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heyy just finished reader matters of war and peace of baelor targaryen x reader, i loved it soooooo much and a lil bummed that it's over, i have a request that can you write about their lift after the ending, like in one shorts form can be read as stand alone, abt daily life, maybe pregnancy, maybe having their 1st daughter that is really targaryen looking with resemblance of her mother, maybe valar also being a father, the family dynamics, maybe maekar also soften ups to reader and etc etc
please please please, this is an humble request
kayyy bye.
Aww~ I'm always so happy to read comments like this. I have to admit I'm also taking a bit of a breather after finishing the story. It was originally supposed to be much shorter, but it completely got away from me, so I'm really glad to hear you enjoyed it so much.
As for the one-shots, I was actually hoping to write a few more extras myself, especially about the children and things like that. I already had a few ideas, actually.
Right now I have a slightly obsessive need to write about Gwayne, but the more I know you're all interested in these kinds of stories, the more motivated I am to organize my ideas and write them, so thank you again for all the interactions and comments, i'll definitely start sketching out something.
Au note: I finally did it.
This final chapter is almost as long as three of my usual ones, so please forgive any mistakes- my brain cells have given it their all. It's the last time I write a monster chapter like this.
That said, I'm sorry about all the time skips, but I needed them to focus on their relationship over a long period of time, i hope it doesn't feel boring.
I'm already planning more akotsk and hotd ff, and I hope you'll stick around and keep following my work.
Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought after making you wait for so long. Thank you again for all your support and for taking the time to read this, reading your comments has been such a joy <3
You had been taught your whole life that the gods never abandon you.
You could lose your way, you could lose your faith, you could stray from their teachings-you could make mistakes. It was human. But the gods are perfect in their imperfections, and they’re always there watching over all of you. They were everywhere, in the earth, in the water, in the air, and in the fire. When you were little, you believed that a demigod slept beneath House Stark and kept the walls of the castle warm against the cold. Part of you perhaps still believed it.
It was hard to accept the idea of going south, where people whispered that the power of the Old Gods had faded, but if they were immortal, how could their power have been defeated? To admit it meant admitting the existence of other gods, and by heresy, a force greater than theirs that had driven them away. There were still believers like you throughout the rest of the south, but you were about to marry the future King of Westeros, and you doubted it would be taken as lightly that the queen prayed to other gods... especially if you married and were crowned under the law of the Seven.
You didn’t want to abandon your faith, but you believed they would abandon you after all these betrayals. You were trying to pull yourself out of that spiral of self-pity you had fallen into weeks earlier after you had been attacked. You wanted to see a new, brighter light. You had slept well the night before-after all, with the news of the marriage and the anxiety of your departure, there had been little room left for trauma and scars…but you hadn’t thought it would all slip away so quickly.
Kneeling before the roots of the weirwood, you had prayed for a while- for your family, the friends you were leaving behind and could not say goodbye to, for your home. You had also visited your mother's grave, leaving a quick kiss upon the headstone, because she never would have wanted to see you clinging to her grave, crying your soul out at her feet. All things considered, you were holding up well. You felt light and heavy at the same time, walking a fine balance between the two. You only wondered how long it would take before remorse- or worse- caught up with you.
Because you knew it would happen.
It was impossible to avoid.
"My lady."
The voice of a servant made you turn, and your breath caught in your throat. The man carried a large chair in his hands. Behind him, two knights each supported one of your father's arms as he limped through the snow with his head held high, a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders, his old clothes hanging loosely from his thinner, sickly frame- a ghost of the man who had once marched proudly at the head of his army.
"Father!" You stood, ready to scold everyone, him included, but you didn’t have the courage to open your mouth once the chair was wedged into the ground beside you. The stern look he gave you stole your breath away. After all, it was strange to see him outside after spending so long bedridden. He allowed himself to be lowered into the chair before the three men stepped away again. You could see them standing farther off among the trees, far enough to give you privacy to speak, yet still at a safe enough distance to intervene if anything happened.
