone with eyes.”

Saerys laughed softly despite herself and lowered her gaze toward the book in her lap. Myriah’s expression gentled.

"It becomes easier,” she said after a moment. “Or perhaps one merely becomes accustomed to the cadence of absence.” Something in the words carried enough quiet truth that Saerys looked back up at her immediately.

“You missed the king when he traveled?” 

Myriah smiled then, softer than before. “Terribly.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the gardens beyond the windows. “In the early years especially, when Dornish sentiments were more tenuous. I used to become furious with him for leaving me behind.” A small breath of laughter escaped her. “Which he found deeply unfair considering he was usually riding off to solve some catastrophe or another.”

The image startled an answering smile from Saerys. “I cannot imagine you furious.”

“Daeron can.” Myriah’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “Love does not make one endlessly patient. Merely invested.”

The warmth of that settled somewhere quietly inside Saerys. Myriah studied her another moment before her expression shifted, something slightly more thoughtful entering it now. “It occurred to me” she said carefully, “that you have spent rather a great deal of time hidden away with my son.”

Saerys blinked once at the sudden turn in conversation. “I did not realize I was being hidden.”

“Oh, not intentionally, at least not by you.” Myriah’s smile widened knowingly. “Though if left unchecked I suspect the pair of you would happily spend the next three months tucked away in libraries and gardens exchanging books and pretending the rest of court does not exist.”

Saerys could not immediately deny that. Myriah laughed outright at the expression that crossed her face. “Exactly my point.”

Saerys shook her head, though a small smile lingered despite herself. “In my defense, your son makes refusal exceedingly difficult when he arrives bearing books.”

Myriah’s mouth curved knowingly. “Books, flowers, jewels…”

Saerys hesitated only briefly before adding more quietly, “A dagger too.”

That startled a laugh from the queen. Genuine this time. “Is that so?”

Warmth rose immediately into Saerys’ cheeks as she looked down toward her hands. “He wishes for me to be able to defend myself.”

Myriah’s amusement softened then into something quieter, more thoughtful. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “That does sound rather like him.”

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the Godswood beyond the windows before returning to Saerys once more. “My son has always possessed a rather persistent tendency to give all of himself once he begins to care for someone.” The quiet certainty in the statement stole some of the laughter from Saerys’ expression. Myriah continued more gently now. “It's become evident, people will naturally begin orienting themselves toward you as well. Ladies especially.” She tilted her head slightly. “You are going to be queen one day, Saerys. You ought to begin building a court that belongs to you.”

Saerys straightened slightly at that. She felt a glimmer of annoyance at herself for almost forgetting a court outside of Baelor existed these past few weeks.

Myriah continued. “Ladies-in-waiting. Companions. Advisors.” Myriah waved one elegant hand lightly. “Women you trust. Women who'll suit you.”

Something thoughtful crossed Saerys’ face then. “I confess I had not given the matter much thought.”

Myriah smiled knowingly. “You have been somewhat distracted.”

Saerys tried, albeit in vain, to hide her smile. Myriah reached over then and laid one hand lightly atop hers.

“You do not need to become queen all at once,” she said softly. “But court is easier to survive when one does not attempt to do so alone.” The words lingered thoughtfully between them. Then, before the moment could become too solemn, Myriah’s expression brightened once more.

“Fortunately for you,” she announced, rising smoothly to her feet, “I have already decided to assist your social emergence personally.”

Saerys blinked upward at her. “My what?”

“The ladies of court have been clamoring for your attention for weeks now. Half the realm wishes to know the woman who has finally managed to lure my son willingly away from council meetings.”

A startled laugh escaped Saerys before she could stop it. “And the other half?”

“Wish to confirm he actually smiles in your presence as often as is rumored.”

“Oh gods.” Saerys sighed.

“Yes,” Myriah agreed serenely. “Which is why you are joining me for tea in the gardens tomorrow.”

Saerys eyed her cautiously now. “That sounded far less like a request than I suspect you intended.”

“Good.” Myriah’s smile turned positively regal. “You are learning quickly.”

The following afternoon dawned warm and bright, the gardens alive with the heavy sweetness of late summer roses and the distant murmur of fountains beneath the steady hum of courtly conversation.

“You look as though I am leading you toward an execution,” Myriah observed lightly as they descended the marble steps toward the gardens below.

“You are presenting me before noblewomen,” Saerys replied beneath her breath. “I fail to see the distinction.” That coaxed warm laughter from the queen, who reached over to pat her hand with unmistakable amusement before guiding her onward.

The gathering itself was elegant without feeling oppressive. Cushioned chairs and low tables had been arranged beneath flowering trellises while ladies drifted through the gardens in clusters of silk and jewels attended by servants carrying trays of wine, tea, sugared fruits, and honey cakes. Somewhere deeper within the hedges musicians played softly enough not to intrude upon conversation, though the melody still floated warmly through the afternoon air.

The atmosphere felt markedly different from the harsher scrutiny of court itself. Softer perhaps, though Saerys was beginning to suspect this kind of softness often concealed sharper weapons. Unfortunately every woman present seemed acutely aware of who she was, and who she was soon to be.

Conversation dimmed as she entered beside the queen before swelling once more into a wave of welcoming curiosity. Myriah guided her expertly through introductions at first, never allowing her to linger too long beneath any one lady’s scrutiny before moving her onward again with effortless grace. Yet after some time Saerys began to notice the shape beneath the queen’s charm.

Myriah observed the gathering with a keen eye. Watching to see where Saerys relaxed, where her laughter came easiest, which women she gravitated naturally back toward once the gathering dispersed into smaller circles throughout the gardens.

There were certainly ladies present of greater rank, greater wealth, and considerably sharper ambition than the women Saerys ultimately found herself seated beside beneath the shade of a flowering arbor. Yet instinct drew her elsewhere, toward steadier company.

Laena Penrose spoke little at first, though there was something immediately reassuring in her quiet confidence. As the daughter of Elaena Targaryen, she had a dry wit and carried herself with the calm self-possession of someone entirely untouched by courtly competition. When she did speak, it was thoughtful enough that others listened instinctively.

Sarella Qorgyle proved nearly her opposite. Sharp-eyed and languidly amused by almost everything around her,

 the Dornishwoman reclined across her cushions like some great desert cat while offering observations wicked enough to repeatedly send the entire group into laughter. Yet beneath the humor Saerys quickly recognized an agile political mind that missed very little.

Selene of Tarth carried warmth easily, the sort of woman who seemed capable of making strangers feel welcomed within moments of meeting her. And Rosamund Tully balanced the others well, practical and intelligent with an unexpected humor beneath her ladylike composure.

More importantly, none of them seemed particularly interested in flattering her, something Saerys found refreshing. From several paces away Myriah watched the group over the rim of her wine with growing satisfaction. Saerys, whether consciously or not, seemed most drawn toward women who made the world feel safer to inhabit. Women who steadied rooms rather than sharpened them, who listened before speaking, who inspired ease rather than caution. Baelor, it seemed, had not misjudged his future queen in the slightest.

By the second hour the gathering had relaxed considerably beneath the warmth of wine and easy conversation. Dornish ladies lounged comfortably amongst Reachwomen and Crownlanders alike while conversation drifted between embroidery, marriages, poetry, scandal, and court politics with increasing freedom.

Sarella was midway through recounting a truly catastrophic marriage negotiation involving a drunken Uller heir and three insulted horses when Rosamund’s attention drifted knowingly toward the now mismatched ribbons, one gold, and one crimson ribbon now adorning Saerys’ sleeves.

“Curious,” she observed lightly over the rim of her cup. “I distinctly remember that gown possessing matching ribbons at the sleeves the last time I saw it on you”

Heat rushed immediately into Saerys’ cheeks. One sleeve had been relaced in gold. The other remained laced in deep crimson silk.

Sarella noticed at once, sitting forward slightly. “That expression means the story must be excellent.”

“There is hardly any story,” Saerys insisted far too quickly.

“Mhmm,” Laena hummed with complete disbelief while even Selene’s mouth twitched faintly at the corners. Rosamund tilted her head innocently. “Then I suppose ribbons must simply go missing in grief whenever crown princes leave the city.”

Saerys laughed despite herself at the accusation, though judging by the expressions around her, every woman seated beneath the arbor seemed perfectly capable of imagining just why one ribbon had never been replaced.

Selene tilted her head curiously toward Saerys then. “So what did his Grace do with this missing ribbon? Did he tuck it into some lovesick little pocket over his heart?”

The memory arrived all at once with enough force to make Saerys’ pulse flutter even as she rolled her eyes.

Baelor’s hand at her wrist. The look in his eyes when he tied the ribbon to the pommel. The way his breath hitched as he-- Saerys took a very deliberate sip of wine.

Rosamund sat forward immediately. “Oh, then it's scandalous.”

“It was nothing of the sort.” Saerys protested, though rather less convincingly this time.

“That,” Sarella informed her solemnly, “is the defense of a guilty woman.”

Warmth still lingered low beneath Saerys’ ribs even now at the memory, Baelor’s hands slowly drawing the crimson ribbon free from her sleeve while looking at her with a delicately leashed heat.

Unfortunately the women around her seemed perfectly capable of reading every thought that crossed her face. “It wasn’t–” Saerys cut herself off with a sigh and began again. “He merely wrapped it around the pommel of a dagger he keeps close.”

“That’s worse than scandalous,” Selene gasped with mock horror. “It’s tooth-achingly romantic.” And even more giggles erupted from the ladies.

“He must be gone beyond reason for you,” Sarella declared outright.

Saerys laughed helplessly despite herself. “You all speak as though he has lost a war rather than acquired a betrothed.”

“My lady,” Sarella replied dryly, “men have survived wars with considerably more dignity.”

Rosamund settled more comfortably against her cushions, looking altogether too pleased with herself. “Well, if Prince Baelor looks at you half so reverently privately as he does in public, I suspect your marriage shall be a very happy one.”

Saerys nearly choked on her wine. Sarella dissolved immediately into laughter while Rosamund looked moments away from demanding every detail. Even Selene reached over at last and handed Saerys a cloth before she embarrassed herself entirely.

“You say that as though reverence in a marriage bed is some rare and precious quality,” Sarella observed mildly.

Rosamund snorted softly. “From most men, it is.”

“Gods,” Laena sighed dramatically, “listen to us. We sound like septas giving instruction to a maiden.”

“If the septas outside Dorne concerned themselves half so much with women’s happiness as women’s modesty, ” Sarella replied at once, “the realm would be a far more pleasant place.” That earned another wave of helpless laughter around the table.

His mother greeted him immediately and bid him stand with her as she looked on while the dancing master led Saerys through the steps, a drummer and lute player keeping pace. Her hair, usually so carefully styled, had begun loosening from the exertion of practice, dark curls slipping free around flushed cheeks. The movement of the dance had brought color alive beneath her skin, and for perhaps the first time since her arrival at court she did not appear at all cautious or restrained. She looked young. Bright. Entirely absorbed in the music.

“She’s been at this for the better half of the last few days,” his mother spoke lowly as Saerys was guided through a series of turns–a Rhoynish reel, to his eye. “She’s been exacting, ever since she heard she’d be opening up the dancing with you after the announcement. She asks for detailed feedback, wants to have everything right, down to the flourishes of her fingertips.” 

She took in her son, enraptured by the sight in front of him, and continued. “She reminds me of a boy I once knew on the training yard. Asking to be put through drills again and again, needing to be perfect.” 

Baelor raised his brow at that and replied, almost to himself, “I can’t imagine I have ever been anywhere near as captivating to watch doing sword work.” 

“Invite Saerys to watch you spar one day and test that theory for yourself,” Myriah said with a small smirk.

The image arrived in his mind far too quickly. Saerys seated amongst the galleries, her eyes following his form... He schooled his features carefully at the idea of Saerys watching him with anywhere near the rapture with which he watched her.

Composing himself, he murmured, “No matter, she’ll be the jewel of the evening regardless of footwork or fingertips.” 

“I’m sure it would warm her to hear you say that.” Myriah smiled, noting the fondness of his gaze."Have you decided which dance yet? It might help us narrow it down.” Myriah winked. “She’s asked to be put through everything: Rhoynish reels, Valyrian courtly dances, even a Dornish Basse.” 

“Regretfully, I haven’t given it much thought. The meetings this week have left time for little else.” He pondered the idea. “Would a Valyrian dance at a Dornish celebration offend, do you think?” 

Myriah resisted rolling her eyes. ”Leave it to you to try to worry about the diplomacy of a dance.”

“Well it will ultimately be all left to me, so that’s why I equivocate,” he let out, snide with a small smile.

Myriah elbowed him lightly. “Gods, you are your father’s son.” She rolled her eyes this time before fixing him with a pointed look. “I am told this is a Targaryen union. You may as well remind the realm of it properly.” She nudged him forward. “And take advantage of the opportunity now, before the poor girl worries herself sick over tomorrow.”

As Myriah guided him closer, Saerys finally noticed his arrival. She interrupted the dance immediately, dipping into a smooth curtsey. How had she somehow grown even more graceful?

“My Prince,” she breathed, eyes lowered at once. “Forgive me for not greeting you properly. I was so—”

Baelor dismissed the apology with an easy gesture as he stepped forward to take her hand and bid her rise.“Your dedication does you credit, Princess,” he said warmly. “Besides, it afforded me the opportunity to witness your excellent form. I fear you may find me lacking beside you.”

“I don’t think I could ever find you lacking,” Saerys replied quickly before blushing. Baelor couldn't help but smile at that.

“You say that now,” he warned as he began to unfasten and roll up the sleeves of his shirt. “I await your judgment after we dance.”

Once he was finished distracting Saerys with his sleeves, he stepped forward, taking her into a closer hold for one of the slower Valyrian dances. Even through layers of silk, she felt the heat and steadiness of him immediately.

Closer to her now, he spoke again softly. “I’m almost positive I remember this one.” He called out to the players then. “A Valyrian volte?" They struck up a tune, slow but thrumming, building.

 “You’d like us to dance a volte to open up the floor?” Saerys asked.

Baelor tilted his head as he led her in a turn. "Though my skill is nothing to yours, it might be my favorite,” he murmured as he pulled her in closer. His hand spanned nearly the whole of her waist.

“I’m happy to dance whatever you choose. I just—” They completed another turn, and when she was brought back in, she was facing away from him.“I’ve just never practiced the lifts.”

“Fear not.” He bent down to speak to her ear. “I’ll never let you fall.” Something in the certainty of it unraveled her far more dangerously than the closeness itself. He guided her outward once more before drawing her back in. “Place your hands upon my shoulders,” he instructed softly. “Just so.”

She obeyed. Then suddenly she was airborne.

Saerys startled softly as Baelor lifted her as though she weighed nothing, carrying her through a slow measured turn before lowering her once more against the solid warmth of his chest.

For one brief disorienting instant, she became acutely aware of how effortlessly he held her–of the breadth of him beneath velvet and silk, of how entirely safe she felt in his grasp. Another turn followed, her back once more to him as he leaned nearer to speak low by her ear. “Do I pass muster, Princess?”

Saerys swallowed roughly before answering. Baelor tried very hard not to watch the movement of her throat as he guided her through another slow turn. Somewhere amidst the dance, her hand upon his shoulder had drifted higher, fingers now resting lightly near the curve of his neck.

“Just as I suspected,” she spoke softly with a small smile. “Princely at everything you set your mind to.” 

“You honor me princess. But I fear I cannot shine a candle to you.” 

“If I return the sentiment, I fear this will become an unending volley of us honoring each other." 

“There are worse ways to spend an afternoon,” Baelor said with a smile. An afternoon, or an evening. A marriage, a lifetime. 

“May I beg another dance from you, Princess?” Baelor asked before dipping into a bow. Saerys couldn’t hide her smile as she nodded and was swept up in another turn about the room. 

King Daeron was apparently of a similar mind to his son and had joined them in the queen’s quarters. Myriah turned to him with a smile and took him in hand. He watched the dancing pair almost in awe. “What magic has she wrought over my son?”

“I see it now," Myriah nodded with a small smile, and Daeron knew he was forgiven. Looking on at the couple, she continued. "He never got to be this. Since that boy could hold a sword he’s been honed for battle, then honed to serve the crown. This might be the first thing he’s ever done for himself.” 

“Just don’t let him hear you say that.” 

“Why ever not?”

“I think the only reason he allowed himself to ask for her is that he’s convinced he’s acting for duty's sake alone.” 

Myriah’s gaze lingered upon the pair as Baelor escorted Saerys slowly from the center of the floor, speaking quietly enough between themselves that neither seemed particularly aware that anyone else remained within the chamber at all.

A knowing smile touched Myriah’s mouth, though it softened almost immediately into something more thoughtful as she watched her son incline his head toward Saerys to better hear whatever she had just said.

“When the girl first came to me,” Myriah said after a moment, “she spoke of this match as though it were something to endure gracefully rather than something she herself might be permitted to want.”

Daeron’s eyes shifted briefly toward his wife before returning to the young couple across the chamber. “And now?”

Myriah’s expression warmed faintly. “Now I think she is beginning to see better what this match has in store for her.”

Across the room Saerys laughed softly again, and the sound seemed to draw something instinctive from Baelor in return. There was no careful reserve in the smile that answered her. No princely composure, only warmth.

Myriah watched it with something very near to relief. “I had nearly forgotten he could look like that,” she admitted softly.

Daeron huffed a quiet breath of agreement beneath his nose. “So had I.”

For a time they simply watched him. Watched the ease that had slowly settled into Baelor only over the past few days. The lightness that had begun appearing unexpectedly beneath all that relentless discipline and restraint. He was so unlike the man he had been during his first betrothal.

There had been affection for Jena certainly, respect too, but duty had always stood foremost then. Their courtship had been hastened amidst war councils, and political uncertainty, and was tinged by the lingering wounds left by rebellion and the prejudices that lie latent. Baelor had approached marriage as he approached every burden placed before him in those years: earnestly, honorably, and with the grim determination of a man already carrying responsibilities beyond his years. Daeron’s expression gentled slightly as memory overtook him.

“He reminds me of myself when you first came to court,” Daeron admitted quietly. “When they told me I was to wed the Princess of Dorne, I prepared myself dutifully enough,” he continued, his gaze drifting toward the windows overlooking Blackwater Bay as though the years between then and now had briefly narrowed. “Then you arrived and suddenly I found myself impatient for council meetings to end simply so I might get another glimpse of you, perchance speak with you. I thought it seemed a terribly inconvenient development at the time.”

 Myriah arched a brow toward him. “You carried yourself with considerably more ease than he does.”

Daeron laughed under his breath. "Unlike our son, I possessed the good sense to recognize immediately that I was courting my future happiness, not merely fulfilling an obligation to the realm." He cast his eye over at the couple again and added, "Nor gallantly coming to the rescue of a fair maiden.”

Myriah’s smile deepened despite herself. “You managed tolerably well.”

“I was suffering greatly in silence.”

Myriah’s expression softened as she watched their son. “She told me she trusted him,” she said quietly. “Because he is gentle with her.”

The words settled between them softly. Gentle was not a quality oft attributed to the Baelor Breakspear. Oh, he was certainly well regarded at court, for his restraint, for his wisdom, but he had been too sharply honed by duty. Yet watching him now, there it was, plainly visible in every instinctive movement toward Saerys, every careful reassurance, every look that seemed to soften him from within. Perhaps most telling of all was the simple fact that he looked happy.

Not merely satisfied. Not merely relieved by a politically advantageous arrangement. Happy in the uncomplicated way of a man discovering he enjoys another's company far more than he had ever expected himself capable of.

Myriah felt something ease quietly within her chest at the sight. Perhaps for the first time in many years, her son was allowing himself something beyond obligation.

Several more dances followed after that, though Saerys could scarcely recall afterward which steps belonged to which melody. At some point the musicians abandoned the slower court dances for livelier tunes, and even Queen Myriah laughed aloud when Baelor attempted to follow the quicker rhythm of a reel from the Reach with considerably less confidence than he had displayed during the earlier dances.

Saerys could not quite suppress her smile as he guided her through another turn only barely in time with the music.

“I am beginning to suspect,” she murmured softly, “that this one was not often practiced at court.”

Baelor glanced down at her, entirely unoffended. “You wound me, Princess. I survived at least half that sequence with dignity intact.”

“At least half,” she agreed gravely.

His laugh came easier now than she had yet heard it. “Then I shall count the evening a success.” The warmth in his eyes as he looked down at her made her momentarily forget the next step entirely.

By the time the final song slowed once more into something gentler, Saerys had become far too accustomed, far too aware of the feeling of his hand at her waist, the feel of his hand against hers.

This was the closest she had ever stood to him for any true length of time. She was close enough to feel the warmth of him even through layers of silk and velvet, close enough that his voice no longer needed carrying across formal distance, but instead settled low and warm beside her ear. She ought perhaps to have found the intimacy daunting. Instead she found herself strangely reluctant for it to end. 

The final notes faded softly into the chamber air, yet neither of them moved apart. Saerys became aware of the silence first. Queen Myriah watched them over the rim of her wine cup with poorly concealed amusement while the dancing master busied himself with sheet music. Baelor’s hand still rested warm against her waist.

Daeron cleared his throat. Baelor stepped back at once, though his expression betrayed remarkably little embarrassment for a man who had forgotten himself before the King and Queen.

“Well,” Daeron observed mildly as he approached them both, “either the dancing master has worked miracles in only a handful of days, or my son has finally discovered there are pursuits in this world besides war councils and grain levies.”

“Your Grace,” Saerys greeted quickly, dipping into a curtsy she feared was a touch too hurried.

Daeron smiled more warmly than she expected. “You need not look so distressed, Saerys. I assure you, witnessing my son abandon matters of governance long enough to enjoy himself is rare enough it could require a formal decree.”

“I was not aware my disposition inspired such concern throughout the realm,” Baelor replied dryly.

“Oh, only throughout this castle,” Myriah said smoothly as she crossed toward them. “You have been unbearably solemn since adolescence.”

“Surely that is an exaggeration.”

“The last time I saw you linger willingly at a social gathering, you were scarcely older than Valarr,” Myriah informed him.

That earned a reluctant huff of laughter even from Baelor. Saerys looked up instinctively at the sound, and her eyes almost twinkled at the sight of his laughter. Daeron noticed the look that passed between them at once.

“Well,” he said at last, quiet amusement threading through his voice, “it is a relief to discover there remains at least one person capable of persuading my heir that life contains pleasures beyond councils and treaties.”

Saerys felt warmth rise gently into her cheeks beneath the King’s observation, though this time she did not lower her gaze quite so quickly or let her smile fade. Beside her, Baelor exhaled softly through his nose in what might almost have been agreement.

“I see I am outnumbered.” Baelor acquiesced, the corner of his lips lifting at the hint of pride on Saerys' face

“Hopelessly,” Myriah assured him at once. That earned another reluctant smile from Baelor, one that seemed to linger more easily now than it might have only a handful of days ago.

Around them the evening had already begun settling gradually toward its close. The musicians lowered their instruments while servants moved quietly through the chamber lighting fresh candles against the deepening dusk beyond the windows. What had begun as formal instruction now felt transformed somehow into something far softer and more intimate, the atmosphere altered entirely from when Baelor had first entered the room earlier that afternoon.

Myriah glanced briefly toward the darkened windows before rising smoothly from her chair. “We ought to go,” she announced lightly. “Your father insisted tonight’s meal remain private before tomorrow’s festivities consume the castle entirely.”

“At least one peaceful supper before half the realm arrives demanding our attention,” Daeron agreed as he offered his wife his arm. Myriah crossed toward them then, her eyes lingering briefly but knowingly upon Baelor and Saerys before she slipped her arm through her husband’s with long familiarity.

“Come,” she said warmly. “Tonight there will be no councilors, no visiting lords, and no negotiations. Only family.”

Something quiet and unexpected stirred within Saerys at those words. Maekar and his sons would be dining tonight with the Daynes, she remembered that now. Though her house allegiance would not change with her marriage, she was quietly experiencing that which she had once feared, the inevitable shift to another household. The notion didn't hold the same threat it once had, within these walls and amongst these people who had welcomed her so naturally into their keeping.

And when Baelor offered her his arm once more, there was nothing of obligation or ceremony in the gesture now. Some easy familiarity had settled between them over the course of the evening, something steady and reassuring that made accepting him feel easy rather than daunting. Saerys placed her hand upon his arm without hesitation.

Together they followed the King and Queen from the chamber while servants moved quietly behind them extinguishing candles and gathering abandoned sheets of music from the stands. The echoes of laughter and lutes still lingered faintly in the air as they passed out into the corridor beyond.

As they walked, Baelor bent close so that only she might hear him. “You danced beautifully,” he murmured softly, the sincerity in his voice far warmer than mere politeness demanded.

The words sent an altogether different warmth unfurling down her spine. The answering grin lit her features in a way that would have Baelor turning the image over in his mind long after they parted.

Saerys lowered her gaze as something in her chest soared, for she could not quite suppress the smile as they continued side by side into the evening.

The day of the fete, Saerys did her best to be as little of a nervous wreck as possible.

After she had risen for the day, her new lady’s maid Alerie, a gift from the queen, had seen to her bath and hair. She was then dressed for a ladies’ luncheon with the queen. She would ready with the others for the fete.

The evening would start with dinner and the announcement of their betrothal, after which she and Baelor would open up the floor for dancing. She ran through the layout of her day over and over in her head as she dressed, perfection at the forefront of her mind.

A knock on the door disrupted her routine. Of course, she thought. That would likely be Addam, his deliveries from Baelor now a regular occurrence. Since Alerie was currently organizing the wardrobe that Saerys had torn through in her indecision, Saerys took pity on her and hurried to answer the door in her stead. 

A good thing too, for Saerys was at least slightly more prepared than Alerie would have been to find Prince Baelor at her door instead.

“Your Grace,” Saerys exclaimed out of habit, sinking into a curtsy. He reached a hand to her wrist, bidding her to rise, and tilted his head in mock censure.

“I told you, my Prince” Saerys said as she dipped her head and returned a smile “That decorum would be a hard habit to break” She ushered him into her antechambers. 

“I apologize for not having flowers for you today” he said as he came in “I did assume you might be too busy to miss them” 

“My prince, you've gifted me flowers every day of the week, I think I will manage ” she replied with a smile. 

“I wanted to bring these to you personally as my official betrothal gift to you. I had a messenger out to Dragonstone and back with haste for them” He said as he set one box on the table and then opened the other and held it out to her. “I wanted to be sure they’d be here in time for tonight” 

Saerys let out a soft gasp at the sight. Inside the box was a pair of stunning ruby earrings and a matching necklace. “My prince” she said as she raised her eyes to his 

“I can’t possibly” – 

“Saerys” he said as he stepped forward bringing a hand up to stroke her cheek “You’re to be my queen. Do you think I wouldn’t bedeck you with every ruby in the seven kingdoms if I could?” He stepped closer and spoke again but softer “Saerys, I”-

“My lady–Oh, Your grace!” Alerie said, startled. 

Baelor stepped back and smiled at the handmaiden “Thank you for all of your services to my lady, Alerie. The queen sings your praises” 

Alerie gave him a warm smile “Thank you, your Grace”  and then to Saerys “ “My lady” she nodded to Saerys, “I can put these with your gown for the evening” she curtsied to them both before gingerly closing the box and whisking it away. 

Baelor grabbed for the other box on the table. “I have one more, if you’ll allow it” Saerys nodded as he held it out for her to open.

Inside lay a delicate gold diadem set and strung with deep crimson rubies, the stones glimmering richly in the morning light spilling through the windows. Saerys ran her fingers lightly over the jewels, almost disbelieving. “My prince…” the words escaped softly as she lifted her eyes to his.

Baelor stepped closer again, though his attention remained fixed not upon the diadem but upon her face. “You could wear it tonight” he said quietly, his gaze tracing over her features with unnerving care. “If you wish.”

Saerys swallowed beneath the look. “Part of this still doesn’t feel real,” she admitted softly. Something in Baelor’s expression gentled at once. Without taking his eyes from her he reached carefully for the circlet. “May I?”

Her breath caught slightly as she gave the faintest nod.

The movement with which he lifted the diadem felt almost solemn somehow, as though the thing in his hands carried far greater weight than gold and stones alone. Saerys found herself suddenly unable to breathe properly as he stepped close to place it upon her himself.

His hands were extraordinarily gentle as he settled the delicate gold against her dark hair, fingers brushing lightly beside her temples while he adjusted it with painstaking tenderness. His attention never wavered once. Not while he positioned the dangling strands of rubies exactly to his liking, not while he leaned back slightly to look at her afterward with an expression so openly awed it made something deep within her chest ache unexpectedly. There was something almost dangerous in being regarded with that much care.

“There,” he murmured at last, his voice quieter now than before. “That looks far more as it ought to.”

Saerys’ gaze wandered slowly over his face. She swallowed and spoke softer still. “You truly wish for me to be your queen?”

Her eyes met his wide as he stepped closer and pressed a chaste but lingering kiss against her temple.

“I do,” Baelor whispered.

Saerys closed her eyes and leaned unconsciously into the touch, warmth blooming low within her chest at the unbearable gentleness of it. The feel of his beard against her skin was unfamiliar but not unwelcome. No one had ever touched her so carefully before, as though simply holding her softly mattered. For one suspended instant, she almost forgot herself entirely before stepping back again with a slow inhale.

“I cannot thank you enough, my Prince. I would be honored to wear it tonight.” She took the diadem carefully and placed it once more within the box, holding it close against herself as she curtsied again. “I must be off to Queen’s chambers.”

“Of course, I’ll escort you.” 

“You needn’t trouble yourself my Prince.” Baelor only tilted his head and held out his arm. Saerys took it with a smile. 

“I suppose by ‘needn’t trouble yourself,’ I actually meant you needn’t send the other ladies into a tizzy more than our engagement already has.”  

Baelor sent a smirk her way. “And if I think it might acclimate you to the attention?”

Saerys merely sent him a snide look out of the corner of her eye and relaxed her posture in acquiescence.

Baelor brought his other hand to the one on his arm as they walked and squeezed it lightly. “I always want you to tell me what you mean, Saerys,” he said softly. 

Saerys considered him “Even if it might offend you?”

“Especially then.” 

“Then if you don’t mind me saying,” she continued, watching him warily, “this wasn’t the kind of marriage I was preparing for. I ask for your patience as I find my candor.” 

“You have it.” 

Saerys was tempted to slow their walk or beg off to the gardens with him, ladies lunch be damned. This was the first chance they had been afforded to speak privately since their betrothal, and Saerys found herself suddenly greedy for more of it. There was no judgment with Baelor, no tests designed for her to fail. He seemed to genuinely care what she thought, and cared to make her happy, with him she could just be.

The entrance to the queen's chambers came into view sooner than she wished. “Until tonight, my prince,” said Saerys while curtsying. 

Baelor smiled and shook his head as she rose and reached out to take her hand. “My next ask is that you cease curtsying to me.” 

Saerys could only smile in return. “Patience, my Prince,” she murmured as he bent to kiss her hand. 

“Until tonight.” 

Saerys readied for the ball in a blur. The only time she had to herself was when she changed for the evening, a sumptuous gown of red silk with the design of a glistening golden dragon embroidered up the bodice and the back. It was the most exquisite thing she’d ever beheld. Once dressed, her hair was pinned away from her face and she was crowned with the diadem. She sparkled, bedecked in the jewels Baelor gave her. 

The ladies made their procession to the hall. Ladies from other houses filtered in to be seated with their families while ladies from Dorne gathered near the door with their male counterparts to be presented first. The royal hierarchy followed to the back of the antechamber.

Saerys gravitated towards her normal place behind her cousin Daeron before she was gently guided by Myriah to stand just ahead of her instead. “I know it will take some getting used to,” she whispered with a warm squeeze to her shoulder. 

Just then Baelor, Maekar and the King came down the main steps. Saerys sucked in a deep breath. He was resplendent in black, the dark color highlighting the contrast in his features. He typically opted for simplicity, but tonight his doublet was detailed with Targaryen red, a dragon to match hers stitched up either arm. His hand pin was gleaming on his chest with his other dragon tail pins. Baelor was imposing enough with his height and looks alone, but garbed as heir to the throne, he was breathtaking. 

Baelor’s eyes immediately found hers before they journeyed down and up her body, at last finding her gaze again with something new veiled behind them. He spoke to his brother, his eyes never straying, before coming to her. His eyes were warm as he approached her, and for a moment he just took her in. He swallowed before taking her hand and bestowed a small kiss as his father and brother found their place in the procession. 

“I can’t find words, Princess, for just how exquisite you are.”  His voice was a balm to her nervousness. He came to her side and gave her his arm. His gaze wandered over her again, taking in the tense of her jaw and shoulders.

“Just breathe,” he whispered before the line began moving to the hall.

Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and Heir to the Iron Throne.

And Princess Saerys Targaryen of Summerhall.

The herald’s words echoed in the hall, and Saerys marveled at the past week.She’d gone from entering the keep in utter terror at the prospect of being wed to an utter brute, to walking into the great hall at the side of the heir to the throne and, in her esteem, one of the best men in the Seven Kingdoms.

The sound of applause and cheers in the crowd was immense. The steadiness of Baelor at her side kept her grounded even if all eyes were on her. She was led up to the high table and curtseyed deeply to the King and Queen as they entered. Then at last they were all seated for the feast.

The end of the meal was a meandering thing. Too many people were happy to linger over wine and good food amidst good conversation. When the room began to quiet down of its own accord, King Daeron stood.

“You honor us by feasting in our hall. We honor twenty years of unity between our two houses. Our union has brought joy and prosperity to us all. It is a blessing to see one's sister loved so well." He nodded to Princess Daenerys and Prince Maron. Then he glanced to Myriah. “Queen Myriah is the light of my life, and the children she’s blessed me with could not be a greater legacy.”

He paused and glanced about the room. “On this auspicious day, I would like to announce another prosperous union. It pleases me greatly to announce that my son and heir, Prince Baelor will be wed to Princess Saerys of Summerhall. Join us in our revelry tonight and in four moon's time in celebrating their happy match.”

The uproar in the hall was immediate. Baelor stood and Saerys stood beside him. As she looked out, she saw the greater calculus of the match. Her looks pacified the Dornish contingent, and the Targaryen name pleased royalists. Perhaps she could let some of her guilt go. Baelor certainly didn’t act like he’d been saddled with anything.

Neither did he look it as he led her to the floor. The look on his face as he appraised her coming down the steps and walking beside him was one of pride and appreciation. Whatever this match meant politically, he wanted her by his side. That thought alone quelled some of her nervousness as he led her to the center of the hall.

He guided her to face him and they took identical deep breaths in as the musicians began to tune. It was a similar song to the one they practiced–perhaps a tad slower, but the additional Dornish instruments added something heady and stirring to the music. Baelor’s gaze on her face was steady through the opening steps, Saerys felt heat prickle on her neck and back. He guided her seamlessly though every step and turn, his hand steady at her waist. 

The tempo and noise of the drums increased–it was time for the lifts. Baelor pulled her in closer for a beat. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, just before her hands found his shoulders and he lifted her into the air. A wave of gasps echoed around them at the picture they made. The lift felt just as effortless as it had the first time. So much was said of the strength and prowess of Baelor Breakspear, and it was surreal to feel that strength though a mere dance. 

After a small turn he brought her down again, close to his chest. Their noses grazed as he stepped forward for the next steps. Her breath caught, but his firm hands continued to guide her effortlessly. She was spun around again so that he was at her back.

He leaned down to speak softly to her and she felt a spark jolt down her spine. “Would you trust me with another?”

She turned to him with a soft smile. “You've not dropped me yet." He spun her out again with a laugh, letting her skirts fan out, and as she spun back she caught the look on his face as he watched her.

How would she describe it? Delight, perhaps? She had spent so much of the past week discovering the man beneath the prince that she had nearly forgotten how much of his life belonged to others. The realm claimed his judgment. The King claimed his counsel. Lords claimed his attention. Yet here upon the floor there was none of that. Only music, and movement, and the unmistakable look of a man taking pleasure in something for no reason beyond the simple fact that it pleased him. How often did the crown prince get to simply enjoy a dance?

She laughed from sheer joy during the next lift and the look on his face was beatific. Cheers rang out from the crowd as he brought her back to solid ground. He held her to him for just a touch longer than needed before he swept her into a dip that they had very much not rehearsed. The noise of the crowd faded away as she gazed into his eyes, one deep violet, the other warm brown. Both crinkled as they smiled at one another. If nothing else, they could each delight in a dance. He brought them both to a standstill and bowed low, lower than the heir to the throne should have. She lightly shook her head at him as she curtsied as deeply as she was able. The musicians began another dance as he escorted her back to the high table.   

They were waylaid by Morion on his way to the floor. “Would you permit me, my lady?” he asked, bowing. 

Saerys smiled and held out her hand. “I would be honored.” She smiled at Baelor before leaving his side. He watched as Morion found them a place amidst other dancers and tracked his brother coming to stand by his side. 

For a moment they just observed the revelry side by side, as they had been wont to do at gatherings like these. 

“I don’t think I can remember the last time you danced.” Maekar finally mused.

Baelor slid him a wry look. “At Valaar and Kiera's wedding, most like.” 

“Now that’s a happy match.” Both of their gazes followed Valaar leading Kiera to the floor. 

“I thank the Seven that they found each other.” He looked over at his brother. “For true love to come from an arranged match, ‘tis a lucky thing.”

Maekar returned his gaze with a knowing look. “That luck has blessed our family many times over. It seems likely it will again.” 

Baelor’s jaw worked as he looked away, unable to withstand his brother’s implications. He returned his focus to the floor, just in time to catch Morion coaxing pretty smiles from Saerys as he spun her in yet another turn.

Something hot slid down Baelor’s throat. Maekar caught the shift and followed his brother's gaze. It wasn't jealousy–no, whatever Baelor felt hadn't fermented long enough to become true envy. 

Maekar brought his goblet to his lips for a sip and then asked, “Was the meal not enough to sate you, brother?”

Baelor only sighed before answering.  “The meal was divine. It’s rare we get to enjoy our mother’s cuisine.” 

Maekar chuckled at Baelor’s attempt at confusion. Oh good. More fun for him. 

“I ask because you’re looking at her like a man starved.” 

Baelor rolled his eyes and let out a heavy exhale. “I know not what you mean.”

Maekar leaned in. “I believe you’re experiencing what we mere mortals refer to as ‘desire’.”

Baelor inhaled and exhaled again sharply through his nose, this time with an air of restraint. “The reasons I shouldn’t want her could fill a ledger.” 

"I thought you'd be relieved" Maekar snarked, as Baelor's eyes cut to him. Maekar raised his brows. "What? Now you have a ready-made rebuttal whenever those Blackfyre sycophants claim you're not Targaryen enough" 

Baelor rolled his eyes. “This should be difficult. I should be sickened. I should be ashamed. I shouldn’t—“ Baelor broke off. 

Maekar stepped in to assist, as he often did. “And yet you’re starving.” 

Baelor looked back onto the floor, his unspoken agreement plain on his face. “Why doesn’t it bother me, Maekar?” he asked quietly. He paused, almost afraid to ask. “Would it bother you?” 

Maekar tilted his head stiffly. “It’s different for me. I helped raise her. You barely saw her as a child. Dyanna reared her while we were at war and holding the kingdom together, and I—“ Maekar swallowed roughly. “I did the best I could by her after Dyanna passed… If called upon to marry again, I would decline in honor of her memory.” 

Baelor turned his way again. “I know you would.” He looked out at the floor. “That’s precisely what I told our father when he suggested it.”

Maekar looked over at him with a raised brow. “Oh, I was on the table? You never did tell me how you landed on it, though father made it seem like he was the deciding figure.” He sipped his wine again. “But if he was the one throwing out suggestions…”

Baelor stiffened at what he had given away. “She came to me.” Baelor’s eyes landed on Saerys as she began another dance, this time with Daeron the Younger. “It wasn’t fed to father through Bryden, she came to me… in tears.” Baelor’s voice strained. “She begged for me to match her to anyone else, she just asked that he be kind.” 

“Ah.”

Baelor was quiet for a long while. “My greatest shame isn’t that I want her. It’s that from the moment she looked into my eyes and pleaded with me on her knees, I never considered matching her to anyone else.”

Maekar took a heavy breath at that. “You do so love to come to the rescue.”

Baelor’s gaze slid to him, icy. “Tell me Maekar, just what was I rescuing her from?” he asked, brows raised. 

Maekar stared back at him, remorseful. “I failed her in this. I’ve likely failed them both.” He looked out to the floor and found Aerion standing on the edge. “I see so much of myself in him. I know he’s capable of better, I hoped—“

“Saerys will no longer be sacrificed at the altar of that hope.” Baelor bit out. 

“I’m sorry.”

As if Baelor wasn’t already heated enough, both of them noticed Aerion cross the floor, heading straight to Saerys. Maekar had to grab Baelor's arm swiftly to keep him from intervening. 

“If you expect me to stand here—“

“You need to let her fend for herself—”

“I just said—”

Maekar grasped him tighter then, and made sure to hold his gaze. “I know.” He looked out to the floor where Saerys and Aerion had begun to circle one another in the first steps. Saerys eyed him warily while Aerion appeared snide. “If you fight all her battles for her, he’ll just learn to come at her when no one’s looking.” 

Maekar had evidently said the wrong thing. Baelor spoke again, his voice like ice. “If you're insinuating that I can’t protect her from your firedrake of a—”

“She needs to know that she can fight him off too.”

Baelor looked back out on the floor. They appeared civil, and Saerys’ mask was back in place. All of the earlier joy had gone, but there was steel in her spine that hadn’t been there before. 

Regardless, Baelor still caught his son’s eye. After an exchanged glance, Valaar squeezed his wife’s hand before taking to the floor to cut in and steal away Saerys. 

Baelor watched her face and posture relax as she turned about the room with his son. She tilted her head with a questioning look at Valaar as words passed between them. Her gaze then found Baelor on the side of the room. Something in his chest eased at the smile she graced him with when they locked eyes. 

“She looks to you often,” Maekar observed beside him after a long silence.