"There was no need. I would have come to say goodbye before leaving," you murmured at last after swallowing back more complaints. You saw him open his mouth, but only a heavy cough came out before he was forced to reach into his pocket for a sheet of parchment and a quill.
"Seriously? How do you think you're going to write out here?"
But stubborn as ever, he rested the parchment across his legs and showed you the small dark ink bottle he kept tucked in his pocket.
"Wow. You really came prepared, huh?"
You hadn’t meant it mockingly, but the sight made you smile. To think of it, over the years he had written in worse situations than this. He always bragged that he could write while riding a horse. You had never believed him of course, but he was certainly displaying some strange skill now.
He wrote a few words before holding them out for you to read, and you stepped closer so he would not have to keep moving his wrist back and forth.
"You didn't come talk to me about the marriage."
It came naturally to read the words with his voice in your head, as though its ghost echoed through the branches overhead. A sting behind your eyes made you think about how you were about to leave behind every familiar place where you could still remember the sound of his laughter or the thunder of his shouts, but you swallowed it down. You didn’t want this conversation to turn bitter for either of you.
"I talked about it with Baelor. I accepted- but you know that. Sigfrid told me he came to see you." You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away from the hands trembling violently despite his efforts to keep them still upon his leg.
"It's a good match. We'll fix things. Or at least we'll try."
He shook his head, wrote again, and you leaned over his shoulder once more to read.
"Are you happy?"
You could not keep your gaze steady and turned toward the tree to hide the shadow of a tear.
"About what? Leaving home? Leaving the North? Never seeing my brother again or- or you?" The implication of his death hung heavily between you, an hourglass nearing its end, its sand slipping away relentlessly before your eyes. "Of course I'm not happy."
The man sighed with his usual heaviness, but he didn’t have enough breath left in his body, and another fit of coughing overtook him. Then another line of ink.
"Do you think he could make you happy?"
You shrugged. What made you happy anyway? All that came to mind were memories, nostalgia. Looking beyond them, toward the uncertain future, nothing seemed hopeful. You had become fixated on what was familiar. Just as you had tried to avoid every change in the North, you certainly could not continue your old routine in a new home with a new family.
"I think... things will be better with him. I want to believe the gods are by his side. He has every quality." The snort you received in response was more than clear enough, he knew you were avoiding the question.
"I don't know, okay? He's... nice," you murmured, embarrassed by the last word.
"I like talking to him. And... I'm glad I'll be there to witness his coronation. I want to know what's going through his mind. What he'll do-" another look from him made you falter, stumbling over your words.
"I don't know. I think... we'll be fine. He's a good father. And he was a good husband… from what I know." You shifted uncomfortably at speaking about something so intimate with him, but you understood he was trying to reassure himself after signing that document.
"It has to mean something, doesn't it? That I'm not afraid of the crown when I imagine myself beside him. We'll make it work."
It was a meager answer, nothing certain, but he seemed satisfied to hear you say it.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, almost hoping he had not heard you, your gaze lost among the grooves of the bark.
"For leaving. I said goodbye to mom and-" you rubbed your eyes, pretending they were irritated by some invisible enemy, the shadow of tears creeping closer on the horizon with relentless certainty. "I wish I could have... stayed until the end."
You heard the sharp tip of the quill scratch across the parchment before you turned to read.
"Who says I'll die soon? You're bringing me bad luck."
You let out a snort of laughter, raising your hands. "My mistake. I'm sure you'll keep tormenting Sigfrid for quite a while yet."
You nudged a freshly fallen leaf with your foot before sitting back in the snow beside his chair. You didn’t even care about getting wet. You were grateful for this moment of peace. The truth lay dormant at your feet, impossible to ignore. You knew perfectly well how much his condition was worsening. He wasn’t happy spending his days confined to his room, yet he had made this effort to be with you during such a tense moment. After all, he still carried a terrible sense of guilt for what had happened to his wife.