Baelor said nothing to that.

Below them the dance turned again, candlelight flashing against ruby jewels as Valarr guided Saerys through another sweeping turn before returning her at last to the edge of the floor.

When she approached Baelor, a soft appraising look crossed her face. “I suspect your son was sent to rescue me.”

Baelor offered her his arm, no shame upon his face as he confirmed, “He was.”

That earned another glance upward from beneath her lashes, amused now despite herself. The music swelled again somewhere behind them while conversation and laughter washed warmly through the crowded hall, but Baelor found himself paying attention to none of it, only to the brightness in her eyes as she stood at his side.

The evening went on until the hour of the owl.

When Saerys finally tired of dancing, she joined Daeron where he sat with Kiera and Valaar. Her cousin welcomed her over by pulling out a chair for her, standing and raising his goblet in mock applause. “Princess Saerys of Summerhall! Or should I say Dragonstone? Is it too soon yet?”

Saerys merely rolled her eyes and poured herself a goblet of mead. “Perhaps a little premature.”

Valaar looked over with laughter in his eyes as he reached for his goblet and quirked a brow at her. “I'm not going to call you Mother,” he deadpanned, his eyes alight with mirth.

Saerys practically spat out her mead with laughter, the rest of them joining in.

Once Saerys had slightly recovered she managed to get out, “Probably for the best for all involved,” which only made their party dissolve into giggles again.

Once Valaar sobered, leaning back, he caught her eye again. “In all truth though, I'm happy for you both.” He looked across the floor to where his father sat, clearly politicking despite the festivities. “He should have the chance for companionship again.” He gestured to her once more. “You both should.”

Saerys smiled faintly, taking another sip. Valaar caught Kiera's eye, mirth coming over him again. “Do you know what I told him when I first heard?” Kiera merely shook her head with a small smile.

Valaar smirked, looking around their group and then across the hall to where Aerion sat amongst some of his cousins from Starfall. “I told him it was like he was a knight from a song rescuing a damsel from a dragon.”

Daeron snorted while Saerys smiled faintly. She tried not to dwell on what she feared, that one day Baelor would resent her for depriving him of a match that could've been borne from something more than honor and rescue.

Valaar seemed to sense her doubt and recovered gracefully. “Not that I think he minds. He's lighter than I've ever seen him. I think you'll make each other happy.”

Her eyes warmed and she smiled, grateful for Valaar’s generosity. Before she could thank him, Elrya Martell, daughter of Princess Daenerys, came up to join them. She and Valaar spoke animatedly in High Valyrian before she clasped his and Kiera's shoulders warmly and departed.

Valaar looked over at Daeron and Saerys conspiratorially, meaning to include them in the joke before he noticed their blank faces. Daeron answered Valaar’s look of confusion. “Ah, we heathens at Summerhall were never taught the Old Tongue.”

“My apologies.”

“It's no thing,” Daeron handwaved it away. “One less language to struggle with when drunk.”

Valaar, however, noticed Saerys’ wistful look. “The family library has some good primers,” he told her with a small smile.

“Valaar's been trying to teach me.” Kiera chimed in, "It's slow going but I think I'm starting to get the hang of the conjugation.”

Valaar gazed at Kiera with nothing but fondness. Saerys smiled at that and watched the look Valaar turned upon his wife. There was nothing remarkable in it, no grand gesture or courtly display, only an uncomplicated fondness that settled easily upon him, wholly unguarded. For a moment she found herself wondering whether such companionship always came so easily.

The thought lingered long after the conversation had moved on. Around them the feast continued to soften as the hour grew late. The dance floor had thinned considerably, musicians now playing more for those lingering over wine than those still inclined to dance. Lords and ladies drifted between tables in small clusters while conversations dissolved into laughter and stories. Somewhere beside her Daeron returned to drink, while Valaar and Kiera slipped once more into easy conversation.

Saerys found herself listening less and less. Her gaze wandered across the hall instead, eventually settling upon Prince Baelor. He sat beside the king surrounded by a cluster of lords, seemingly engaged in several conversations at once. Even from a distance he appeared entirely at ease amongst matters of state. Every so often one of the men around him would laugh at something he said, though she could not hear the words themselves. There was a quiet confidence to him in such moments, the sort possessed by a man long accustomed to carrying burdens no one else wished to shoulder. Watching him, it was easy to understand why men followed him.

The sight should have reassured her, but Valaar's words returned to her then, unbidden.

He should have the chance for companionship again.

More than anything she wanted him to be happy, especially after all he had sacrificed for her. The thought carried with it a familiar pang of guilt. A frightened girl had run to the first kind man she could think of and, in answering her plea, he had altered the course of his own life. Yet the guilt no longer stood quite so neatly on its own. Somewhere amidst the days that followed, she had begun looking forward to his company for reasons that had nothing to do with rescue at all.

As she watched him across the hall, another realization settled quietly beside it. For all the hours they had spent in one another's company, she knew remarkably little of what brought him joy when duty was set aside. If she was to be his wife, she found she wanted to know. The realization left her oddly restless.  

At last she rose from the table. Perhaps a book might settle her thoughts. Or at least occupy them.

"Forgive me," she said. "I think I should like a little quiet."

Daeron looked up immediately. "Too much celebrating?"

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "Too much thinking."

"Ah," said the prince gravely. “Best to not encourage that habit.”

Saerys curtsied with her apologies and found Ser Donnel at the entry back into the halls. He was only too happy to escort her to quieter accommodations. The conversation about High Valyrian lingered in her thoughts as they walked, though she suspected it was not the only thing driving her from the feast.

Many courtiers had either left the hall or were seated, lazily conversing over wine. Though Baelor was loath to admit it, hours such as these often yielded some of his best work. Lords softened with wine and celebration. Old grievances seemed less urgent, compromises easier to reach. He looked over to where Saerys sat at a far table, chatting idly with Kiera, Valaar, and Daeron the Younger.

In the midst of a conversation with his father, he watched Saerys rise to depart the hall. She spoke to one of the kingsguard at the entrance to the hall and one of them left with her as escort. 

The king, seeing his son’s distraction, dismissed him. “Go after her, we can only get so much done tonight.” Baelor lingered only a moment longer after his father spoke, fingers tightening once around the stem of his goblet.

The evening had shifted something in him more than he cared to admit.

Not merely the sight of Saerys dancing with other men, nor the sharp flare of possessiveness it stirred within him, but the growing suspicion that his attachment to her might outpace simple protectiveness. The realization lingered dangerously within him now. Maekar’s words still echoed unpleasantly in his mind. You do so love to come to the rescue.

Perhaps that was all this truly was. Some misplaced instinct to shield what had arrived before him frightened and vulnerable. Some gallant impulse he had mistaken for deeper feeling. And yet, the thought of not seeing her again before the night ended felt curiously unbearable.

He asked Ser Roland where Ser Donnel escorted the lady. “She asked to be escorted to the private library, your Grace.” 

“Thank you.” 

He stalked out of the hall, grabbing a flagon of wine and two goblets as he departed.

Laughter rang out in the halls from straggling revelers. The halls to the library, though, were more quiet. It was there he found Saerys seated amongst the shelves pouring over a tome. The sight enchanted him. He felt almost ashamed when he interrupted her reverie “Whatever had you racing to the library during a ball?” A smile tugged at his lips.

She looked up, seemingly unsurprised to see him, and graced him with one of her smiles once more. “There was so much High Valyrian in the hall. I was itching to find something to help translate. I hate it when I don’t know something.” 

He came over to sit by her and set down the wine and goblets between them. “I didn’t realize you’d never been taught,” he said as he poured for them. 

“Maekar wasn’t keen on us learning it at Summerhall. Dyanna didn’t speak the tongue and he hated the thought of her being excluded.”

A thoughtful smile graced his features. “Kind of him.” he murmured. He had always insisted that his prickly brother had his moments.

“He loved her very much,” Saerys said as she reached for a goblet. “I count myself lucky to have witnessed that kind of love.” 

They both drank, letting a comfortable silence rest between them.

“I could teach you if you’d like,” he said at last.

Saerys raised her brows at first before remembering herself. He means Valyrian, you ridiculous thing. “I think you have far more pressing things on your plate than Valyrian lessons, my prince.”  Saerys’ tongue slipped out to catch a drop of wine. Baelor’s hand stalled as he set down his own goblet. 

“I think finding ways to converse with and include my future wife might belong on my plate.”

A look passed between them at his declaration. Saerys assessed him then, amidst the growing warmth in her chest–the wine, surely. Despite her doubts, she decided not to reignite the conversation they’d had once before. “As you say, my Prince” 

He caught her gaze in question and took the book from her hand. “One of the ways I learned was from a maester translating a few of my favorite stories as a boy, and he kept giving me new ones to read. I could have some of your favorite works translated. It’s one way to get a grasp on it. I could teach you the letters, some phrases...” He noticed her shoulders tense. “Or I could summon a maester who could.” He trailed off as he noticed she was unable to meet his gaze.

"There’s no shame in learning.” She carefully met his eyes again. “And there’s no shame in not knowing.” 

“I feel a little shame in being a Targaryen princess who needs tutoring in High Valyrian.” 

“Through no fault of your own.” 

“Still.” 

“Iksā iā dārilaros hen perzys Saerys, ivestragī daor dim aōha ōños.” You are a princess of fire Saerys, let no one dim your light.

For a minute Saerys could only blink, unused to the cadence of the language on Baelor’s tongue, and her name with it. Finally she said, “I suppose I’ll just have to learn what that means.” Her eyes lit up with a smile. 

“It means…that you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” 

“As you say, my Prince.” She took another sip with a smirk. “I’m sure you’d never mislead me.” 

Baelor laid a hand over hers. “Never.” 

Saerys smiled at his sincerity. “If your dancing is anything to go off of, I’m in safe hands.” She laughed then. “Unlike Morion’s.”

Baelor’s expression dropped. “What did he do?”

Saerys laughed as she shook her head. “Oh nothing,” she said, setting her glass down. “Nothing so terrible. My toes will recover.” 

Baelor joined her in laughter. “All talk and no finesse, that’s certainly him.”

Saerys leaned back against the bookshelf and inclined her head towards him. “Do you think I made a good impression?” 

Baelor held her gaze again and whispered, “You were perfect.”

The answering look in her eyes at his praise made something shift in his chest.  It struck him then that this had nothing to do with rescue anymore.

There was no fear in this room, no obligation, no crisis demanding his intervention. Only Saerys, beside him amidst the candlelight and books, smiling at him over the rim of her wine goblet, and the deeply disquieting realization that he did not wish to be anywhere else.

“I could get used to nights ending like this,” he whispered, almost to himself. 

She met his gaze again before ducking with a small smile. “If it’s not too bold my prince...” she asked, trailing off at the end, her eyes cautious.

Baelor held her gaze. “I would always hear you speak your mind, Saerys.”

“I’m grateful it’s going to be you, out of all the others it could’ve been.”

She spoke the words simply, with no inkling of what the declaration did to him. He remembered another night then. Another room. Saerys kneeling before him with tears upon her cheeks asking only for kindness. He had known the answer before he ever went to his father. Known it with a certainty that had frightened him.

Baelor looked away, blinking hurriedly, then back to her again after taking a deep breath. “Konīr sia daor tolie,” he murmured quietly, so much so she could barely make out the words.

Saerys tilted her head at that, then merely shook her head with a smirk when no translation came . “You’ll teach me one day, then?”

Baelor smiled back in assent with a nod. The library fell comfortably silent again after that.

Beyond the narrow windows the castle had grown dark and still, the revelry in the distant halls reduced now to only the occasional echo of laughter drifting faintly through stone corridors. Most of the candles surrounding them had burned low enough to pool wax against the brass holders.

Saerys rubbed at her neck as she glanced down toward the open book between them. “Did you truly enjoy learning it?” she asked after a while. “Or did you merely endure it because you felt you must?”

“A bit of both,” Baelor admitted as he leaned back slightly in his chair. “Though I always preferred the history that came with it to the formal lessons themselves.”

“That sounds more like you.”

His brow lifted and laughter threatened to bubble up from his chest. “And what precisely does that mean?”

A smile touched her mouth. “You strike me as a man who tolerated instruction only so long as it granted access to more reading afterward.”

That drew another laugh from him, quieter this time but entirely genuine. Gods. He was lingering.

There was no reason for him to remain here now beyond indulgence. The hour had grown precariously late. Saerys ought to retire for the evening, and he ought to return to the duties waiting neglected elsewhere in the castle. Yet each lull in conversation only seemed to invite another question from him, another observation from her, another story neither of them particularly needed to share except for the simple fact that they wished to continue hearing the other speak.

He spoke to her then of the old stories he had loved as a boy, of dragonlords, of doomed voyages and of ancient great emperors and empresses styled as precious stones, all while Saerys listened with an attentiveness that steadily unraveled whatever composure remained to him.

She laughed softly at unexpected moments, asked thoughtful questions, and occasionally challenged details simply to watch him defend them with surprising animation.

The sight of her like this, relaxed amidst candlelight and books with ruby jewels still glimmering faintly at her throat, felt dangerously easy to relax entirely into. At some point Baelor realized the wine between them had long since gone untouched, at another, he realized the castle around them had fallen almost entirely silent. Still he did not rise.

Sometime later Saerys glanced toward the darkened windows and let out a soft startled laugh beneath her breath. “I think we may have forgotten the existence of time entirely.” She closed the book carefully atop the table between them before rising reluctantly to her feet. “I should retire before sunrise finds us here still. I suspect the Queen would say we ought to have parted an hour ago.”

Baelor followed her gaze toward the night beyond the windows and realized with some alarm that she was entirely correct. The castle had long since gone quiet around them. “She would probably be right.” The softness in his voice made it sound very much as though he regretted it nonetheless.

He offered her his arm once more and she accepted as though the gesture had already become instinct.

As they left the library, Baelor inclined his head toward Ser Roland farther down the corridor, silently summoning the Kingsguard to follow. The hour alone warranted propriety, particularly when he already found himself lingering far more than wisdom advised.

The walk back through the sleeping keep passed in companionable quiet, torchlight flickering warmly across stone walls while their footsteps echoed softly through otherwise deserted halls. Conversation came more slowly now, not from discomfort but from the growing awareness that the evening was finally drawing toward its inevitable end. Too soon they arrived outside her chambers.

Saerys turned toward him then, one hand still resting lightly upon his arm. “Thank you for tonight,” she said softly. “For all of it.”

Baelor looked down at her and found himself once again absurdly unwilling to let the moment end. “You needn’t thank me for enjoying your company,” he answered quietly, his voice slipping into a lower register.

Something in her expression softened further at that. Baelor became aware then of the fact that his hand still rested lightly over hers where it lingered upon his arm, the touch entirely innocent and yet somehow difficult to surrender.

At last Saerys smiled, smaller now but warmer than before. “Goodnight, my Prince.”

“Goodnight, Saerys.”

He remained there until her door closed softly behind her before finally turning away. Only then did Baelor finally exhale. The corridor felt strangely cold without her in it. Ser Roland, with the tact born of long service, studied the opposite wall with militant concentration while Baelor stood motionless a moment too long.

Gods. Everything about this had become precarious. He had spent so many years adhering to duty that he had almost mistaken the absence of desire for virtue. Easier when discipline was merely habit and not sacrifice.

But Saerys—the thought of her seated beside him amongst the candlelit library, smiling softly over the rim of her wine goblet, looking at him as though his presence alone brought her comfort. Something inside him had given way entirely.

There was no measured middle path in him now. No harmless indulgence. No passing admiration easily dismissed and overwritten. He had never conceived that it was possible to want like this. He had never felt ruled by his passions like his ancestors. It was something Baelor had prided himself on, for it had allowed him to devote himself to his father and the crown like no other. Restraint had come so naturally to him he had never considered whether it had been learned or innate.  That he was capable of such yearning, it unsettled him more than any battlefield ever had.

The hunger of it shamed him almost as much as the tenderness. By the Seven, he was near twice her age. He should possess greater mastery over himself than this feverish, grasping ache that overtook him whenever she smiled at him too warmly or let her fingers linger too long against his skin. He wanted mornings and conversations and the right to lean close simply because he could.

Tonight during the dancing he had nearly forgotten himself entirely.The memory returned with brutal clarity now: her breath catching as he lifted her, the warmth of her body against his chest, the way she had looked at him afterward in the library beneath dying candlelight. His jaw tightened. What kind of man yearned like this after a woman who had come to him frightened and pleading for safety?

The answer came swiftly and mercilessly: a starving one.

At last he straightened, gathering the remains of his composure back around himself like armor.

“Goodnight, Ser Roland,” he said at last. And only then did the Prince of Dragonstone finally force himself to walk away.

The next morning, Saerys was still tightening the lacing at one of her sleeves when Alerie crossed suddenly toward the door with visible surprise.

“His Grace is here again.”

The smile arrived before Saerys could stop it.

Baelor stood waiting just beyond the threshold when the door opened, one arm occupied by an arrangement of late summer flowers while a small wooden box rested in his other hand. Morning light spilled through the corridor windows behind him and caught against the crimson embroidery upon his dark doublet, softening the severity he so often carried with him.

“My prince,” Saerys greeted warmly as she stepped aside to admit him. “You will spoil me.”

“There are worse things,” Baelor replied easily, with a smile that told her that the gifts would not be ceasing anytime soon.

Saerys accepted the flowers first, laughing softly beneath her breath at the sheer abundance of them while Alerie immediately hurried forward to take charge of arranging them before any of the blossoms suffered neglect.

“You are ensuring nearly every lady at court despises me with envy.”

“I suspect last evening already accomplished most of that work,” Baelor answered mildly.

That coaxed another laugh from her, though it faded when his expression gentled into something more serious as he stepped closer and offered her the box. “This was another thing I wished to bring you personally.”

The weight of it surprised her at once, far heavier than jewelry. Saerys glanced briefly toward him before lifting the lid. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, lay a knife. Not merely decorative, though it was beautiful enough to belong among princely gifts. The blade gleamed pale and sharp beneath the morning light while elegant metalwork curled along the hilt around a small embedded coin bearing a three-headed dragon emblazoned on a red sun.

Saerys carefully lifted it from the box. Her brows pinched together as she looked up at him. He was ready with his response.

“The insignia on the hilt is my personal seal. I wanted you to have something to defend yourself with. Something that would hopefully carry the weight of me if…" He stopped to swallow roughly. "If I were ever not there to protect you.” 

The room fell strangely still around them after that. Saerys looked back down toward the knife in her hand, her fingertips moving slowly over the dragon worked into the metal. The jewels he had given her glittered beautifully. The flowers perfumed her chambers. Even the diadem had felt like something out of a song. But this rested differently in her palms, like a promise forged into steel.

Saerys ran a finger along the hilt. “Thank you, Baelor.” 

His gaze lifted sharply to hers at the sound of his name. She used it rarely enough that hearing it spoken softly, without title or distance between them, sent warmth through him, swift and disarming enough to leave him silent. Then Baelor cleared his throat quietly and recovered some fragment of composure.

“And should you ever wish to better wield it,” he continued, his voice gentler now than before, “I could teach you myself. Or one of my men could.”

Saerys’ mouth curved faintly at that. “You would personally instruct your future queen to wield a blade?”

“If necessary,” Baelor replied with complete seriousness. Something about the sincerity of the answer only deepened her smile.

“I think,” she admitted as she tested the weight of the blade once more in her hand, “that I should like to learn.”

Something about that answer brought ease to him, Saerys noted. Baelor, it seemed, intended to give her every possible means of flourishing and surviving alike.

Baelor found himself lingering still despite having already exhausted every reasonable excuse for remaining in her chambers. The morning sun had climbed steadily higher beyond the windows while somewhere deeper in the keep the day’s duties waited patiently to reclaim him. Only when Alerie reentered carrying fresh tea and gave the pair of them a look far too perceptive for Baelor’s comfort did he finally relent.

“I should allow you peace before court descends on us both again,” he said at last, reluctance threaded quietly beneath the words.

Saerys stepped closer as he prepared to depart. “Thank you,” she said softly, her fingers brushing lightly against the box still held between her hands. “Not only for the gifts.”

Understanding flickered across his expression immediately. Baelor lifted one hand then, pausing just briefly before brushing his knuckles with familiar gentleness along her cheek.

“I think,” Baelor admitted quietly, “this may be the one gift that was far more for me than it was for you.”

“I can’t fault that, I suppose.” Maekar ran a hand through his hair rumpling it more. “It's likely for the best,” he admitted at last, though the words sounded dragged from him.

“Good.” Baelor laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, wanting to avoid scrutiny. “We’ll talk more on the morrow.”

Maekar stepped back at last, any semblance of a fight leaving him with a tired exhale. He nodded once in assent and stepped back into his chambers. The door shut between them with a dull thud. Only then did Baelor realize how tightly wound his own shoulders had become.

On the way back to his own chambers, Baelor made a different turn. There was one more to inform before the night could be settled. 

Laughter and clinking of goblets could be heard through the door. Baelor knocked hesitantly. Conversation carried on until Valaar opened the door mid-laugh. “Oh, Father—” 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Baelor apologized as he took in the scene inside: carafes of wine and half filled goblets and sweet meats on small plates, Kiera and Valaar in informal dress with mirth in their eyes. A jovial mood between a young couple coming together at last to recount what they couldn’t say out loud to one another throughout a trying day. Baelor felt a pang in his chest. 

“It’s no matter, do come in,” Valaar gestured, for those experiencing joy so often wanted to share it. 

“I’ll not intrude," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I only require a moment, we can speak in the hall.” 

Valaar raised his eyebrows and put on a layer of princely demeanor—just one, it was his father after all. “What would you like to discuss, Father?” he said as he shut the door behind him. 

Baelor stopped chewing the inside of his cheek. “I have news, I wanted to inform you before it’s known tomorrow.”

Valarr’s easy smile faded slightly. “What is it?”

Baelor’s thumb turned restlessly over one of his rings as he looked away down the torchlit hall. “I’ll be marrying again.”

Valarr blinked, a myriad of questions running through his head. "To whom?” came first with brows raised. He schooled his face at that. “Forgive me, I did not expect this conversation tonight.”

"it's sudden for me as well," Baelor tried to turn his grimace into a smile. “I’ll be able to ascend the throne with a queen, and Saerys...” Baelor paused, exhaling softly. “Saerys will not have to be saddled with Aerion.”

“Ah,” Valarr breathed, a knowing look overtaking his surprise, followed quickly by the ghost of a smirk. “You’re rescuing the damsel from the dragon.”

"I hope that’s what the songs will say,” Baelor murmured with a faint smile on his face as he looked down the hall. He looked back to Valarr then and rested a hand against his shoulder. “Your mother was very special to me, you know. Taking a new wife doesn’t mean I seek to replace her in your heart.” 

Valaar brought his hand up to place over his father’s. “I know Father, and Matarys will too”

“Writing to him is next," Baelor nodded. “I also wanted to ask if Kiera might try to make a friend of her. She’s been long away from court, and I think the prospect of being wed to Aerion has dimmed her light.”

“Of course,” said Valaar with a smile, eyes already alight at the chance to praise his wife. “Kiera makes friends of everyone she meets, she’ll be happy to have someone new to take into her confidence.” 

Baelor smiled. “Good, I’ll let you return to her.”

Valaar turned back as Baelor pulled away. “Do you think you two will be happy?” 

Baelor let one of the corners of mouth rise at the thought. After a moment he said, “I’ll have better tell of it on the morrow.” He exhaled. “I hope so.”

Valaar nodded. “Goodnight Father.” He shut the door behind him and Baelor lingered. 

The clinking of glasses and jovial voices resumed. Baelor closed his eyes and let the sound of his son's delight wash over him. How blessed was his son, to be matched with a partner that brought him such joy.  Blessed to have someone he could unburden himself with and just be. 

Baelor felt the pangs in his chest resume as he began the walk to his chambers, pangs of absence and bitter longing. For his marriage to Jena had not shared in joy as his son’s. She had brought his sons into the world and raised them well while she could. Their marriage had been dutiful, steady.

Yet standing outside Valarr’s chambers, Baelor realized with sudden clarity that he and Jena had never once shared moments like those with one another. They were companionable of course, but Baelor didn’t think they’d ever ended their nights with laughter and goblets of wine. They had moved through life well enough together, each lucky to know all the proper steps, but they had never once delighted in the dance itself. As heir to the throne, Baelor had not thought to desire more.

Baelor mused on this as he walked the halls, eventually returning to his chambers. An opportunity for a true partnership lay right in front of him, and he only had to be brave enough to face it. If he could string together enough rare moments of bravery between the shame he forced upon himself, maybe he could enjoy the dance with a new partner. The thought should have filled him with shame, but to his growing alarm, it did not.

His vision snagged on his bookshelf before he made the journey up the tower stairs. Of course. Only one last thing remained before he could turn in for the night. 

Though it didn’t come easily, sleep eventually came for Saerys, only for the morning to still come too soon.

She trusted Baelor with almost every fiber of her being—at least she wanted to. There were just a few fibers deep within her heart that couldn’t abide trusting anyone. She didn’t want to go through life always doubting those around her, but the slings and arrows of death, abandonment, and callousness had hardened her heart and made her mind an unquiet place.

What if the match couldn’t be set aside after all? What if I end up shackled to someone worse?

Highborn women only had so much agency available to them, the rest was held by her protectors. Father. Guardian. Prince. Husband. Saerys was a princess of the blood, and even she could not sway her own fate if she were to be wed to a man like Aerion. She rued the circumstances that left her shuffled from one man to the next, one household to the next, with seemingly no regard for her happiness or safety. 

This rumination followed her through her morning like a dark cloud. At the very least, she wanted to believe that Baelor would try to keep his promise, but there were a great many things out of control even for the heir to the throne. 

Saerys arrived early at the entrance to the Tower of the Hand. She hovered in wait, hoping she could steady her nerves. At the ninth bell, she forced herself to knock on the door.

She was let in by the page and stepped inside. The king was seated at the head of the table with Prince Baelor at his right hand. Both of them rose, abandoning what they’d been reading as she arrived. She sank into a deep curtsy in return. 

“None of that Saerys, come!” the king called. “Sit.” He gestured to the chair at his left side. Sitting beside the king felt unearned, so instead she sat one chair down.

As she sank into her chair, her gaze snagged on a book that Baelor had been annotating, a reprieve for him surely. “Another new book, Uncle?” 

He looked up and smiled softly, his eyes warm. “Yes, some poetry.”

“Oh?” Saerys raised her brows in surprise. “Forgive me for saying, but that seems like a departure from your typical pursuits.”

Baelor smiled and breathed out a small laugh through his nose. "I suppose it is." A faint flush touched his ears. "Tis a gift."

“Books make the finest gifts, I think.,” Saerys replied. 

Just then the door pushed open and Maekar ushered himself in. He passed Saerys with a quick squeeze of her shoulder and took the seat between her and the king. He nodded to both Baelor and the king before turning to Saerys, sagging in his chair. “Slept well, I hope?” 

Saerys looked up from where she fidgeted with her rings, not quite able to meet Maekar’s gaze. “I slept as well as I was able,” she intoned, the previous airiness in her voice gone.

She was too preoccupied with Maekar’s gaze to notice how Baelor’s sketched her with his, assessing, taking note of her hair, simply pulled back, the circles under her eyes, more pronounced, the tension of her jaw, the conservative cut of her gown in what he now recognized as her standard black but this time with a more visible dragon motif. A show of her commitment to family perhaps? 

Once Baelor started looking at her he found it hard to stop. Each detail was its own rich text, and all the best texts inspired questions. Did she dress conservatively to avoid attention? What expressions was her tension holding back? Did she have as sleepless a night as I did? Should I have sent along a sleeping draught? How remiss of me. 

One day, he hoped, he wouldn’t have to scrutinize every detail for insight. One day he assured himself, he’d know her even better than his most treasured tomes. 

Aerion’s entrance interrupted the calm of the room. He scanned those in  attendance, then sauntered over to the next open seat, to the right of Baelor and across from Saerys. His eyes flicked over her too, but this assessment inspired no curiosity, only judgment.

“You look drawn, Saerys, does the Keep not agree with you?” Saerys merely inhaled sharply and looked past him. Only here did she feel safe enough to chance drawing his ire. 

He looked away, disinterested, when Saerys refused to meet his gaze, missing the harsh gaze his uncle directed at him. He turned towards his grandsire and dipped his head. “I thought the betrothal would be announced at court”

“Hardly necessary when it’s solely a family matter,” said Daeron dryly, barely deigning to look up from his report. “This match came to our knowledge last night," he continued "And while I’m sure it’s well intentioned, we’ve decided to set it aside in favor of betrothals more beneficial to the crown.” 

Saerys inhaled deeply and primly looked past Aerion's shoulder. She would wed someone else for the sake of the crown. At least she’d be spared Aerion, but already her mind raced. She would be placed yet again under the protection of another man, moved to yet another keep, would relearn how to please and placate a new lord. The thought should have brought relief. Instead her pulse only quickened.

Daeron turned to his grandson with a direct gaze. “Aerion, you will instead wed your younger cousin, Daenora. She fosters now at the Eyrie. You may begin correspondence, if you wish. A ceremony will take place only after she reaches her majority. Is this agreeable?” 

“Fine,” he said, and his gaze flicked back to the living statue disassociating across the table from him. He only shrugged, having not received the reaction he so desired, and turned his attention back to the king. The matter seemed to leave him almost immediately. 

Daeron watched him for a long moment before turning his attention to the princess to his left, his voice softening but a little. “Saerys.”

At the sound of her name, she forced her expression pleasant once more, fingers knitting tightly together in her lap. Her gaze buzzed past Baelor without truly seeing him, nor how he straightened in his chair. “Yes, your Grace?”

Across from her, Baelor’s thumb pressed hard against the edge of the book beneath his hand. Daeron regarded her quietly for a long moment, studying the speed with which she had once again composed herself, a skill that would serve her well.

“You are the firstborn princess of my line,” he said at last. “That is no small thing,” he added, a touch softer. Saerys straightened even more so at that. "Your marriage should never have been treated as a simple household arrangement. You deserve a match worthy of you.”

Silence lingered across the table. “The realm has endured enough instability in recent years. It is the duty of this family to ensure strength and certainty moving forward.”

When she went to Baelor, the implications of a political match hadn't even occurred to her. She swallowed roughly, thinking of the fractures running through the kingdom, racing through all the possible divides that she could be offered to mend.

Daeron’s voice remained measured as he continued. “Some matches are made for affection, others for advantage. The rarest of all serve both family and realm alike.”

Across the table, Maekar gave away his curiosity with only the faintest tilt of the head. Even Aerion had begun paying attention again. Beside the King, Baelor had gone perfectly still. Saerys suddenly became aware of the frantic thrum of her pulse beneath her skin. Daeron’s keen gaze remained on her for a breath longer before speaking.

“You will be wed to Prince Baelor”

Saerys' breath stopped as her face went slack with shock. She stiffened her shoulders as she processed the match, and tried to quell her breathing from coming in too fast.

Baelor noticed every shift, his gaze unwavering now.  Look at me. Let me in. 

Across the table, Aerion’s amusement vanished for half a heartbeat. Surprise had cracked visibly through his usual indifference.

Saerys tried to remember how to breathe. For a moment she wondered whether she had misheard him. The words seemed to hang suspended in the air between them, refusing to settle into sense. Surely the King hadn't announced that she would wed the heir to the throne, that she would be queen one day. She had come to him asking for anyone else, and somehow the answer had become him. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She would not be wed to a Blackfyre, nor some Marcher Lord. Not a stranger chosen for alliances and acreage, but Prince Baelor. The Hand of the King, the most admired man in all the realm.

The man she had gone to in desperation. The man who had listened. The man who had promised to take care of it.

Across the table Baelor sat motionless, his expression unreadable. For one foolish moment she found herself searching his face for some sign that this surprised him as much as it did her. Had he known? Had he agreed? Had he even been asked? Or had he simply been informed, as she was now? The thought struck unexpectedly. A dull ache beneath the shock.

Because whatever else this was, whatever honor the king believed he bestowed, she knew what the realm would see. A widowed crown prince taking a second wife. A princess with little to offer beyond name and blood. A political necessity wrapped in ceremony and silk. Yet when her gaze drifted toward Baelor again, she found herself remembering his steady voice when she had been frightened enough to tremble, and the way he had intervened for her, at dinner and after the hearth too.

If she must place her future in someone's hands, there were none she could trust more. The realization settled quietly amidst the storm of her thoughts.

Daeron began again. “In order to fortify the integrity of the crown, you two will wed. A king should have a queen after all.” His gaze flicked to Baelor conspiratorially before he leaned in speaking warmer to her once more. “You are young, lovely, and well-educated, the making of an excellent consort. With you by his side, Baelor will ascend the throne with a Targaryen queen, with the promise of a strengthened royal line”

Saerys nodded, only a slight dip of her chin as the king continued. "What say you, Saerys? Do you accept?”

She swallowed, glancing over at Baelor and then back to the king. “It is an honor I’ve dreamt not of, your Grace.” Her gaze drifts back to her hands again. “But an honor nonetheless.” Saerys took a deep breath and finally met his gaze. “I will be a good queen for you,” she said, gratitude flowing through her before relief. “I promise.”

Baelor could only nod back. As if she could be anything but. So much he wanted to say was not fit for this table, not fit for this moment. 

Aerion scoffed, the attention off of him for far too long. “Something you’d like to add, Aerion?” Maekar drawled. 

"Oh nothing, nothing” he smirked, sharing an inside joke with himself. “Just… if you plan on getting heirs off of one as frigid as Saerys,” he flicked his gaze over, roaming up and down her body then glancing back to Baelor, “more power to you.” 

Everyone at the table stiffened, but before Maekar could light into him, Baelor spoke with an eerie calm. "Careful, Aerion" he said, unleashing the full fire of his stare "Be very careful how you speak of your future Queen,”

Aerion's smirk only wavered a moment before deepening. If he roused ire from someone, then at least it was not a day wasted. 

Maekar rolled his eyes. “We have no more need of you.” 

“Fine.” Aerion stalked out the door, closing it behind him. 

Saerys stared after him balefully. Of course there would be one more barb, one more slight. Just the thing to cast a cloud over her. She sighed and pressed her eyes shut for but a moment. Still, beneath the familiar ache, her heart soared in a way she scarcely understood. 

To seven hells with Aerion, he was behind her now. A whole new challenge was awaited and she could not fail. Her uncle dove on to a sword at her request, and she couldn’t let his sacrifice be in vain. 

“One thing I would ask, grandsire,” she said. “I was raised away from court, and though I have experience running a keep, I fear I’ve been removed from the workings of King's Landing for too long. Do you think Queen Myriah might take me into her retinue as a lady-in-waiting?” She passed her gaze to Baelor before she shied away, looking again to her hands “I wish to learn all I can to aid you, your Grace.” 

“I have every faith in you, Saerys,” he spoke softly. How gently would he need to speak to her in order to get her to meet his gaze again? 

Daeron smiled faintly at the exchange. “I’m sure the Queen would be happy to have you under her tutelage." He looked between her and Baelor. "The wedding shall be in four moon’s time. That should be enough to summon the great houses. Until then, the two of you will get reacquainted.” He nodded to Baelor “This will be good for the realm"

He rose from the table, adjourning the meeting. “The Queen’s gardens are particularly lovely at this hour.” With that, he stood and left the room. 

Maekar sighed and looked across to Baelor. “It would seem congratulations are in order, Brother.” Baelor stood, pocketing the book in his surcoat. Maekar rose to join his brother at the other side of the table and clapped him on the shoulder. “At least we're still to have a celebration in the family,” he said as he quit the room.  

Saerys rose immediately and rushed around to where Baelor stood. “Your Grace –“ 

“Just Baelor."

Saerys, in her haste, missed the nudge. “I’m honored, truly honored, to be chosen for you, but you must know I had no designs on this when I came to you last night.” 

“I think nothing of the sort.” He rested a steadying hand lightly against her shoulder. “You asked me to help you, and the King and I simply found the best path forward.” 

But she still wavered, returning her gaze to her hands. “I cannot help but feel I forced your hand. Surely you would not have chosen this path had I not come to you in hysterics.” His fingers brushed lightly beneath her chin, encouraging her gaze upward.

He stepped closer, speaking softly to her now, his gaze roaming over her face. “Do you believe me a man that can be easily made to act against his own wishes?”

"No!” Saerys exclaimed at once, chastened. “I simply…” Her gaze fell again. “Duty comes for us all, Your Grace. I could not bear escaping a dreaded match only to compel another upon someone else.”

Baelor’s expression softened. “I do not think it counts as hysterics when the distress is warranted,” he said quietly, stepping a little closer still. “And dread is quite far from what I’m feeling.”

Saerys hesitated then, fingers twisting tightly together once more. “But… what has this cost you?” she asked softly.

Baelor frowned faintly.“Cost me?”

“A future queen. Alliances. Influence.” Her gaze dropped once more. “Surely there were greater matches you might have made.”

Something almost like confusion crossed Baelor’s face then. The question implied some kind of bargain, for he had accepted a wife, a queen, a future he had not anticipated. Yet when he looked back upon the moment beside the hearth, he could not summon any sense of regret. For a moment Baelor simply stared at her.

“Saerys,” he said at last, softer now, “you talk of yourself as though you are absent from that accounting.” Her gaze lifted.

“You are a princess of the blood. Intelligent. Thoughtful.” His mouth twitched faintly. “And considerably more kind than most people I spend my days with.” That finally earned the smallest huff of laughter.

“You speak as though this were some great sacrifice.” His gaze held hers steadily. “I assure you, it is not.”

He exhaled slowly then, something tight still lingering beneath his ribs.“But this path does give us more time...” His voice trailed off. “If you have any reservations, it’s not too late to–”

”No!” Saerys exclaimed, the force of it surprising even her, “No, I would not have us go back on our word to the king, I- you trust me with much. I only wish to fulfill the promise.”

"Of that, I have no doubt," he said as he tucked her hand at his elbow. “Come, I think we could both do with the sunlight.” 

Saerys didn’t know where to look.

Habit called for her to keep her gaze down, but she couldn’t very well keep her eyes at her feet while she walked through the keep on the arm of a prince. Not just any prince, she reminded herself. She felt tension coming back into her frame. She couldn’t look at the ground beneath her but she certainly didn’t want to meet the eyes of any curious onlookers.

While it wasn't too unusual, she supposed, to walk through the keep accompanied by another prince, this was Baelor Breakspear, Hand to the King, heir to the throne. And unbeknownst to her, he didn’t lend his arm lightly in the eyes of court, and he certainly hadn’t attached himself this closely to a woman since the passing of his wife. 

Baelor noticed how Saerys kept her gaze fixed steadily ahead, the expression perfectly serene as they strolled through the keep. Only the tension in her shoulders and the slight flickering of her eyes to passersby indicated any unease. 

This was how she protected herself, he supposed, a princess alone in a keep of dragons, surrounded by those disinterested in protecting her, or in knowing her. Best to hide it all, so that no one could get close enough to cause harm. Perhaps to the outside that could appear cold, frigid. A wall of ice for protection from dragons, letting nothing in or out.

No longer, he mused, for she wasn’t alone anymore. And who better to protect her from other dragons than one himself?

As they reached the hedge rows, he pulled the book of poetry out of his surcoat and turned to her. “This is for you, by the way,” he said softly as he pressed the book into her hands.

"For me?” Saerys wondered. Baelor replied affirmatively with a smile.

“Your formal betrothal gift should arrive within the week.” Saerys raised her eyebrows.“But I wanted to be able to gift you something on the day.”

Saerys turned the book in her hand, running her fingers reverently over the fine leather binding, embossed with gold leaf. As he watched her, Baelor found himself seized by a wandering thought of what it might be like to be touched with just as much delicacy. 

She opened to the first page and found it stamped with the Prince's personal seal, from his personal library.

“It’s a collection of Dornish poetry, with notes on Rhoynish influences as well,” Baelor explained, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as Saerys began to skim her fingers along the handwritten notes, his handwritten notes, on translation choices and symbolism. 

She flipped another page. “These are love poems,” she whispered.

Baelor nodded, his eyes now intent on her face. “I wanted to give you something we both might find enjoyment in discussing, together.”

"I see that,” Saerys said with a smile as she ran her fingers over one of the translated stanzas.

If you are seeking, seek us with joy

For we live in the kingdom of joy.

Do not give your heart to anything else

For there are hopes: they are real, they exist –

Do not go in the direction of darkness – I tell you: suns exist.

Saerys looked back up at him, her eyes starting to well, her expression as open as he’d seen it since she arrived at the Keep. She closed the book and held it close to her with both hands for a moment before pocketing it in the folds of her skirts as they resumed their stroll. She looked up to him as he fell into step beside her. “I’ll treasure it always, your Grace.” 

Baelor smiled, tilting his head, and said softly, “You need only call me Baelor when we’re alone.” Saerys nodded, head forward, with a glint in her eye. Perhaps she hadn’t missed his correction earlier.

She swallowed before speaking. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold myself to that, your Grace.” Her eyes flicked over to him again, with a slight glint in her eyes, “The septas have me very well trained.”

Baelor hummed with a small smile at that.

"Would ‘my Lord Hand’ do, your Grace?” Saerys asked before pursing her lips, slightly impish.

Baelor tilted his head her way with a squint. Was she teasing him? 

“Just ‘my lord’ then?” She asked, smiling to herself.

His hand grazed hers and he drew it up to tuck into his arm again. I’m on to you, little fire. 

"Still too formal,” he replied, shaking his head, failing to hide a smile. His eyes were intent on the way mirth transformed her features.

They turned another corner in the gardens, further secluding themselves. Saerys bit her lip, contemplating. Baelor ducked to avoid a stray branch too late.

She looked back up at him shyly. “I can’t very well call you Uncle anymore, can I?” she asked softly.

That term jolted through him with such a force. He turned toward her so suddenly his hand came to her hip to steady them both.

“No” he said, more to himself, as he looked down to where he touched her, and then he met her gaze. “Not that,” he whispered. “Not anymore” 

Her eyes held his as they widened in understanding. She inhaled a steadying breath as she took his other hand in both of hers and held it between them. “I can not yet call you husband” she murmured, as Baelor’s gaze heated. “I don’t have that claim yet.”