He wrote a few more words, dipping the nib inside his pocket as he tried to get more ink. How he had not spilled the entire bottle over himself yet remained a mystery.
But as you turned to read, the smile faded from your lips. You had to read the same words several times because the trembling in his hands was worsening, a combination of physical strain and cold.
"Walk with your head held high out there. You are a great lady of the North. Your mother would've been proud."
You had to hide your face to wipe your eyes before they betrayed you.
"I know." The tremor in the voice was impossible to hide.
He wrote again.
"It will be difficult here without you taking care of everyone. But your brother will have to come to terms with it if he wants to become a good father. I'll keep scolding him for as long as I can, so don't look back."
You sniffled before swallowing hard.
"You make it sound easy. You're all I've ever had. I don't know what the hell Baelor told you to convince you, but if it's true that you did this of your own free will, then what can I even say? He must have tricked you with words the same way he tricked me."
You tried to make it sound like a joke, but curiosity was eating away at you. You could not even picture the two of them having a conversation, and the cryptic reply he wrote immediately afterward did not help.
"Men's business."
Whatever that was supposed to mean.
He squeezed your shoulder when you let out an irritated huff, but you didn't press him. If there was one thing the Lord of the North excelled at, it was becoming a wall of silence whenever he wished. That touch would be the key to interpreting everything else, regardless of whether the real answer was truly hidden there or not.
"I love you. Be strong. Winter comes even to the south."
Oh, the irony of those trembling letters.
"May I have it?" You pointed to the parchment. "It's not every day that I get written proof of your affection."
The irony seeped through your body as much as your tone, but its root was far more sincere and profound than you would ever admit. He didn't smile, nor did he take the remark as a joke. He was not about to let you get away with it so easily.
"Only if you burn it on your wedding day."
He held it out to you as though it were the symbol of a contract, almost as if he expected you to sign it.
"What? You're taking me way too seriously. It was a joke, okay?"
You stopped yourself before saying anything else as another coughing fit seized the man's lungs, a harsh, relentless dry sound that made the chair itself tremble. Yet he kept writing.
"Promise me. Take it and burn it. I let you keep the mare. Now you have to do this for me."
He didn’t even bother handing it to you, tossing the parchment between your legs instead, the quill shoved roughly back into his pocket. The matter was closed.
It was a low hit to bring up the horse at a time like this, but you understood what he meant, and the ache it stirred in your chest was enough to make you stop fighting.
You rose from the ground before leaning toward him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your cheek resting against the top of his head, covered by only a few strands of graying hair.
You knew that if you said anything, you would simply burst into tears, so you kept your teeth sunk into your lip, breathing out through your nose as the man's arm tightened around your waist in that bitter embrace.
"I love you too, Dad."
Those were the last words you spoke to him as a few tears fell into the tangle of his hair. Your bodies tightened in a firmer embrace before, then, you stepped back.
You didn’t look each other in the eyes again. You were both too stubborn and too proud to let the other see you like that. You would keep one last good memory.
The image of a Lord of the North resting before a weirwood, not that of a father saying goodbye to his daughter for the last time with tear-reddened eyes.
You were not surprised to find Sigfrid waiting for you at the entrance. He seemed lost in thought, but his shoulders were less tense.
A good sign.
The parchment you slipped beneath your coat did not escape his notice, but he ignored it, simply motioning for you to follow him.
"Everything's ready. You just... have to go. Reinmod will take care of the mare along the way."
You gave a low grunt in response while your footsteps, muffled by the carpet, filled the silence.
"You shouldn't have let him get up. I would've gone upstairs."
You rounded a corner, passing a few servants, before Sigfrid grabbed you by the inside of your elbow and gently guided you into a dark alcove.
"He asked me to do it. I wouldn't have stopped him even if I'd wanted to."
You sighed before shrugging.