She brought his hand closer to her mouth, and he let her, his gaze transfixed.

“Would ‘my Prince’ suffice?” she asked before pressing a soft kiss to the back of his hand while holding his gaze.

He felt another squeeze in his chest as a breath stuttered out of him. “Yes,” he breathed before bringing that hand to her cheek, his thumb stroking across it. “Yes, that will do.” His gaze flicked down to her lips. “Princess.” 

Standing this close to her was a heady thing.

His gaze couldn’t decide what to land on, the way the light breeze blew a strand of hair across her face, the way her pupils dilated, the way she wet her lips as her breathing quickened, the fluttering of her pulse at her neck. Despite the years he had on her, he was inexperienced in feeling this moved by a woman. With just a touch of her lips she drew him in as if with an invisible string.

He knew not how long they stood like that, sharing in each other's gaze. He reached up and brushed away the wayward strand of hair. He exhaled once and pulled away, resuming their stroll.

Once he trusted his voice he spoke again. “Saerys, you worried before about forcing my hand, but I fear I’m the one who must apologize.” Saerys looked over to him, questioning “You did not ask to wed the heir to the throne or for the burdens that come with that.”

Saerys nodded at that. She did not want to trivialize Baelor’s concerns, but faced with her future prospects she couldn't find it in her to be regretful. She aimed for tact. “What some might consider a burden, others might consider an honor, my Prince” she declared, looking up at him and assessing. 

Something about that term from her lips pulled his shoulders back and made his chest swell. Baelor wanted to take her at her word. He dearly wanted to believe that he hadn't made her trade one poor match for another.

Saerys came to him hoping he’d find her someone kind. Kind he may be, but she hadn't come to him seeking out a man almost twice her age, a man who would carry the realm on his shoulders, a man who should not even be looking at her in the first place. He wanted to believe that Saerys could look past all that. The way she carried herself with him, the way she looked at him, perhaps she could.

Though try as he might, he couldn't push the doubts from his mind. “Even so, I would not blame you if you had any...” Not wanting to question her agency, he pondered for the right word. “Any misgivings about what marriage to me will be like” 

Saerys brought her other hand across herself to rest on his arm. “My Prince, I… I had far more misgivings about being wed to a cruel man than I do a dutiful one.”

She looked up at him then, “I know that the crown has its demands. I would seek to be a partner, to ease them in whatever way I can.”

Baelor's breath nearly caught as he took in her sincerity. Her clear-eyed devotion and her gentle strength somehow made him feel like the greediest man in the Seven Kingdoms. 

He attempted to soldier on. “I may not always be as available as I’d like but my door is not barred to you, not ever. And I will make as much time as I can to pay you court between now and the wedding.” 

Saerys took on a puzzled expression. “There’s hardly need to pay me court when we’re already betrothed, my Prince.” 

“On the contrary, we’ve been instructed to get to know each other better.” He smiled, “What better way is there to learn your likes and your interests than courtly outings and lavishing you with gifts?”

Saerys looked at him askance. “Now I know you’re teasing. Lavish gifts,” she said, taking on his intonation, before fixing him with a sly gaze. “I know you are not an extravagant man.” 

"Only when provoked,” he replied almost to himself before raising an eyebrow at her. “Do you truly think that I would take you as my intended with so little fanfare?”

“I’m not even sure ‘fanfare’ and ‘Baelor’ have ever been said in the same sentence,” she said archly.

"Are you calling me boring?” The smile on his face grew.

“No!” Saerys exclaimed, peering up at him in hope she hadn’t actually insulted him with her cheek. “You just don’t strike me as...” She trailed off looking for the right words. “You are a decisive, measured man. You do not do things for frivolities’ sake.” 

Baelor slowed his walk with her. He was beginning to think he’d discovered another defense mechanism. “And do you think, as my intended, that you are something frivolous, not worth showing proper appreciation?”

Saerys swallowed. There were no hints of humor in Baelor’s voice now, so she had to respond in kind. She considered her response as they began to make their way to the main path. Finally after a deep breath she said, “I know I'm merely a relation that you were saddled with, your Grace. There is truly no need for any taxing of your time or resources.”

He stopped their stroll and turned to her. “We’re back to ‘your Grace' now?” Saerys looked away exhaling sharply through her nose, not in shame, but in defiance.

Good, my fire, trust me with your flame.  Let her be angry with him rather than shrink in retreat. Baelor brought his hand to her chin and tilted her gaze back to him. He could see the defense raised in her eyes when their gazes met again. Perhaps she was so unused to people taking an interest in her that even being seen was perceived as a threat.

"Hear me, Saerys,” he said, his voice soft but firm.“You are not merely anything. I wasn’t saddled with this match, I chose it. And in turn I’m choosing to honor you as you deserve.” He brought his hand to her cheek, meeting her gaze fully. “You are my intended. You will be my queen, and no one —not whispering courtiers, not arrogant princelings, not even you yourself—is permitted to diminish you"

A tear slipped out and was quickly caught by Baelor’s thumb. Saerys closed her eyes and swallowed roughly. The way he touched her felt as though he was afraid of breaking something delicate.

When she met his gaze again, she whispered his name. "Baelor," said so softly, so sweetly. He felt the pull of that invisible string towards her once again. 

“Your Grace” his father’s page called from a respectful distance away. Baelor immediately straightened, both of them realizing how close they stood.

Baelor inhaled deeply and positioned himself to block Saerys from view so she could compose herself. As she took some settling breaths and wiped at her face he replied to the page. “Yes, Samuel?”

"Apologies, your Grace. But riders from Dorne have been sighted. Their party will be arriving soon. Queen Myriah is also ready to receive the princess at her convenience.” 

Baelor turned, “I’ll be but a moment.” 

"Of course, your Grace.” 

He turned back to Saerys and took her hand.“It pains me to leave you. I’ll have Sam escort you to the Queen’s quarters. As soon as I can get away, I’ll come to you.”

He brought her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss then bowed to her, deeper than a crown prince should have to one of her station.

She curtsied in return. “Until then, my Prince.” Baelor’s face warmed as he took his leave. The page’s eyes followed the prince as he left, for it was rare that the prince went to royal duties smiling so to himself.

He quickly composed himself and addressed Saerys. “I’ll take you to the queen, princess.” 

The Queen’s solar overlooked Blackwater Bay, its tall windows thrown open just enough to admit the breeze rolling off the water below. The room itself was alive with quiet preparation. Open chests rested upon low tables, their contents spilling over with silks the color of desert orange and dragon red crimson beside lacquered boxes of jewels newly arrived from Sunspear and Dragonstone. Handmaidens moved softly between them while servants refreshed cups and replaced wilting flowers with fresh cuttings of honeysuckle, dragon’s breath and dornish poppies.

Saerys paused only briefly at the threshold before the Queen’s page announced her.

“Princess Saerys Targaryen, Your Grace.”

Queen Myriah looked up at once from where she stood overseeing preparations. Though attendants still moved quietly through the chamber, the queen’s attention settled wholly upon Saerys the moment she entered.

“Come here, child,” she beckoned.

Saerys obeyed at once, smoothing her hands unconsciously against her skirts as she crossed the chamber. She hoped the lingering warmth still resting beneath her skin from the gardens was not half so visible as it felt. “Your Grace,” Saerys intoned softly as she sank into a deep curtsy.

Myriah set down the silks with careful hands before glancing briefly toward the attendants still lingering nearby. “Leave us for a little while.” The women bowed and withdrew without hesitation, the chamber gradually quieting until only the distant cries from the harbor below drifted through the open windows.

Myriah led her over to the window seat and bade her come sit beside her. “Sit.”

Saerys lowered herself carefully and angled herself to face the Queen. For a moment the Queen simply regarded her—not coldly, nor with the sharp calculation Saerys had long associated with scrutiny at court. There was thoughtfulness in her expression instead, and something not entirely unlike concern.

"You have had very little time to grow accustomed to all this,” Myriah said at last.

After a breath, Saerys managed a small smile. “Only since this morning, your Grace.”

"The court moves quickly when it wishes to,” the Queen continued dryly. “Particularly when marriages are involved.” Saerys lowered her eyes briefly at that.

Myriah folded her hands lightly atop her lap. “You asked to join my retinue.”

"If it would please you, your Grace.”

“Before you join service amongst my ladies, I wished to speak with you plainly. As grandmother, not as a queen.”

Saerys inclined her head at once. “Of course.”

Myriah was quiet for a moment before she continued. "The office you prepare for is no small thing." Saerys only nodded. The gravity had not escaped her.

“My son is the best of men,” she continued, “but he is not merely a man. He is Hand to the King, and one day he will sit upon the Iron Throne. There will always be duties pulling at him, responsibilities demanding pieces of his attention, his time, his life.” Her gaze rested steadily upon Saerys. “It is not always an easy thing to stand beside someone the realm has claim to.”

Saerys listened carefully, her hands still folded quietly together.

“I do not say this to discourage you,” Myriah continued. “Quite the opposite. I would simply know that you understand the station you are stepping toward.”

“I think I understand as much as anyone can before living it,” Saerys answered honestly.

The honesty of the answer seemed to please Myriah more than certainty might have. “And what do you make of Baelor himself?” the Queen asked then.

The question caught Saerys slightly off guard, though she hid it quickly. “He has been nothing but kind to me.” The words came softly but without hesitation. Myriah’s expression softened faintly, as though that answer had been expected. Saerys wet her lips as she considered what she had seen of Baelor, the way he carried himself, the measured way that he chose his words. “I know he bears the realm upon his shoulders.” She paused briefly, searching for the proper phrasing. “But I don’t believe he would ever willingly treat me as another royal undertaking.”

The Queen was very still now, listening intently.

"He listens, he has a way of reassuring without making one feel foolish for needing it,” Saerys said quietly. “And he is gentle, even more so than I expected him to be.” A touch of warmth rose into her cheeks then, though she kept her composure.

“There is something protective about him as well,” she admitted after a moment. “As though he can't bear seeing others treated unkindly.”

For the briefest instant something unreadable passed across Myriah’s face. “Yes,” she said softly. “He has always had that way about him.”

Silence settled comfortably between them for a few moments afterward, filled only by the distant murmur of waves below the cliffs. At last the Queen spoke again, with a slightly more careful tone.

“Within your family, marriages such as these are not uncommon. You were raised knowing that.”

Saerys understood at once what was truly being discussed now. A faint flush crept into her cheeks, though she held the Queen’s gaze. “Yes, your Grace.”

“Even so,” Myriah said gently, “understanding a custom and living it are different matters.” The words settled softly between them. "Royal marriages are seldom afforded the luxury of distance, Saerys. Whatever comfort or affection may grow between husband and wife, the duties of such unions for those destined for the throne remain real from the beginning.” Her expression remained calm, but attentive. “I would know that you enter this arrangement willingly, and with a full understanding of what is being asked of you.”

Saerys folded her hands more tightly together in her lap. “The station itself is rather daunting,” her fingers tightened slightly together. “But the match itself is less so, especially in contrast to who it could've been.” A touch more color rose into her cheeks then, though her voice remained steady. “I trust him. And I'm mindful of my role.”

Something in Myriah’s expression eased almost imperceptibly at the answer. “Good,” the Queen said quietly. The silence that followed no longer felt quite so weighted. Saerys looked down at her hands once again. At last the Queen spoke again.

“You need not become hard to survive court,” she said, bringing a soft hand forward to lift Saerys' head up once again, “but you must learn not to diminish yourself within it.” Her gaze drifted meaningfully toward the severe black gown Saerys still wore. “There are some people who will happily allow you to disappear if you make it convenient for them.”

Saerys chewed her lip as she nodded, thoughtful. “When one spends enough years trying to fade into the background,” she said carefully, “The habit becomes difficult to break.”

Myriah regarded her with unmistakable understanding. “Even so,” the Queen replied gently, “You cannot spend the rest of your life apologizing for taking up space.”

Something in Saerys’ throat tightened unexpectedly at the words. She gathered herself carefully before answering. “I shall endeavor not to, Your Grace.”

The faintest trace of approval entered Myriah’s expression then. “Good.”

The Queen rose smoothly from her seat and crossed toward one of the open chests near the hearth. After a brief search she withdrew a Valyrian steel necklace on an ornate chain, with a deep red stone no larger than her thumb centered on three interlocking circles. “Come.”

Saerys obeyed immediately. Myriah stepped behind her and fastened the necklace carefully around her throat before adjusting the pendant where it rested against the dark fabric of her gown. "You are soon to occupy a very visible place at court,” the queen said as she worked. “The realm will look to you differently now. Better to grow accustomed to it gradually than all at once.” Saerys touched the pendant lightly once Myriah stepped back.

“It is lovely,” she said softly. "I feel the weight of the steel."

“It was a gift from Daeron, upon our first meeting.” The Queen’s expression warmed faintly at Saerys’ surprise. “It was his mother’s before me. And if rumor is true, this necklace has quite the history. A symbol of the resilience in your heritage. Not only fire, but steel in your blood.”

Saerys’ shoulders straightened at that, a look of thoughtful pride on her face. “There,” Myriah said with quiet satisfaction. “That expression suits you far better than solemnity.”

Saerys smiled despite herself. The Queen’s demeanor shifted subtly then, warmth giving way once more to practiced royal composure. "Now,” she said, “Prince Maron and Princess Daenerys along with the Dornish party will be arriving shortly, and once announced I expect half the court will spend the entire visit trying to determine what sort of woman their future Princess of Dragonstone might be.”

Saerys felt her stomach tighten slightly at the reminder. Myriah noticed immediately. “You need not perform for them,” the Queen said calmly as she extended her arm toward her. “You need only stand beside me.” The simple certainty in the words soothed something in Saerys she had not realized was still bracing for judgment.

She rose and accepted the Queen’s arm. “Welcome to my retinue, Saerys,” Myriah said as the doors opened once more and attendants hurried back into the chamber around them. “We’ll make sure you’re ready for what more is to come.”

A faint smile touched Saerys’ mouth. “I suspect,” she replied softly as they crossed toward the waiting bustle of servants and silks alike, “that may prove a greater challenge than governing kingdoms.”

Myriah laughed outright at that, rich and warm enough to draw startled glances from the nearest handmaidens.

"Oh,” the Queen said as they disappeared deeper into the chambers together, “I think you will do just fine.”

Saerys' day and evening had been so occupied with the Queen that it had truly escaped her notice that Baelor had been kept away for the rest of the day. 

No doubt he had been pulled away almost immediately by councils, preparations for the Dornish delegation, and the endless demands that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Even so, she found herself glancing instinctively toward doorways whenever voices stirred beyond the chambers.

Any worries Saerys had possessed about entering the Queen’s service were quickly eased by the welcome she received. What had begun as a quiet evening of preparation transformed almost immediately into something lively and warm once Myriah formally introduced her amongst the women of her household.

Valaar’s wife, Kiera, sought her out first. “Come sit beside me before the others descend entirely,” she laughed softly as she looped an arm through Saerys’ and guided her toward one of the cushioned divans near the hearth. “The first days are the most overwhelming.”

"And you had to journey across the Narrow Sea, too," Saerys murmured. "How ever did you adjust so quickly?"

“It was not without help. If you ever find yourself uncertain,” Kiera told her quietly while servants poured sweet Dornish wine nearby, “come to me before you listen to court gossip. Half the Red Keep survives on whispers and the other half survives on pretending not to hear them.” That coaxed genuine laughter from Saerys.

There was something immediately reassuring about her warmth. Kiera spoke easily where Saerys hesitated, laughing often and touching people affectionately as she spoke to them. Yet beneath the softness, there was unmistakable intelligence.

The Queen’s chambers gradually transformed into a flurry of overlapping conversation and cheerful chaos as word spread amongst the ladies that Saerys would wed the Prince of Dragonstone within a few moons’ time. Queen Myriah herself seemed quietly pleased by how quickly the women gathered around her newest addition.

Questions and excitement descended upon her from every direction. “How ever did you get so lucky?”

“Seven heavens,” one of the Dornish ladies, Alyse Dalt, breathed as Saerys settled beside them. “After all these years, I truly believed Prince Baelor meant to remain as he was.”

“With two grown sons already?” another agreed. “No one expected him to wed again unless the realm itself demanded it.”

“And certainly not so suddenly,” a younger lady added eagerly.

"Some will say he saw her once and lost all sense thereafter,” Kiera teased lightly, steering the narrative before leaning into whisper, “Almost out of a book,” just for Saerys’ ears.

“Half the unmarried ladies in King’s Landing are likely inconsolable as we speak,” one woman said wryly.

A fresh ripple of laughter followed, and Saerys found herself briefly caught on the notion. She had always known Baelor was admired, excessively so for his wit and command. But somehow it hadn't occurred to her that the ladies of court might bemoan his coming nuptials.

“I begin to suspect the court shall take this marriage rather personally,” Saerys murmured softly, earning fresh laughter from the women around her.

“That man could read grain ledgers aloud and ladies would still stare at him as though he were the Baelon the Brave reincarnate,” Lyra Manwoody laughed. Even Queen Myriah joined in at that.

“And there is something terribly romantic about it,” sighed Selene of Tarth happily. “A princess arrives quietly at court and before the week is done she is promised to the future king. The singers will feast on it for years.”

“That alone would make half the realm desperate to know what passed between the two of you,” another agreed.

“You're lucky he is so handsome for his age,” sighed one woman unapologetically. 

“Painfully so,” another muttered to general agreement.

Saerys shook her head softly at that, though by now she could not entirely suppress her smile.

Alyse waved a dismissive hand. “They will all recover soon enough. By the end of the moon the entire court will insist they expected it from the moment you arrived.”

“And by the end of the year,” Lyra added dryly, “the singers will claim Prince Baelor crossed half the realm for love and challenged three knights for your favor.”

“That is not remotely close to what happened,” Saerys protested through fresh laughter.

“No,” Kiera agreed cheerfully, “but it makes for a far better song.”

That sent the women into renewed amusement while Saerys sat smiling amongst them, no longer quite so overwhelmed by the attention as she had been when the day began. Only Queen Myriah seemed entirely unsurprised by the frenzy.

“Enough,” the Queen finally interrupted with amused authority. “You will frighten the poor girl away before she has properly joined us.” The women quieted only slightly.

“One of the first matters to address,” Myriah continued smoothly, “is that a future queen cannot continue dressing as though she means to disappear into the walls.”

Several ladies murmured agreement immediately while Saerys looked down instinctively toward the severe black gown she still wore. At some point through the years practicality had become habit. Dark colors were simple. Unobtrusive. Easy to mend and easier still to overlook. Saerys had not realized until that moment how much of her wardrobe had been chosen precisely so attention might pass harmlessly over her. That would clearly no longer be permitted.

Before she could protest, armfuls of silks and gowns began appearing seemingly from nowhere. Spare dresses were produced from wardrobes while handmaidens carried out boxes of ribbons, jewelry, lacework, and embroidered veils. Rich Dornish silks spilled like flowing water across cushions and chairs in shades of crimson, wine, gold, and deep burnt orange.

By the end of the evening Saerys had been made to try on no fewer than six gowns beneath the delighted supervision of half the Queen’s household.

“Tomorrow morning,” Myriah informed her firmly as the women finally began dispersing for the night, “you will return here before breakfast. The delegation must be greeted properly.”

Saerys curtsied obediently. Before she left, she grasped Myriah’s hand. “Thank you, Grandmother” she murmured, bringing a fond smile to the Queen’s face before she parted.

The next morning the Queen’s chambers were already alive with activity by the time Saerys arrived. Dornish voices drifted warmly through the rooms alongside the rustling of silks and the clatter of jewelry being arranged upon trays. Queen Myriah’s female relatives from Sunspear had joined them now, and each seemed eager to examine the woman who would someday wed the Dragon of Dorne.

Saerys was wholly unused to such attention. At Summerhall she had been the only grown woman in residence. When her duties allowed it, she had often escaped instead into libraries and quiet corners with her books for company. Being surrounded now by women laughing, teasing, gossiping, and eagerly seeking her favor felt strange enough to border upon unreal.

Yet there was warmth in it too, kinship. For Saerys, solidarity amongst women had been a rare thing.

“Come!” Queen Myriah called the moment Saerys entered. “I have something better for you today.”

At once two handmaidens carried forward a newly finished gown.

Saerys stopped short.

The dress was exquisite. Deep crimson silk shimmered richly beneath the morning light while embroidered sprays of dragon’s breath curled along the sleeves and bodice in gleaming threadwork.

“It’s too fine,” Saerys protested softly. “Your Grace, I could not possibly—”

“Nonsense,” Myriah interrupted at once, rising to cup Saerys gently by the cheek.

“But yesterday there were some darker gowns as well,” Saerys attempted weakly.

“You Targaryens,” Myriah sighed with affectionate exasperation while several Dornish women laughed knowingly nearby. “You are not in mourning, child. Quite the opposite”

The Queen stepped back, eyeing the crimson silk critically.

“It will suit you beautifully. It is a fitting gown for a princess, particularly one who will wed the heir to the Iron Throne.” Her expression softened slightly. “Go put it on.”

Blushing faintly beneath the attention fixed upon her, Saerys obeyed. After insisting rather firmly that she was perfectly capable of dressing herself, she emerged sometime later to an immediate chorus of approval from the assembled women.

“Oh, that color was made for her.”

“The embroidery catches the eye beautifully.”

“And her hair should be worn down—”

“Yes, with gold combs perhaps—”

The chamber dissolved once more into cheerful commotion around her. Women circled her adjusting sleeves, discussing jewels, and debating hairstyles with startling seriousness. So much excitement had gathered around the mention of her match that the page waiting near the doorway went entirely unnoticed until he raised his voice awkwardly above the noise.

“A delivery for Princess Saerys,” he called. The room quieted at once.

Saerys turned quickly toward the door. “Yes?”

The young page stepped forward carrying a polished wooden box in one hand and a bouquet of fresh flowers in the other. Bright dragon’s breath mingled with deep crimson roses.

“I’m called Addam, my lady. I serve Prince Baelor.” His expression brightened slightly as he presented the gifts. “His Grace wished for these to be delivered to you directly this morning.”

A soft murmur immediately rippled through the gathered women. Saerys accepted the flowers first before carefully taking the box and accompanying letter into her hands. Around her the ladies had already begun whispering excitedly amongst themselves until Queen Myriah waved them all firmly back.

“Give the girl room enough to breathe at least.” That earned a few guilty laughs. Saerys carefully unfolded the letter

Saerys,

I regret that my duties kept me from resuming our conversation, I hope you can forgive me. ‘Tis but the beginning of our courtship and already I was unable to keep a promise. You have my sincerest apology. I only wish I could promise that it won’t happen again. Though the crown keeps me elsewhere, my thoughts are with you. I’m counting the hours until I can behold you once more. Your formal betrothal gift should arrive within the week. 

Ever yours, 

Baelor

The whispers of the ladies only became more animated as they watched Saerys’ expressions as she read his words. Once she reached “yours,” the letter was folded up tight and placed within her gown. Those words were hers. “Show us what’s in the parcel, Princess,” exclaimed one of the dornish cousins—Elyra perhaps?

Saerys opened the box and found a bracelet of garnets and rubies, as well as two jeweled hair clips in the shape of dragon’s wings. A fuss was made of arranging Saerys’ hair just so to highlight the pins and the natural wave of her hair. It was styled down for a change, and the bracelet was fixed upon her wrist with gentle helping hands.

Once finished, Myriah rushed the ladies out in order to join the lords for breakfast. As she passed Saerys she took her in arm and shared a secret smile. “A clever man, my son.” Saerys’ eyebrows tilted up in question and just patted her hand, the one attached to her newly bejeweled wrist.

And, Saerys supposed, it wasn’t not a clever thing to give your intended jewelry in lieu of one’s presence.

The lords from Dorne spread about the Great Hall, chatting merrily and getting reacquainted with the Targaryens and the Crownlands Lords.One of Myriah’s nephews, Prince Morion, was particularly lively, eagerly chatting especially with the sons of late Dyanna Dayne. He made quick friends of Daeron the Younger over drink and was currently trying to make a friend of Aerion as well. “Tell me Aerion, was it true that you were supposed to be betrothed, where’s the lovely lady?” 

Aerion raised his eyebrows. “Currently doing whatever ladies do in the Eyrie, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “She fosters there with her mother’s family, I’m told.” 

"I must have heard it wrong then.The rumor was you were betrothed to a woman in your own household,” said Morion with a quirked brow. Daeron snickered. 

Aerion rolled his eyes. “Oh, that. Yes, I had been set to wed another cousin, but that match was set aside.”

Aerion took a swig of Daeron’s wine. “Early for you, brother,” Daeron remarked before Aerion’s hand waved him away.

“All’s the better for it. Saerys was a sullen, dour thing. Glad to be rid of her. Better to wed someone younger, more docile.”

"That is where we disagree, my prince,” quipped Morion. “Dornishmen like me, we prefer a woman with a bit of heat. Docile is for horses, not for wives.” 

At that moment, all the heads in the hall turned—the ladies had arrived, all clad in bright colors and merry with excitement. They all seemed to swarm around the Queen and her closest lady, a vibrant woman in red. They wanted her ear and to marvel at a piece of jewelry on her wrist. The lady’s head was held high when it wasn’t thrown back in laughter. Though it had been morning for a few hours yet, it would seem the sun had finally shone into the hall. Many eyes were drawn to the lady and the excitement that surrounded her. 

"See,” Morion gestured to the lady in red. “That’s more like it!” He left the table and straightened his robes to greet the lady before she was ensnared by one of the other men in the hall. 

Once in front of her and the queen, Morion sketched a bow and took the queen’s hand. He exclaimed, “It’s been too long my queen, though the capital agrees with you.”

The queen pulled him into an embrace. “It has been too long, nephew,t hough we are sorry to have pulled you away from the sunlight. Weather is so changeable near the Blackwater.”

"I will endure, my Queen.” His gaze shifted to Saerys. “Especially if I’m allowed to bask in the light of this one. I must beg an introduction,” he said as he took her hand. 

"Ever the charmer, Morion,” the queen chided as the rest of the ladies filtered into the hall around them. “This is Princess Saerys.” Saerys curtsied in turn. “She has been residing at Summerhall ”

“You’ve been hiding this jewel away from court.”

“And she is newly betrothed,”  said Myriah with a laugh

Morion tilted his head with mock horror. “Oh, say it is not so, Aunt!” he exclaimed, still holding her hand. He relinquished it with a kiss to the air above it.

He tilted his head at Saerys in good humor. “Tell me the name of the lucky man, Princess, so that I can congratulate him.” He added with a grin, “Or so I can duel him.” 

Saerys, wholly unaccustomed to being addressed in such a fashion, could only let out a delicate laugh.

“Oh you mock me my lady, but I’m sincere,” Morion said with a chuckle as he put a hand to his heart. “Such a light could only be meant for Dorne. Tell me the name of your intended, and I shall meet him at dawn.” 

Morion’s bravado and noise around her was such that Saerys didn’t even notice who else had entered until she heard a deep smooth voice from behind to her. “I fear that would not go well for you, Prince.” Saerys turned. The timbre was familiar, the one voice she’d been yearning to hear again.

Baelor, clad in all the regalia of a prince of the realm, came up beside her, and before propriety quite caught up to instinct, one broad hand settled lightly at her waist, warmth seeping through the silk between them. His.

Baelor eyed Morion up and down then, with mostly mock threat. “Surely you remember the last time we met at a tourney.”

Saerys took in a breath and met his gaze. Baelor inclined his head towards her and spoke softly, just for her. “Good morning, Princess.”  

Morion’s eyes gleamed with sudden understanding. He dipped into a deep bow with a laugh. Saerys made to curtsy as well but a slight nudge at her waist instructed her to stay still. Morion rose and clasped his arm, formality now out of the way 

"Splendid news, cousin! Fitting that the Dragon of Dorne should be matched with such a sunbeam.” 

Baelor turned his gaze to Saerys as he replied, “I agree.” Baelor’s thumb shifted once at her waist before he took her arm and escorted her into the hall. Morion trailed behind them, the queen now taking his arm.

Now Saerys was conscious of all the curious eyes and whispers. She’d been bedecked in Targaryen finery, and had entered the hall with a flurry of attention, from a Dornish prince no less. All for his flirting to be thwarted by the heir to the throne as he drew her effortlessly beneath his keeping. The Prince’s bride-to-be, already a sparkling fixation at court. A clever man indeed.A clever man indeed. He did not merely accept her, he wished for the realm to admire her as well.

Baelor maintained their conversation as they made their way into the hall. “We’ll announce the betrothal formally at the festivities at the end of the week.” He helped Saerys step up to the high table on the dais. “In the meantime, I’ve been parted from my lady for too long and should like to break fast with her.” He pulled out a seat for her at the end of the table and sat next to her.

"Of course, my Prince.” 

Morion took a sly glance to the other end of the table where Maekar’s brood sat and spoke a bit louder. “I have but one question for the lady.” Baelor looked to Saerys who nodded, then inclined his head. 

"I heard tell from another prince that he was to be betrothed to a Saerys of Summerhall, but his depiction is so inaccurate I must’ve misheard.” 

At the mention of Summerhall, Aerion glanced up from the other end of the high table. Shock flickered across his face that the lady in red who enchanted the hall was his former fiancee. She was a woman transformed, resplendent in red, hair down in gentle waves, and an easy smile upon her face. She maintained her composure too, as he met her eyes from the end of the table. 

Saerys’ eyes returned to Morion. “‘Tis true Prince. To my cousin,” she said with a nod to Aerion.

Morion sat down from them at the table with mock dismay. “But that can not be my lady,” he gestured, waving a hand to Aerion. “For he described his prior betrothed as dour and sullen.” Morion’s gestures and laughter now caught the attention of the rest of the table. "I can not fathom a lady as lovely and vibrant as you being described as such.” 

Saerys looked down, trying to hide a smile while Baelor’s gaze slid over to Aerion, steely once again and devoid of the softness he gave Saerys. He tilted his head about to chime in, but not before Saerys responded, “Perhaps my new betrothed better agrees with me.”

Baelor’s gaze snapped to her with a wry smirk as he was tempted to reach for her hand under the table. 

The wheelhouse finally rolled to a stop. Daeron exhaled heavily. “Gods preserve me from those stairs.”

A servant hurried forward and opened the carriage door. Afternoon sunlight spilled across the interior as the riders slowed their approach.Through the opening Saerys could see King Daeron and the royal family awaiting them. 

Prince Maekar Targaryen dismounted first, boots striking stone with familiar force. He hadn't been honed for court halls like his eldest brother. Time and campaigning had instead hardened him further since he was last at court. He crossed the yard and dipped his head respectfully.

“Father.”

King Daeron’s sternness dissolved at once into weary affection. “Did you bring the entirety of the Dornish Marches with you, Maekar?"

Maekar snorted softly. “Only the less troublesome half,” he said, gesturing to his sons and young ward following behind him. His youngest children, Aemon, Daella, Aegon, and Rhae were left under the watchful eyes of maesters and septas at Summerhall. The king clasped his forearm firmly before drawing him briefly into an embrace. 

Behind Maekar, Daeron slid inelegantly from the wheelhouse, grinning already.“Your Grace,” he called toward the king. “If you intend to keep us standing in the yard much longer, I’ll need wine before I expire dramatically.”

Queen Myriah Martell smiled despite herself. “You’ve grown thinner.”

“I’m wounded, Your Grace. I had been hoping for ‘handsome’.”

“You’ll receive that once you’ve bathed,” replied the Queen dryly. Prince Valar Targaryen barked out a laugh at that from where he stood next to his father and his wife, Kiera of Tyrosh. 

Prince Aerion Targaryen descended next. Even dismounting, he managed to make it look theatrical. Sunlight flashed across polished armor as he removed his gloves finger by finger, eyes already roaming the gathered company with sharp coiled confidence.

“Grandsire,” he said with a shallow bow.

Daeron acknowledged him evenly. “Aerion.”

Prince Baelor Targaryen watched his nephew carefully. If the rumors that had drifted from Summerhall were true, something feverish ran beneath the prince’s charm, like a viper waiting to strike.

Then the final member of the party approached–Princess Saerys, who had been long away from court. She removed herself from the wheelhouse carefully with the assistance of a household knight, black riding skirts gathered in slender hands. Baelor seemed to notice her only because she did not immediately seek attention, or perhaps she was just practiced at avoiding it.

She was a woman grown since the last time he saw her. It had only been in passing–she couldn't have been older than five or six, sitting cross-legged beneath a table in the library at Summerhall while her father studied nearby. She had not been properly reading, only painstakingly sounding out letters to herself from a crumbling history she had no hope of understanding. When Baelor had asked what she was doing, she had informed him quite seriously that if no one taught her fast enough she would simply teach herself.

With a wave of melancholy, he found himself struggling to reconcile that bright child with the subdued woman before him. Her face was drawn, hopefully only from the road. Her dark waving hair was pulled back simply, streaks of silver among the dark, one of the few visible markers of her Targaryen lineage. Brown eyes that he had last seen shimmering with curiosity were now careful, wary. One gloved hand clutched a worn green book close against her chest while the other gathered her skirts. She wore black from throat to hem despite the summer heat, the fabric finely made but deliberately unadorned save for subtle red dragons stitched in thread so dark they vanished unless the light struck them. There was not a jewel to be seen upon her, so unlike the glittering ladies of court.

Aerion passed nearby as she descended, his gaze flicking toward the book in her hands.

“Gods,” he muttered beneath his breath, not quite quietly enough. “You dragged that thing all the way from Summerhall?”

At once Saerys’ fingers tightened around the volume before she slipped it quickly beneath the folds of her cloak.

The exchange lasted scarcely a heartbeat, yet somehow Baelor saw all of it. Her vigilance unsettled him. Even before she fully straightened, her eyes flicked briefly toward Aerion first, then to those around her, as a hunted doe might glance around the forest. 

Myriah stepped forward before formal introductions could begin. “Saerys.”

At once Saerys sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“None of that,” Myriah said gently, extending her hands to bid her rise. “You are family, my girl.”

Something in Saerys’ expression softened unexpectedly at the word before composure settled back into place. “Of course."

The King came to stand by his wife and beckoned her closer as well. “Come now, let me look at you properly. It has been far too long.”

Saerys obeyed at once, quiet and composed, pulled together so perfectly. So quickly, Baelor thought, like someone forever bracing for correction. He mulled over this as she approached him next, and sunk once more into a curtsy

“Saerys,” he said as he offered her his hand, his gaze open and welcome. “It’s a pleasure to finally welcome you to Kings Landing.”

An odd sort of warmth spread through her at the proper sound of her name on his tongue. Aerion for all of his talk of their Valyrian heritage always butchered it. "Ser-res" always drawled with annoyance. Though she didn’t speak the tongue, she knew how it should sound. The long Valyrian vowel and stressed “R” sounded wholly different in the deep warm timbre of Baelor’s voice.

“She’s been keeping Summerhall running for us all,” Maekar remarked absently as a servant took his gloves. “Far more competent than the rest of the household put together.”

Saerys lowered her gaze immediately at the praise, almost uncomfortable beneath it. “Only because Lady Dyanna taught me so well,” she replied softly.

Something complicated flickered across Maekar’s face at the mention of his late wife before vanishing beneath habitual sternness. Then Aerion’s voice cut smoothly across the yard. “She’ll have the keep reorganized before week’s end if you allow it.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Saerys would sooner balance inventories than navigate court. The gods do love their little jokes.”

A few polite chuckles answered him. Saerys smiled automatically, though it was wooden. Then Kiera, all pink hair and bright smiles, stepped forward with an easy warmth that immediately changed the atmosphere.

“I’m very glad you’ve arrived,” she told Saerys sincerely. “I was beginning to fear there would be too few of us women trapped between dragons and vipers during these festivities.”

To Baelor’s surprise, Saerys gave a small genuine laugh. “That would be a grave fate indeed.”

“They’re already conspiring against us,” Valarr said cheekily.

“As is their right,” Myriah replied dryly. Aerion rolled his eyes, while Baelor’s gaze drifted back toward Saerys.

With Kiera beside her, some of the tension had eased from her at last. There was a keen intelligence in her face when she forgot to guard it. She had been a precocious little thing with endless questions and no hesitation whatsoever in asking them. He had expected that sharpness to remain, not this skittishness. He did not know what to make of this subdued woman dressed in severe black, who seemed to fold inward each time attention found her.

Then Kiera said something too low for him to hear, and for a fleeting moment Saerys forgot herself entirely. A laugh escaped her, soft and genuine, her eyes brightening as she turned toward the other woman. The expression transformed her utterly, warmth and wit flashing suddenly through her careful restraint. And then, just as quickly, she seemed to remember herself, her shoulders drew back, and the prim composure returned.

But not before Baelor had seen the difference. 

Something uneasy settled beneath his ribs. When Aerys insisted his studies were of too much import for him to continue to rear a child, Summerhall was deemed the best place for her, a keep filled with children, removed from the politics of court. Watching her now, Baelor found himself wondering if that had truly been the case.

Dinners at the Red Keep were a wholly different affair from those at Summerhall, if her maid was to be believed.

Most dinners took place in the Hand’s small hall or the Queen’s hall, rather than the Great Hall, while dinners at Summerhall were stiff and staid in the main hall. Rhagel and his family, when in residence, typically ate in their own tower with no offense or repercussions. Attendance had been expected at Maekar’s table, and Saerys never got away with taking a tray in her own chambers. Here, as she saw at the earlier luncheon, while the setting itself was more formal, the conversation and mood were far more relaxed–o much so that Saerys dared to bring a book with her to the meal. At the very least, it would remind them of her father. 

Outside night had swallowed King's Landing whole, but within the chamber warmth lingered pleasantly. The small hall in the Tower of the Hand glowed gold beneath candlelight and polished brass. Books and reports littered the sideboard. It would seem Baelor and the King often worked through their meals, but tonight was devoted to family. Mulled wine was poured into silver goblets, and servants wove quietly between chairs with platters of river trout, buttered carrots, roast potatoes, and dark bread still warm from the ovens below. 

King Daeron sat at the head of the modest table rather than upon any dais, one hand curled around his wine cup while conversation drifted lazily through the chamber. Beside him, Queen Myriah smiled softly as Valarr animatedly recounted his latest frustration with the master-at-arms. “I swear the man delights in humiliation!” Valarr declared. “He paired me against Ser Donnel in the yard after dawn drills, knowing full well the brute outweighs me by four stone.”

“You won,” Kiera noted as she nudged him from his side.

“That is hardly the point,” Valarr said with exaggerated dignity. “The point is that I could not feel my shield arm for the entire day afterward.” A few soft chuckles circled the table. Valaar entertained them with a practiced ease, Saerys noticed. He engaged those around him with humor and self-deprecation, rather than holding the table hostage to his wit like others she could name.

Baelor noted that Saerys had scarcely touched her wine, or most of her plate for that matter. She sat poised and proper beside her cousins, hands folded carefully in her lap whenever she was not moving food around her plate.

The King noticed her reserve as well. “Tell me, Saerys,”  he said mildly, “is it true the septa at Summerhall still insists every corridor remain quiet enough for silent prayer?”

Saerys blinked, visibly startled at being addressed directly. After recovering she spoke, “She insists. All the better for contemplation, Your Grace.”

“So did my mother,” Daeron replied quietly. “She found more comfort in prayer and quiet halls than she ever did in court." A fond sort of weariness touched his expression then. “Though my mother at least understood the gods do not strike men dead for speaking above a whisper after supper.”

“I can’t say I blame Septa Desmera, though,” Saerys continued. “Not with the way Aegon and Rhae carry on”

“Well, you said it, not me”

A soft laugh escaped Saerys before she could suppress it. Daeron’s expression gentled at once. The sound reminded him dearly of another princess who had laughed far too rarely in her life.

Across the table, amidst the chatter, Baelor felt himself pause at how the small mirth transformed Saerys' face completely. She appeared almost lit from within–alive in the way she listened attentively to the king’s teasing, in the shy amusement she traded with Kiera, and in the softness that entered her face whenever Queen Myriah spoke kindly to her.  Baelor found himself quietly caught off guard by how different she seemed during these rare moments, so unlike the skittish girl he had first witnessed in the yard.

Resting beside Saerys’ untouched cup sat a worn green volume. He remembered it from the yard below when the wheelhouse arrived: Saerys descending last, clutching the book close to her chest before Aerion mocked something under his breath and she tucked it quickly away.

Baelor reached for his wine. “You brought a book from Summerhall,” he said to her mildly. Saerys looked up quickly, almost surprised to be engaged on the matter. Across the table, Aerion smirked faintly into his cup.

“The green one,” Baelor clarified, his lips lifting at the corners to try to put her at ease. “I saw it in the yard.”

For the briefest instant embarrassment crossed her face. “Oh,” she said softly. “It is only a trivial thing.”

Aerion snorted. “That means it’s a romance,” he scoffed, cutting in before Baelor could contradict her.

A faint flush rose immediately along Saerys’ cheeks. Baelor glanced between them. “What sort of romance?” 

Saerys touched the worn spine with careful fingers, reluctant and protective all at once. "One from the Reach,” she admitted quietly. “A courtly tale about a knight who serves a lady faithfully years before she realizes she loves him in return.”

Daeron laughed immediately. “How is it a romance if they're always so miserable? I swear, someone is always looking out a window forlorn.” A few smiles flickered around the table. Even Saerys managed the shadow of one. 

Baelor leaned slightly forward. “And are they happy in the end?” 

Aerion’s gaze narrowed in on Baelor then. 

Saerys looked up, surprised by the sincerity of the question. “Yes,” she said softly. “Eventually.”

Aerion barked out a sharp mocking laugh. The sound sliced cleanly through the fragile ease gathering around the table. “Seven save us,” he drawled. “She’ll be mooning over The Knight Beneath the Willow for the rest of supper.”

Saerys’ smile disappeared immediately. “I'm not-”

“It’s a story for little girls,” Aerion interrupted, insistent. “And foolish ones besides.”