"All right. I don't want to argue about it- I just... be careful. The dragon is still out there. And you're going to have a child soon, and-"
He waved his hands in the air before gesturing for you to be quiet.
"I know. I know. I know."
His hands gripped your shoulders, gently shaking you. He looked you up and down as though trying to imprint you into the back of his mind.
"You have to stop doing this. I'll wake up. I think I've already proven that to you. At least partly."
He glanced upward as though searching for the answer carved into stone. His thumbs pressed lightly into your muscles before he took a step back. Every small movement was accompanied by the nervousness of a farewell he struggled to voice, and you were no different.
"I'll be fine. I was just thinking... when we hold the next council, and I'll get to throw it in those dogs' faces that you're marrying Baelor Targaryen himself? It's a shame you won't get to see the looks on their faces. It'll be a glorious day."
You couldn't help laughing along with him as you leaned against the wall.
"Wow. Very mature of you."
And in truth, he was handling it well. He had swallowed the bitter pill, and instead of shouting, he had stepped back and chosen to joke about it. Much better than the bursts of anger he tended to fling around in scattered pieces.
"Listen. We'll probably see each other again soon. I don't think I'll make it to the wedding, but maybe I'll be there for the coronation. And I'll definitely let you know once we've sorted this mess out. If you don't like it there or want to leave, all you have to do is send a letter, and I'll come armed to the teeth-"
This time, it was you who stopped him.
"That won't be necessary. The whole point of this is to keep you from running around like a loose blade, so trust me, if I need help, I'll ask my husband first."
The playful remark served only to annoy him a little and keep the mood light, which worked perfectly because he puffed out his cheeks with an exaggerated huff like a child.
"I don't like that."
You finally stepped out of the corner, taking the man by the arm as the two of you resumed walking.
"That's not what you said a few days ago," you reminded him teasingly.
He huffed even louder.
"I meant as king, not as a son-in-law. You know what? I take it all back. I don't like him."
You squeezed his arm, laughing more freely. Sigfrid wouldn't have been the same without these little outbursts. You felt sorry for the poor woman who would soon be raising a child under his roof, but it would be a formative experience for both of them.
"Don't drive Lucy crazy. She's about to have one baby. She doesn't need two."
You had barely stepped through the doors when you spotted the woman speaking with Prince Valarr. Sigfrid stopped you before you could catch the Targaryens' attention, one last moment before letting you go into someone else's arms.
"Please. Just... talk to him. Or- I don't know. I'm not good at this. I'm just saying... if you need anything, don't hesitate to talk to your husband. Or Reinmod. Make some friends. Find something to do besides worrying about everyone else. The realm already has heirs. Worry about being happy."
Each word sank deeper than the last. Even the parchment covered in your father's handwriting burned safely inside your pocket. You weren't going to start crying again, so you simply nodded before kissing his bearded cheek.
"Be strong. We'll see each other again soon."
You didn't have the courage to lie to him. You couldn't promise that you would succeed, nor that it would be easy to try anytime soon. But you would hear from each other again, and you hoped to give him good news.
The carriages were ready to depart. You paused to bid farewell to the others who had served your family, and finally to Lucy, whose face was red from poorly hidden tears. She pulled you into a tight embrace, assuring that you would soon receive a letter from her, along with a small portrait of your nephew once he or her was born.
"Keep him in line. You have my blessing," you murmured as the two of you watched the man exchange a few words with Baelor, who nodded repeatedly as though listening to a list of orders… which you suspected Sigfrid was indeed giving him.
There was one final round of farewells and promises.
Maekar rode on horseback with his sons close behind, more than happy to be leaving that constant cold. The weather was mild, and everyone hoped you would at least be able to make some progress without too much trouble.
One of the white-cloaked guards opened the carriage door for you and offered his hand to get inside. You accepted more out of courtesy than necessity, settling into the soft seat with a sigh that burned with bitter resignation.
Baelor stopped in front of the open door with a faint smile. He could see the turmoil on your face from a mile away.
"Would you like me to keep you company?" he asked softly once the knight had stepped away.
Your voice came out weak, unable to maintain the composure you had clung to until then. "I... I'd like to be alone for a while."
He nodded, offering a hand that you took with trembling fingers. He pressed a light kiss to your knuckles before stepping back.
"We'll pass through the crowd, then take the first road toward King's Landing. If you need anything, knock on the window. The coachman will hear it."
The door was gently closed, leaving you alone in the small space.
Through the rear window, you saw Reinmod mounted on your mare, giving a small nod before riding alongside the other knights. At last, the carriage wheels began to turn, pulled forward by the horses.
You leaned over the long seats to wave one final time to Sigfrid and Lucilla, who returned the gesture alongside the other familiar faces.
The moment you passed through the great gates of Winterfell, when the two of them were too far away to see them clearly, you leaned toward the side windows.
A long line had been arranged down the center of the road to let the procession pass. Yours was the last carriage, flanked at the rear by two soldiers in black armor.
Even with the sounds muffled, the crowd stretched out their arms, shouting your name, It wasn't as though all of this had truly been organized, but you imagined someone had simply ordered everyone to behave while your procession passed.
No one crossed the invisible barrier that had been raised to allow the long line of carriages through, yet it took only a second for you to lean out before the cheers erupted.
Well wishes and farewells blended into the voices of adults and children, the elderly and the young, all scrambling over one another just to make sure you saw them waving, and that you waved back.
All you could do was keep doing it through the window, murmuring words of thanks you hoped they could read on your lips, where the pain of goodbye mingled with the pride you felt at such a reaction from your people.
The seed you had planted months earlier, when you had desperately written letters in your father's name, was finally taking root, showing the first signs of a future that was a little less dark.
It was fragile, vulnerable to every storm, but it was alive.
And that was all you had wanted from the very beginning.
When you left the city behind, passing the sparse fields that were nonetheless still filled with people waving and calling out their good wishes, and once the ground grew rougher and the trees began to surround you, you let yourself sink back into the seat.
You looked over your shoulder one last time as the towers of your home faded into the mist.
Reaching forward to untie the curtains that gave you a measure of privacy, once the carriage was dimly lit, you ran your hands over your face, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees as you took deep breaths.
Everything was going just as you had hoped.
You thought that, at last, everything was finally falling into place. Every move, every word was another step of the peace you could now rebuild beside a man who seemed blessed by the gods-or, if not by them, then surely by outrageous luck.
It would work.
You would make it work.
And everyone would benefit from it.
Yet, hidden there in the darkness, you clutched the parchment covered in your father's handwriting to your chest and burst into tears like a child.
How do you defeat an invisible enemy?
You had no answer to a question like that.
You were not a warrior, nor a knight, nor a king even though you were about to marry one, and even though you had survived more than one battle in your life, as well as the infection that followed the stab wound, you certainly had no idea what to do with a plague. The family never made it home. They said the streets were covered with corpses. An emergency plan had been put into motion, bringing the Targaryen to take shelter in Maekar's residence, a castle in the Dornish Marches called Summerhall.
If, for a brief moment, the land had granted you peace, it had soon begun to tremble beneath your feet again, harder than ever before, throwing the royal family into turmoil. Maekar was the most anxious of them all, with two sons still unaccounted for- one of whom was somewhere unknown with a hedge knight. Several members of House Targaryen were scattered across dangerous regions, and on top of that, the king was already advanced in age, making the threat of his imminent death seem almost inevitable. No one dared say it outright, but people were already speaking as though Baelor held the crown in his hands. Isolated as you all were, with no direct news from home, it felt like a rat trap.
To make matters worse, you found yourself caught between two fires, for you knew very little about the situation in the North, the entire region was practically under quarantine every winter, but an additional epidemic could be the final blow to a land already so vulnerable to illness and hunger. You could do nothing but fear for your father above all else, kneeling beside your bed every night to pray that he would not suffer.