Baelor watched the transformation happen instantly as Saerys’ shoulders tightened by the barest degree. Her eyes lowered. Her hands disappeared beneath the table, a complete and well-practiced retreat, as though she had learned long ago the safest thing to do was make herself smaller. Something cold settled beneath Baelor’s ribs.

Aerion continued casually, sensing no resistance. “All that simpering nonsense about honorable knights worshipping women from afar,” he mused. “As though real men truly behave that way outside songs.” 

Saerys stared fixedly at the tablecloth now, swallowing roughly, unable to meet the eyes of anyone.

Aerion saw the opportunity to hold court then. "She likes them because she believes that’s what love is,” he continued with amused disdain. “Surely by now you’ve learned by now those tales are lies, cousin." Venom crept into his tone, just for her.

Baelor felt himself stop moving entirely, his jaw locked. Anger pulsed through him at how Aerion mocked Saerys. 

At the head of the table, King Daeron felt memory crash into him like ice water, paralyzing him completely.

Another table with another princess shrinking into silence with the same defeat, as another handsome royal son smiled as he wounded her for sport. All the while, another gallant prince watched with sadness and fury, coiled to come to her defense. For one terrible moment the years seemed to blur for him. His Uncle, Aemon, rigid at the table. His mother, Naerys, lowering her eyes. His father laughing smug and self-satisfied over wine.

Baelor, still fuming, realized with growing revulsion that Aerion was not merely mocking Saerys’ interests. He was mocking the very idea that she could ever be genuinely cherished. These stories were an escape, perhaps the only place Saerys allowed herself to imagine tenderness at all. Aerion knew this, and he enjoyed diminishing her further. Baelor glanced instinctively toward Maekar. Surely he would stop this, his own household.

Maekar cut another piece of trout with measured calm, expression unreadable. His jaw only tightened faintly, though whether at Aerion or the interruption to his meal, Baelor could not tell. As though this were merely familiar family friction. That unsettled Baelor as much as Aerion’s mockery, if not more so. It was horrifyingly clear this was a regular occurrence, and Saerys had no expectation anyone would stop him.

“She is hurting no one,” Baelor said evenly. The room fell silent.

Aerion turned toward him with lazy amusement. “No,” he agreed lightly. “Only filling her own head with inane fantasies.” His smile sharpened as he looked back toward Saerys. “A handsome prince coming to the rescue to adore you endlessly?” He gave a soft scoff. “Join us on the mortal plane.”

Heat crept beneath Baelor’s collar as Saerys seemed to withdraw further. He nearly missed her reply altogether.

“Do you think I can’t tell fact from fiction?” said Saerys. Her words were barely above a whisper, yet for the first time that evening there was something fragilely defiant beneath them.

Aerion turned sharply at that, the mocking ease vanishing from his face. “What did you say to me?” There was a lethal edge to his voice now.

Saerys recoiled from it immediately, with the awful familiarity of someone who knew exactly what usually followed that tone.

Aerion swirled his cup lazily as he eyed Saerys. “What? Nothing else to say now?” He leaned back further in his chair, pleased with her silence, her submission. “Pathetic.“ 

Saerys stiffened even further at the bite in his words. 

“Though perhaps silence is preferable after all,” Aerion mused, leaning back in his chair. “Gods know no man wishes wit from the woman who's to warm his bed.”

Saerys pressed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear.

“That is enough.” Baelor’s voice was like steel, quiet, and deadly. The words cut cleanly through the chamber, worse for the restraint. Baelor’s focus was so sharp he didn’t sense his father’s gaze on his face.

Across the table, Saerys froze as if he had spoken to her. Aerion blinked once in surprise. Baelor held his nephew’s gaze steadily. “You forget yourself before the ladies of this house.”

For a long moment Aerion looked almost tempted to provoke further, but even he knew what would surely come from this meeting of wills. He instead gave a careless shrug and lifted his goblet. “As you say, uncle,” he replied lowly. But the damage had already been done.

Saerys remained still for another heartbeat. Then, slowly, she looked up, not at Aerion but at Baelor. As though he was the first one to ever call the cruelty what it was. She looked at him with something akin to gratitude, as if something was owed, when she had been the one so cruelly mocked. Baelor felt something twist painfully in his chest at the sight.

Across from him, King Daeron saw it too. Saw the exact moment his son looked upon her not merely with courtesy, but with a fierce protective sorrow.

At this table, in this hall, the Dragonknight born again.

Aerion watched Saerys as she refused to meet his gaze for a moment longer before giving up his game. “Gods, I’ve had enough of this sanctimony,” he muttered. He tipped his goblet back only to find it empty. “Daeron,” he said to his brother with a smirk “Come help me raid the good casks before they’re pulled for the fete"

Daeron, already ruddy from his wine, shoved back from the table. “At last, someone speaks wisely.”

Myriah sighed softly into her cup, and Maekar pinched the bridge of his nose, but neither prince waited for permission. Aerion flashed one last amused smile toward the table as he departed, Daeron stumbling after him with poorly concealed delight at escaping formality. The doors shut behind them, and suddenly the room could breathe again. The silence that followed felt different now, tender around the edges.

Saerys remained still beside her untouched wine. Before the silence could settle too heavily, Kiera spoke lightly from beside Valarr. “I confess I’m starting to prefer these Reach romances. They're certainly much better than the morality plays that your septas spread about.” The sudden shift in topic seemed to catch Saerys off guard. Kiera continued without embarrassment whatsoever. “The Knight Beneath the Willow made half the ladies at court cry last year.”

Valarr snorted softly beside her. “Yes, and you were one of them.”

Kiera lifted her chin with dignity. “Only at the scene where they are parted.”

“There are at least three scenes where they are parted, supposedly never to see each other again.”

“And all of them romantic,” Kiera sniped back with a playful smile as she reached for her wine. That earned a ripple of genuine laughter around the table. Even Queen Myriah smiled into her cup.

“Kiera has half the royal seamstresses designing dresses inspired by heroines from those stories,” Valarr added dryly.

“I haven't heard you complaining,” Kiera returned right back at him.

Through it all, Saerys watched them–the familiarity and the ease between them, and the way affection softened every barb. Slowly, cautiously, the tension in her shoulders eased by the slightest degree. Not because anyone denied Aerion’s cruelty, but because no one had agreed with him. The realization seemed almost unfamiliar to her. 

Baelor watched the shift quietly, watched the warmth begin returning to her by careful increments. Then at last he spoke again. “When I first became Hand,” he said, his voice gentler now, “I used to hide books for leisure inside my ledgers during those early meetings.” Saerys blinked and looked up at him, meeting his gaze directly at the table for the first time. 

“The Master of Coin would send me bound reports thick enough to stun a horse if dropped from a height,” he continued dryly. “Eventually I learned if I hollowed the center stack properly, I could conceal something far more interesting within.”

To Baelor’s quiet satisfaction, the corner of Saerys’ mouth twitched faintly upward. “And what did you hide?” she asked softly.

“Histories, mostly.”

Valarr scoffed. “Only you could make shirking duty sound dull”

Baelor finally smiled faintly at that. “I enjoyed the accounts of Nymeria’s voyages.”

That seemed to genuinely surprise Saerys. “Nymeria?”

Baelor nodded. “Her crossing, her leadership, her iron will.” He leaned back slightly in his chair. “Her people leaving everything they knew and still managing to build something lasting afterward.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Queen Myriah then back to Saerys.“And the joining with House Martell afterward always interested me.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Not conquest. Not surrender either.” He swirled the wine lightly in his cup. “But something new being made from both.” 

For the first time since Aerion’s mockery, Saerys looked fully engaged again, light beginning to return to her eyes.“My septa said Nymeria must have been terrifying,” she admitted softly. “That no sensible man could survive a woman who burned her own ships.”

Valarr barked another laugh. “She sounds marvelous.”

“She sounds practical,” Queen Myriah corrected dryly.

Saerys ventured again. “And what do you read to distract you from the ledgers now?”

“I just procured a new tome from Dragonstone’s libraries.” He met her gaze again with a wry look. “On how tyranny and bravado in Old Valyria led the dragonlords to their downfall,” he said with a knowing smirk. That coaxed a real smile from Saerys again. Baelor felt a strange sense of relief settle quietly inside him at the sight. 

At the head of the table, King Daeron watched the exchange in silence. Watched how Saerys slowly unfolded again beneath kindness, and the care with which his son spoke to her now. He could feel something almost stirring in the air, and tried to shake the queer feeling of history threatening to repeat itself.

The corridors outside her chambers felt stifling after the evening meal. Saerys walked beside Maekar in brittle silence while the sounds of the hall echoed faintly behind them. Aerion’s laughter seemed lodged beneath her skin alongside the memory of the terrible stillness that had settled over the table after Baelor spoke.

Maekar kept his usual measured pace, hands clasped behind his back. For several moments he said nothing at all, and Saerys almost foolishly hoped he intended to let the evening pass without further misery. “The timing is unfortunate,” he said at last, his tone practical as ever, “But the matter cannot reasonably be delayed much longer.”

Saerys felt her stomach knot instantly though she kept her face composed. “Any matter in particular?”

Maekar glanced toward her briefly, surprised by the question. “Your betrothal to Aerion.” The words settled heavily between them. “I intend to present it to the King on the morrow at morning council,” he continued. “Once the King gives formal approval, arrangements can begin properly before the celebrations conclude.”

By tomorrow evening the course of the rest of her life would already be sealed. Saerys kept her eyes fixed ahead as they walked. “I understand.”

Maekar exhaled quietly through his nose, mistaking her restraint for ordinary bridal apprehension. “You could do far worse than Aerion.”

“Could I?” she asked softly, though with what she knew of men she realized with a shudder that Maekar might well be right.

Something in her voice drew his attention more fully this time. “You’ll be able to stay close to family, as you’ve always wished.”  Saerys swallowed roughly. 

“The Gods know he's difficult,” Maekar admitted after a moment. “Proud. Quick-tempered. But I’d like to think that I’m a testament that he can grow out of his worst faults.” 

Saerys thought at once of Aerion leaning across the dinner table, his voice gone sharp enough to draw blood. What did you say to me?

They arrived outside her chambers. Maekar paused while a servant moved to open the door. “For what it’s worth,” he said gruffly, “I do believe he’s fond of you in his own way.” 

The comment struck her harder than cruelty might have, because Maekar believed it sincerely. Saerys lowered her eyes before he could see the tears threatening there. “As you say, Uncle.” She took in an unsteady breath before murmuring, “Goodnight.”

Saerys entered her chambers then leaned back against the closed door, grateful for the time alone, the time to think. For a long while she remained standing where she was.

The room felt too warm, the walls too close around her. She crossed slowly toward the window and pressed trembling fingers against the stone ledge. Below, King’s Landing glittered beneath the darkening sky while Blackwater Bay churned against the cliffs.

At dinner, Aerion had humiliated her before half the royal family and only one person intervened, and even that had barely stopped him. She could still hear Aerion’s voice in her mind, smooth with mockery, and the look on his face at being rebuked. The memory settled cold and heavy in her stomach. She could only imagine the ways that Aerion might take out his anger at her when he got the chance. 

As trying as today had been, marriage to him would be far worse. Once she was Aerion’s wife there would be no feast tables filled with witnesses, no prince quietly cutting through the tension with a single command. No one would interrupt what happened behind closed doors when she was his. She pressed her eyes closed at the memory of Baelor coming to her defense. Where had that kind of intervention been at Summerhall?

Her breath caught painfully, and despite herself, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from returning to Prince Baelor and a fleeting moment from her youth.

She could not have been older than six the first time she properly remembered Prince Baelor visiting Summerhall. Her father had been buried somewhere amongst the library stacks with two maesters while Saerys entertained herself beneath the tables with histories she could not yet properly read. She remembered painstakingly tracing letters with one finger across yellowed pages, determined to teach herself faster than the adults around her thought appropriate.

A shadow had fallen across the floor beside her then. She had looked up expecting a scolding and instead found Prince Baelor blinking down at her curiously, one arm still full of books.

“You appear to have conquered half the library already,” he had remarked with a quirk of a smile and a twinkle of humor in his mismatched gaze.

She had informed him quite seriously that the books must have been arranged incorrectly because her father could never seem to find the tomes he wanted. To her astonishment, he had crouched beside her and helped her puzzle through the page rather than ignoring her. 

The Lady Jena had ridden onward to Blackhaven to be with family, leaving Baelor lingering at Summerhall for several weeks before duty called him back to court. Then before long he became Hand of the King, and scarcely visited at all.

They had been small moments, forgettable until now. More than that, she remembered what happened to Summerhall whenever Baelor was in residence. The keep itself had seemed softer during those weeks. Servants laughed more easily, the halls warmer somehow, even Maekar less severe in his presence. 

Then at dinner, when Aerion’s voice sharpened and the entire table froze around her, Baelor had not raised his voice, his restrained authority  had cut through the hall more effectively than shouting ever could. That’s enough.

The impression of those words lingered with her now alongside the warmth of Summerhall’s library and the recollection of a prince who had once crouched beneath a table to listen seriously to a lonely little girl.

Before she could lose her nerve, Saerys pushed herself away from the window and crossed toward the door.

The Tower of the Hand loomed above the inner ward as she made her way through the quieter corridors of the Red Keep, her pulse racing harder with every step. Twice she nearly turned back.

What was she truly thinking of asking of him? To oppose Maekar? To publicly humiliate Aerion? To risk discord within the royal family over a frightened woman who could offer little in return beyond gratitude? Yet with every attempt to reason herself into retreat, another thought rose stubbornly to meet it.

Baelor was clever and respected in the realm, careful where others were impulsive. If anyone could find some convenient reason to halt the match without provoking open conflict, it would be him. Surely there was some graceful solution Maekar could not see.

And perhaps, if the gods were merciful, she might yet be wed to someone decent. No knight from a song, Aerion had made certain to grind away those fantasies years ago.

A handsome prince coming to the rescue to adore you endlessly? Join us on the mortal plane.

The memory of his voice twisted bitterly inside her. Oh she knew men like that truly did not exist outside of fantasy. But surely there remained some middle ground between romance and terror. Some lord somewhere who might be gentle, kind, or at the very least indifferent enough to leave her in peace.

By the time she reached the Tower of the Hand her hands had begun trembling in earnest.

Ser Roland admitted her after only brief hesitation, announcing her arrival down the hall. “Princess Saerys to see you, your Grace”

The corridors beyond were quieter than the rest of the keep, lit low with candlelight and heavy with the scent of parchment and sealing wax. Somewhere deeper within came the faint scratch of a quill against paper. Saerys paused outside the chamber door, suddenly struck by the enormity of what she was about to do.

Then, before courage could fail her entirely she entered the Hand’s study.

“Saerys?” Baelor called before her face fully emerged into the candlelight. 

His surprise faded almost immediately into a sense of foreboding as he caught sight of her expression. As she came forward his gaze caught on how she wrung her hands, the way she fidgeted with her rings, so similar to his own habit.

“What has happened?” he asked as he turned away from the desk, so quickly that he was unable to ponder how easily she captured his attention. How many times had Maekar, Valaar or even Jena been able to truly pull him away from his reports and ledgers? As soon as he saw the fear on her face, his center of gravity shifted, his pressing report an afterthought. 

“Please, sit,” he insisted as he moved to the counsel table, drawing out the chair next to him. 

Even near him, Saerys had trouble meeting his gaze. She’d been so long away from court and other family, she was unused to conversations she didn’t have to flinch away from.

She curled in on herself in the chair, shrinking herself as she said, “As I’m sure you know, my father wanted me off his hands and settled before his death. For simplicity’s sake, he proposed a match between Aerion and I. Maekar agreed and plans to bring the match to the King on the morrow." Her voice was brittle as she shuddered 

Finally she met his gaze with watery eyes. “I can’t marry him, I won’t,” she vowed.

Baelor heaved a heavy sigh. The memory of the dinner table rose before him, Aerion’s amused cruelty, and Saerys shrinking inward beneath it. The unmistakable fear ran through her when his nephew’s voice sharpened. This wasn’t the first Aerion related quandary he’d been involved in and he doubted it’d be the last.

He swallowed roughly, as if what he was about to say already disagreed with him, “Marriage changes the shape of a man’s predilections," he said carefully. The words sounded weak even to himself. “Some men are improved by the responsibility. I know Maekar was.”

Saerys looked away and sucked in her cheeks as if she had been forced to bite down bitter medicine. With a rare disdain she replied “Some men." She forced out a laugh with such venom that Baelor almost flinched “But this is Aerion.” 

She reached for one of Baelor's hands, imploring. “You see what he is, and that is what he’s willing to expose around family. Summerhall has been a torment ever since I reached my majority.” She paused and took in a wavering breath as her eyes began to glisten, “I don’t have to imagine the terror he’ll inflict once I’m his property.”

Baelor’s jaw ticked at how Saerys referred to herself. “You’re a princess of the blood, you’ll never be any man’s property—”

“—And he is a prince of the blood and I’ll be his to torment as he pleases." Saerys choked out a sob. She felt her desperation increasing the more her thoughts swirled about the torture Aerion might visit her once under his control. 

Baelor, imagining it too, squeezed his eyes shut. Though always pragmatic, he hated having to think the worst about his family. “Maekar denied your request, I take it?”

Saerys shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks “I didn’t go to him,” she whispered, holding his gaze. I chose you. “Maekar has inured himself to Aerion's true nature. I think on some level he knows but he doesn’t let himself see.” 

Saerys rose from the chair and sank to her knees before him, taking both of his hands."Please, Uncle, I came to you because you’re the most honorable man I know.” Her voice broke. “I’ll do anything, marry anyone else, any house, I just ask that he might be good and kind, please.”

Saerys pressed her head against the hands that held his and heaved another sob. “Please, your Grace,” she whispered, giving herself over to tears.

Something in him shattered seeing her on her knees before him. 

Wrong. Why haven’t you already given her what she asked?

Of all the things she might have asked for, it was those simple words that undid him. She kneeled before him, not asking for a crown, nor wealth, nor some great romance from the songs. Merely a man who might not make her dread the morrow. A man who would not turn her life into something to be endured. That she thought she needed to beg for it, Baelor's revulsion settled somewhere deep within him and twisted.

Baelor freed his hands and leaned forward, kneeling on the ground as well. He wrapped her gently in his embrace, as he ran a soothing hand down her back.

The words "good" and "kind" continued to through his thoughts as he held her close. For one disquieting instant he found himself seized by a certainty so resolute it frightened him. It arrived before thought, before reason, before all the careful habits of restraint that had governed the better part of his life. As he looked into the fire there were plans, matches, alliances, all reforming in his head. Each heaving breath from Saerys further cemented his plan of action.

Finally he nodded with a sigh, bringing his hand to cup the back of her head. “Sweet girl, I will take care of it” 

Saerys drew back and stared at him disbelieving. “Truly?” 

“I promise.” Baelor brought his hand to her cheek to wipe away her tears. “I’ll go to the king directly.” He stood bringing her with him, and as he stepped away she held on to one of his hands.

"Uncle," she said, her voice hollow. “I’ll be forever in your debt.”

He brought his other hand to hers and drew it up towards his mouth for a fleeting kiss. “You owe me nothing, Saerys.” He led her from the room into the hall.

“Ser Roland,” he called to the knight posted outside. “Please see the princess back to her rooms, I should like you to guard her door this evening."

“Of course, Your Grace. And for your rooms?” 

“Any other will do, I suspect I will have a late night.” 

“Uncle,” Saerys called before she was escorted away. “I will never forget this.”

Baelor only nodded back as he watched her figure retreat down the hall. Neither would he. He only hoped they both could both forgive him come morning.

As Baelor walked towards his father’s chambers, he pondered the family line and wracked his brain for houses with eligible sons, for a mental exercise if nothing else.

“Is he awake?” Baelor asked Ser Corbray once outside the door to the king’s solar.

“Come in, son,” Daeron called from inside. Baelor found him pouring over a familiar report.

One look at Baelor’s face informed him that this would not be a casual conversation between father and son. “It better be a pressing matter, if we’re getting started this late.”

Baelor tilted his head in deference before clarifying, "It’s a family matter.”

“What’s Aerion done now?” Daeron scoffed.

Baelor sighed as he tilted his head and admitted haltingly, “It’s not not an Aerion problem”

“Oh it’s a problem now? Seven Hells,” Daeron bit off before muttering under his breath.

“Before Aerys passed, it would seem he and Maekar were playing at matchmaking down south. They settled on Aerion for Saerys.” Baelor met Daeron’s gaze with a thinly veiled disdain. “Maekar means to bring the match before you tomorrow.” He swallowed roughly before continuing. “Saerys came to me tonight weeping, and begged me to wed her to anyone else.”

He took in a heavy breath. “The way she came to me,” he said, his eyes faraway now. Memories flashed before him, the threadiness of her voice as she pleaded, the way she looked at him, beseeching. He swallowed down what might've been bile before he reached the heart of his request. “I can not allow her to wed that boy”

Daeron tilted his head then, keen. “It is rather peculiar that she brought her petition to you, rather than myself or Maekar.” 

Baelor mused on this a moment before answering, curious that this caught his father’s attention first. “I don’t think Saerys believed Maekar would be of any help.” He closed his eyes then and uttered the next few words as if they were very precious. “She told me that she came to me because I’m the most honorable man she knows.” 