You had imagined how those first days would unfold, but nothing could have prepared for that. Surrounded by a group of men you barely knew, frightened servants- many with families they had no idea were alive or dead and a pandemic with no end in sight.
On your first evening there, you had been given a room, and Baelor had promised he would join you.
He never came.
You had suffered greatly thinking of his closeness in such an intimate moment. You remembered the way he had looked at you when he had checked on you during the journey, the unmistakable traces of tears still visible on your face, the chasm that had once seemed to shrink now appeared to widen again, stretching the bridge between your realities without quite breaking the path that still connected you. After all, in those uncertain days, you had stayed close to one another.
It was difficult to be both an unwanted third wheel and a welcome presence at the same time, and even harder to explain. Valarr and Matarys liked you- the former more openly than the latter. Or rather, Matarys had grown fond of you and was mature enough to understand that his father's marriage was simply something that had to happen, that it would change nothing in their lives except for your presence. But you felt tainted whenever you were near Baelor. Even if the two of you spoke about everything and nothing at all, the glances Matarys threw your way across the table whenever he thought no one was watching hurt far more than any cruel words he could have spoken. He was the youngest among you. He understood the problem, yet more than anyone else he felt trapped within those walls- he, his brother, his father, and his father's new betrothed.
Yes, you had hoped for something better.
And as happy as Valarr was about the match, there was no denying that your constant comparison hung over your heads like a sword. He had been the first to try (without any malice) to call you "stepmother" or to become more formal, hoping to help both of you grow accustomed to how things would be once you returned home. But gods... you were what, two or three years older than he was? Visually, you looked almost the same age, and it made you terribly uncomfortable. Before long, he gave up trying as well, mostly because he himself wasn't particularly good at keeping a stoic expression.
Oddly enough, as unhelpful as Maekar's restless behavior was, at least it filled a palace that otherwise echoed with fear and silence.
For better or worse, you and Baelor proved to have something else in common: you both suffered without showing it, communicating only through long, melancholy glances. Even Reinmod's presence did little to break the monotony, his expression remaining as stoic as ever.
That first night in your chamber, the Targaryen had left you alone. You changed your clothes, bathed, and, uncertain of what the future held, you prayed until dawn broke. For a moment, you even forgot about the intimacy expected of a couple about to be married.
And yet Baelor avoided your presence for days whenever there was even the possibility of being alone together.
How could you have done otherwise? Death's horror was everywhere, and you were all victims of a silent killer.
You almost felt like a servant yourself in that place. To keep yourself occupied, you threw yourself into small tasks, cooking or spent time riding while waiting for news from home. The truth was that, while the North struggled with its own hardships, this pestilence had been growing unnoticed beneath everyone's noses, perhaps since the tournament at Ashford. But how could anyone tell one fever apart from another? Was it the severity of the symptoms? The speed with which it spread? You hadn't the faintest idea, and there was little you could do about it and had to focus on the present and on whatever help you were still capable of giving.
You found yourself at your future husband's side more as a secretary than as a wife. After all, both were not even officially married yet, and the role felt far more familiar, the same one you had filled for years beside your father and your brother. Once the initial chaos settled, a constant stream of letters began arriving, updating you on the condition of the kingdoms. You knew they had written once again to his brothers and to the king, but no reply had come, only heightening the tension. Before long, Maekar decided to leave.
You had not witnessed the argument itself, but you heard every word echoing clearly through the walls. You were in the study, reading reports from several cities- a small responsibility you had allowed yourself to take on without asking Baelor's permission. Reading through the accounts, searched for useful information, and then brought him condensed summaries. It was a meager consolation of a task, really, but he appreciated it, if only because he listened while you read those gruesome reports aloud, softened by your quiet attempts to describe the horrors with gentler words. That evening, however, as you sorted through the letters, Maekar's booming voice shook the doors and windows alike.