For a moment they fell quiet. Daeron studied his son. Curious, he thought. Of everything that had passed between them that evening, that was the detail Baelor seemed least willing to release. The king filed the observation away and moved on.

”Maekar’s been turning a blind eye to that boy for far too long,” he said wearily instead. “My namesake’s wastrel ways are the main cause of his ire while Aerion is merely an annoyance—”

“And so the worst of Aerion infects everyone around him,” Baelor finished. 

So often were he and his father of like minds, Baelor thought, though his stomach began to sink. This was perhaps the only time he had ever wanted his father to disagree with him, to persuade him otherwise. 

“I was mulling it over on my way to you," he continued. “If you approve it tomorrow, they’ll expect to announce it during the festivities a sennight from now. If we draw this out, they may force the issue. II think it may be too late for us to make overtures to other houses.”

“I agree,” said Daeron. “And we risk less offense should the match remain in the family.”

Baelor paused, swallowing, not quite ready to have that option eliminated in earnest. But he carried on. “Daeron would be an ill match for anyone, the other boys of Maekar’s line are too young, Aelor is to wed Aelora… Matarys is too young…”

“There will be a bounty of Dornish lords with us in just a few days.” Daeron proposed.

“I worry that matching us further to Dorne may risk alienating other houses.”

“Ah yes” Daeron agreed loftily.  “The houses that we don’t have time to arrange a match with.” 

"Yes,” Baelor nodded seriously, seeming to ignore his father’s flippancy. 

“Besides,” Daeron muttered to himself, “at two and twenty she’s a bit older than these lords would like for their sons.” Baelor tilted his head only slightly, his jaw ticked as though Daeron said it as a slight.

“Did we rule out Daeron too quickly?” his father mused.

“—He wouldn’t be able to protect her from Aerion, and we’re back at square one,” Baelor interjected, almost short.“The whole purpose of this is to put an end to it. If we leave her to the same torment, then we've accomplished nothing.” 

The look in his eyes was piercing as his chest rose and fell in frustration. Daeron tilted his head, once again careening through time. He’d seen that look before, long ago. Righteous fury, intense devotion, the need to protect no matter the cost.

He considered for a moment. Then, watching for his son’s reaction, he posited, “Maekar could remarry.”

“He won’t.” Baelor’s answer came much too quickly.

Daeron’s eyes sharpened infinitesimally. “Matching her to Maekar would certainly protect her from Aerion. The boy wouldn't dare then.”

“He practically raised her, along with his four sons,” Baelor said at once, the words clipped now. “He has no need to wed again.”

“Need rarely governs these things.”

“He and Dyanna were a love match.” There was a surprising force behind the statement. “He mourns her still.”

Only after the words left him did Baelor realize how tightly strung his voice had become. Strain or no, he knew he was right in this. Though Maekar was the brother farthest in age, they were closest in heart. Baelor knew the workings of his brother's soul, in this moment, perhaps better than he knew his own.

Daeron regarded him quietly then with a keen eye. “And what of you, Baelor?”

Baelor looked away from the gaze that saw too much, saw what he was not ready to confront.

“Were you and Jena a love match?”

Baelor swallowed. The mention of Jena caught him off guard “You know we weren’t.” He glanced back at his father, faintly bewildered by the turn in conversation. “I was happy to do my duty for the realm though our union, and she blessed me with my sons—”

"Two sons,” Daeron corrected mildly.

"Yes,” Baelor replied, irritation creeping faintly into his voice now. “Two healthy, dutiful sons. What are you getting at?”

Daeron held his gaze steadily. “Do you want to know what I think, Baelor?”

Baelor looked down once in shame and back up again.  

He was now fixed with an even steelier gaze. “I think you came here, mind made up, hoping I’d talk you out of it,” Daeron said quietly. “Instead I’ve done you the inconvenience of agreeing with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re next in line for the throne, my boy, unmarried.” Daeron said, almost chiding. “Ascending with a Targaryen queen would strengthen us against the Blackfyres without alienating others. A young wife like Saerys? All the better. She can give you more heirs, strengthening your line.”

“She will not bring alliances or coin.”

"Nor does she need to." Daeron's voice softened slightly. "The crown will require you to wed again.” He paused. "I imagined we'd spend months weighing daughters and alliances and grievances. Instead we find ourselves discussing a woman whose character you already know." His gaze remained fixed upon Baelor. "There are worse foundations for a marriage."

Baelor swallowed thickly and strode over to the window. He braced himself against the ledge, his shoulders creeping up towards his ears. He didn’t want eyes on him for this. 

He let out a controlled sigh and grit out the words as if they pained him. “She came to me because she trusted me. What kind of man would I be if I took advantage of that?”

Daeron walked over to his son. “She asked you to find her another match, did she not?”

Baelor looked down at his hands, the very hands Saerys had held as she wept and pleaded with him. He then repeated her words haltingly, words that he’d since committed to memory, "She said ‘I’ll do anything, marry anyone else, any house. I just ask that he might be good and kind’.” 

Baelor pressed his eyes shut at the recollection. His shoulders tensed once more. Were he a weaker man, he might have yielded to the certainty that had seized him beside the hearth.

Daeron squeezed his shoulder. “She asked that he might be good and kind… and you’re the most honorable man she knows” 

“Good, kind and honorable men don’t marry their nieces,” Baelor practically spat through gritted teeth.

Daeron breathed out slowly, giving voice to the truth he’d long fought. “We aren’t simply men, we’re Targaryens.”

In a lower tone he said “I wed you all to great houses to strengthen our esteem and ties in the realm after a perilous time, and I certainly believe that uniting with Dorne gave us strength. I love your Mother, after I met her I would have no other. But the only reason we were matched was for the sake of the realm. He heaved a heavy sigh then "For the sake of the realm, you are not the first Targaryen to wed his sibling’s offspring, nor will you be the last,” he said, as if offering a benediction.

Baelor wanted to shake his head, not yet willing to give voice to his actual torment. For he wasn’t conflicted about marrying Saerys. The true torment lay in discovering how little of him wished to resist it.

Finally, he nodded in an almost resigned agreement “As is your will, Father.” 

“We’ll go with that then. I trust you’ll inform all involved, we’ll meet on the morrow.” 

Baelor left his father’s chambers then.

For the sake of the realm. At least that’s what he’d tell himself. 

Daeron returned to his bedchambers, braced already for the conversation he was about to have with his wife.

They had done so well, improved so much from his father's dissolute court. They had forged a true loving partnership from an arranged marriage to unite the realm. They had brought four magnificent sons into the world and saw them each married to worthy women of noble houses. They were forging a new path ahead—or they had been, before the Blackfyres rose up. Somehow the past always found its way back into their halls.

Daeron knew not why the realm seemed to demand dragon’s blood upon dragon’s blood for stability, but try as he might, he felt it to be true. Even if that truth ultimately had little to do with the necessity of this match. 

Myriah looked up from her book smiling as Daeron entered. “What kept you?”

“Baelor came by, had a pressing matter.”

“Nothing too alarming, I hope?”

Daeron smiled with a tilt of his head. “Baelor will be taking a second wife.”

Myriah put her book down fully at that. “Oh?” she said with a quirk of her brow. “I wasn’t aware that we had found a second match for him.”

There it was. Daeron knew his wife well enough to feel the storm brewing.

“Unless he found a match of his own?” she added, her voice a touch lower. “Pray tell, who’s the lucky lady?”

Daeron felt his shoulders sag, already admitting defeat. “Saerys.” 

“What?!” Myriah cast the bed covers off, intent on having it out with him on her own two feet.“Why?” she hurled at him. “Daeron, I thought we were doing things differently!” 

He sighed, resigned. “Saerys went to him.” 

“Why would she do such a thing?”

“Maekar planned to petition me to wed her to Aerion.” He sighed again. “And I probably would have said yes.” Myriah merely shook her head. Daeron continued. “Saerys asked Baelor to intervene, to find her someone else.”

“So why didn’t he?”

“I think he meant to.” Daeron looked out to the sea below. “She went to Baelor because she trusted him above all others and asked that he might find her someone good and kind. Baelor came to me seeking another answer." Daeron scoffed out a laugh. "The trouble was that every option placed before him seemed to displease him more than the last."

“I’m having trouble believing that Baelor would choose this for her, for himself.”

“You didn’t see him.” He met her gaze. "I have only seen that look upon a man's face once before." The words seemed to pull him backward through the years. "When the Dragonknight stepped onto the field to defend my mother."

He could still remember it if he allowed himself. A man who had been leashed by restraint, finally able to channel his true feelings. A man who had already counted the cost and ceased to care what it might be.

Daeron let out a slow breath. "It is not a look I have ever forgotten."

Myriah sighed and shook her head, though this time not in complete disapproval.

"It is always the same story," Daeron said quietly, turning toward the dragon tapestry upon the wall before them. "A marriage made for necessity. A heart placed elsewhere. Then years spent paying the price." His gaze lingered upon the stitched dragons winding through black and red thread.

“Surely you don’t think denying this would cause a schism?” 

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Daeron shook his head. “It’s not what they do, it’s what comes from the aftermath." He heaved a heavy sigh. “If Aegon only weds Rhaenys as was his desire, we don’t have the terror Maegor wrought. If Daemon is Rhaenyra’s first and only marriage, perhaps we avoid the dance entirely." He let out another deep sigh, letting it deflate him.

"If Aemon and my mother…” He broke off then started again. “I don’t want to imagine what I might risk, what ripples out from this if I stand in the way.” 

“What does Saerys think of the match?” Myriah questioned.

“She doesn’t know yet”

She almost advanced on him again “Daeron—”

“Baelor and I only just settled the matter. She’ll be told on the morrow.”

“How do you think she’ll take it?”

“I’m not sure. She was opposed to Aerion not for his blood but for his cruelty. She has nothing to fear from a man like Baelor.” Daeron paced away and began to ready for bed.

“She asked for someone good and kind,” Daeron murmured.“And I think Baelor heard it as though the Seven themselves had placed her in his keeping.”

Myriah was quiet for a long moment. “A handsome prince coming to her rescue,” she said at last, faint amusement threaded through her voice.

Sadly, this wasn’t the first Aerion related quandary he’d been involved in and he doubted it’d be the last. Dread coiled in his stomach just the same. 

He swallowed roughly, as if what he was about to say already disagreed with him before he spoke. “Marriage changes the shape of a man’s predilections" he said carefully, but the words sounded weak even to himself. “Some men are improved by the responsibility. I know Maekar was.”

Saerys looked away and sucked in her cheeks as if she had been forced to bite down bitter medicine.With a rare disdain she replied, “Some men. She forced out a laugh with such venom that Baelor almost flinched. “But this is Aerion.”

She reached for one of Baelor’s hands, imploring. “You see what he is, and that is only what he’s willing to expose around court. Summerhall has been a torment ever since I reached my majority.” She paused and took in a wavering breath.“I don’t have to imagine the terror he’ll inflict once I’m his property.”

Baelor’s jaw ticked at how Saerys referred to herself, “You’re a princess of the blood, you’ll never be any man’s property—”

“—And he is a prince of the blood and I’ll be his to torment as he pleases.” Saerys choked out a sob. She felt her desperation rising the more her thoughts swirled about the torture Aerion inflict upon her once under his control. 

Baelor, imagining it too, squeezed his eyes shut. Though ever pragmatic, he hated thinking the worst of his family.“ Maekar denied your request I take it?”

Saerys shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I didn’t go to him,” she whispered ,holding his gaze. I chose you. “Maekar has inured himself to Aerion’s true nature. I think on some level he knows but he doesn’t let himself see.”

Saerys rose from the chair and sank to her knees before him taking both of his hands.“Please, Uncle, I came to you because you’re the most honorable man I know.” Her voice broke. “I’ll do anything, marry anyone else, any house any relation, I just ask that he might be good and kind, please”

Saerys pressed her head against her hands that held his and heaved another sob. “Please, Your Grace” she whispered, giving herself over to tears.

Something in him shattered seeing her on her knees before him.

Wrong. Why haven’t you already given her what she asked?

Baelor loosed his hands and leaned forward, kneeling on the ground before her. He wrapped her in his embrace, rubbing a soothing hand down her back.

The words "good” and “kind” echoed through his thoughts.

As he looked into the fire there were plans, matches, alliances, all reforming in his head. Each heaving breath from Saerys further cemented his plan of action.

Finally he nodded with a sigh, bringing his hand to cup the back of her head. “Sweet girl, I will take care of it.” 

Saerys drew back and stared at him, almost disbelieving, “Truly?” 

“I promise.” Baelor brought his hand to her cheek to wipe away her tears. “I’ll go to the king directly.” He stood bringing her with him, but as he stepped away she held on to one of his hands.

“Uncle,” she said, her voice hollow. “I’ll be forever in your debt.”

He brought his other hand to hers and drew it up towards his mouth for a fleeting kiss. “You owe me nothing Saerys.” He then led her from the room into the hall.

“Ser Roland,” he called to the knight posted outside. “Please see the Princess back to her rooms, I should like you to guard her door this evening,“

“Of course, Your Grace, and for your rooms?” 

“Any other will do, I suspect I will have a late night” 

“Uncle,” Saerys called before she was escorted away. “I’ll never forget this.”

Baelor only nodded as he watched her figure retreat down the hall. Neither would he. He only hoped he and she both could both forgive him come morning.

As Baelor walked towards his father’s chambers, he pondered the family line and wracked his brain for houses with eligible sons, for a mental exercise if nothing else.

“Is he awake?” Baelor asked Ser Corbray once outside the door to the King’s solar.

“Come in, son,” Daeron called from inside. Baelor found him pouring over a familiar report. One look at Baelor’s face informed him that this would not be a casual conversation between father and son. “It better be a pressing matter if we’re getting started this late.”

Baelor tilted his head in deference before clarifying, "It’s a family matter.”

“What’s Aerion done now?” Daeron scoffed.

Baelor sighed as he tilted his head and admitted haltingly, “It’s not not an Aerion problem”

“Oh it’s a problem now? Seven Hells,” Daeron bit off before muttering under his breath.

“Before Aerys passed, it would seem he and Maekar were playing at matchmaking down south. They settled on Saerys for Aerion.” Baelor met Daeron’s gaze with a thinly veiled disdain.“Maekar means to bring the match before you tomorrow.” He swallowed roughly before continuing, “Saerys came to me tonight weeping, and begged me to wed her to anyone else.”

He took in a heavy breath. “The way she came to me...” he said, his eyes faraway now. Memories flashed before him, the threadiness of her voice as she pleaded, the way she looked at him, beseeching. He swallowed down what might’ve been bile before he reached the heart of his request. “I can not allow her to wed that boy.”

Daeron tilted his head then, keen. “Rather peculiar that she brought her petition to you, rather than myself or Maekar” 

Baelor mused on this a moment before answering, curious that this caught his father’s attention first. “I don’t think Saerys believed Maekar would be of any help.” He closed his eyes and uttered the next few words as if they were very precious to him. “She told me that she came to me because I’m the most honorable man she knows”

For a moment the room fell quiet as Daeron studied his son.

Curious, he thought. Of everything that had passed between them that evening, that was the detail Baelor seemed least willing to release. The king filed the observation away.

”Maekar’s been turning a blind eye to that boy for far too long.” he said wearily instead. “My namesake’s wastrel ways cause most of his ire while Aerion is merely an annoyance—”

“And so the worst of Aerion infects everyone around him,” Baelor finished. 

So often were he and his father of like minds, Baelor thought, though his stomach began to sink. This was perhaps the only time he had ever wanted his father to disagree with him, to persuade him otherwise. 

“I was mulling it over on my way to you,” Baelor continued. “If you approve it on the morrow, they’ll expect to announce it during the festivities a sennight from now. If we draw this out they may force the issue. It may be difficult to make overtures to other houses.”

“I agree,” said Daeron. “We risk less offense should the match remain in the family.”

Baelor paused, swallowing, not quite ready to have that option eliminated in earnest. But he carried on. “Daeron would be an ill match for anyone, the other boys of Maekar’s line are too young, Aelor is to wed Aelora… Matarys is too young…”

“There will be a bounty of Dornish lords with us in just a few days,” Daeron proposed.

“—I worry that matching us further to Dorne may risk alienating other houses”

 “—Ah yes” Daeron agreed, loftily.  “The houses that we don’t have time to arrange a match with.” 

“Yes,” Baelor nodded seriously, willfully or no, ignoring his father’s flippancy. 

“Besides,” Daeron mutters to himself, “At two and twenty, she’s a bit older than these lords would like for their sons.” Baelor tilted his head only slightly, his jaw ticked as though Daeron said it as a slight.

“Did we rule out Daeron too quickly?” his father mused.

“ —He wouldn’t be able to protect her from Aerion, and we’re back at square one.” Baelor interjected, almost short. “The whole purpose of this is to put an end to it. If we leave her to the same torment, then we’ve accomplished nothing.” The look in his eyes was piercing, as his chest rose and fell in frustration.

Daeron tilted his head. He’d seen that look before, long ago. Righteous fury, intense devotion, the need to protect no matter the cost.

He considered for a moment. Then, watching for his son’s reaction, he posited, “Maekar could remarry.”

“He won’t.” Baelor’s answer came much too quickly.

Daeron’s eyes sharpened infinitesimally. “Matching her to Maekar would certainly protect her from Aerion. The boy wouldn't dare, then”

“He practically raised her, along with his four sons,” Baelor said at once, the words clipped now. “He has no need to wed again”

“Need rarely governs these things.”

“He and Dyanna were a love match.” There was a surprising force behind the statement. “He mourns her still.”

Only after the words left him did Baelor realize how tightly strung his voice had become. Strain or no, he knew he was right in this. Though Maekar was the brother farthest in age, they were closest in heart. He knew the workings of his brother’s soul, in this moment, perhaps better than he knew his own.

Daeron regarded him quietly then, “And what of you, Baelor?” 

Baelor looked away from the gaze that saw too much, saw what he was not ready to confront.

“Were you and Jena a love match?”

Baelor swallowed. The mention of Jena caught him off guard. “You know we weren’t.” He glanced back at his father, faintly bewildered by the turn in conversation. “I was happy to do my duty for the realm though our union, and she blessed me with my sons—”

”Two sons,” Daeron corrected mildly.

“Yes,” Baelor replied, irritation creeping faintly into his voice now. “Two healthy, dutiful sons. What are you getting at?”

Daeron held his gaze steadily. “Do you want to know what I think, Baelor?”

Baelor looked down once in shame and back up again  

He was now fixed with an even steelier gaze. “I think you came here, mind made up, hoping I’d talk you out of it,” Daeron said quietly. “Instead I’ve done you the inconvenience of agreeing with you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re next in line for the throne, my boy, unmarried,” Daeron said almost chiding. “Ascending with a Targaryen queen would strengthen us against the Blackfyres without alienating others. A young wife like Saerys? All the better. She can give you more heirs, strengthening your line.”

“She will not bring alliances or coin.”

"Nor does she need to.” Daeron's voice softened slightly. "The crown will require you to wed again." He paused. "I imagined we'd spend months weighing daughters and alliances and grievances. Instead we find ourselves discussing a woman whose character you already know."

His gaze remained fixed upon Baelor. "There are worse foundations for a marriage."

Baelor swallowed thickly and strode over to the window. He braced himself against the ledge, his shoulders creeping up towards his ears. He didn’t want eyes on him for this. 

He let out a controlled sigh and grit out the words as if they pained him, “She came to me because she trusted me. What kind of man would I be if I took advantage of that?”

Daeron walked over to his son. “She asked you to find her another match, did she not?”

Baelor looked down at his hands, the very hands Saerys had held as she wept and pleaded with him. He then repeated her words haltingly, words that he’d since committed to memory, “She said ‘I’ll do anything, marry anyone else, any house any relation, I just ask that he might be good and kind’.” 

Baelor pressed his eyes shut at the recollection. His shoulders tensed once more. Were he a weaker man, he might have yielded immediately to the certainty that had seized him beside the hearth.

Daeron squeezed his shoulder. “She asked that he might be good and kind… and you’re the most honorable man she knows.” 

“Good, kind and honorable men don’t marry their nieces,” Baelor practically spat through gritted teeth.

Daeron breathed out slowly, weighing giving voice to a truth he’d long fought. “We aren’t simply men, we are Targaryens.”

In a lower tone he said, “I wed you all to great houses to strengthen our esteem and ties in the realm after a perilous time, and I certainly believe that bringing Dorne into the fold gave us strength. I love your Mother, after I met her I would have no other. But the only reason we were matched was for the sake of the realm." Daeron looked out towards the sea churning below "For the sake of the realm, you would not be the first Targaryen to wed his sibling’s offspring, nor will you be the last” he said, as if offering a benediction.

Baelor wanted to shake his head, not yet willing to give voice to his actual torment. For he wasn’t conflicted about marrying Saerys. The true torment lay in discovering how little of him wished to resist it.

Finally, he nodded in an almost resigned agreement. “As is your will, Father.” 

“We’ll go with that then. I trust you’ll inform all involved, we’ll meet on the morrow.” 

Baelor left his father’s chambers then.