You had no desire to meddle in their affairs, but when the sound of shattering glass rang across the floor, it was time to intervene. You could not afford for relations to worsen while all of you were confined within the same stronghold.
A pair of servants stood outside the dining hall, hands clasped together, uncertain whether they should enter. The moment they saw you, they sighed with relief when you told them to retire for the night.
You opened the door to find the two men facing one another from opposite ends of the long table. Leftover food, scattered papers, and spilled wine filled the empty space between them. You had never seen Maekar in such disarray, and he barely acknowledged your presence.
"You can't stop me. My sons are out there, and they haven't answered a single raven! I'll send Aerion to the Free Cities together with Daeron, but I have to go. What does it matter if I die? I need to see it with my own eyes. I need to know what's happening. If our father is dead, you need to know it. It isn't normal that we haven't heard anything from home!"
You remained silent. The shattered goblet lay at his feet, likely knocked over by accident and left to roll onto the floor. At least they had not come to blows.
You could guess what lay at the heart of the dispute. It was far from the first time they had argued about it, but the wine had dulled the younger man's judgment and fed his anger.
"The messengers are probably being restricted to keep the plague from crossing the walls. That's a good sign."
You moved to Baelor's side. His voice remained calm, though the tension betrayed itself in the way his hands clenched at his sides. You wanted to place a comforting hand against his back, but you knew it would have been inappropriate in that moment, so you stayed silent.
"That's nonsense. You don't know that. Maybe they're all dead already!"
He slammed his open palm onto the table, making both flinch.
"I'm tired of repeating myself. I'm leaving. You stay here."
He drank straight from the wine jug before pointing at your figure.
"And you. Keep him here. I already took one risk once. I won't make that mistake again."
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
The silence that followed was long and unbearable.
From the corner of your eye, you watched your future husband release a weary sigh. He braced both hands against the edge of the table as though he might collapse beneath his own weight. You didn’t approach him immediately, knowing it would only make him retreat further into himself. Instead, you picked up one of the embroidered napkins from the table and began gathering the shards of the broken goblet, a finely blown piece of decorated glass that now lay shattered at your feet.
"What are you doing? Get up-"
Baelor seemed to snap out of his daze when he saw your hands handling the sharp fragments. He stepped forward and offered you help, but you ignored it.
"I sent the servants to bed. I think it's best that no one risks crossing paths with Maekar tonight. At least let me clear away the larger pieces."
You set the bundle in the middle of the table, stacking the broken glass neatly together. In the morning you would let someone know, although considering the commotion they had caused, the entire castle probably already knew.
"I'm sorry. For..."
The man sighed again before returning to his place at the head of the table, sinking into the chair with an exhausted thud. You joined him, leaning your hip against the edge of the table and allowing him the silence he seemed to need.
"For not stopping a plague? Come now-even the Prince of Dragons has his limits." You tried to coax a laugh out of him, though with little success. There was precious little either of you could do.
"More for... this. And... whatever is happening inside this house."
You stepped close enough to be within arm's reach. It was the first time the two of you had spoken privately about everything that had been happening. Between one crisis and the next, there had simply been too much to organize and too little room left for conversation.
"Maekar isn't the sort of man who can sit still and wait for things to fix themselves. It didn't take me long to realize that."
You rested one hand on the table beside the abandoned bread basket and the stack of hastily written notes. Breaking off a small piece of the food you absentmindedly nibbled on it.
"He's worried about your family. About his sons. He needs to regain some sense of control. If he remains trapped here, he'll lose his mind."
You certainly weren't trying to lecture anyone, but the isolation was wearing everyone down. Perhaps, strangely enough, allowing Maekar to leave- even dangerous as it was might calm the storm.
"I'm sure of that. But I don't understand why send Daeron and Aerion to Lys now-"
He stopped when he noticed your expression.
"You've read the reports. The Free Cities, Dorne, and several smaller regions seem to have been spared. The journey may be difficult, but the destination is safe."
The Targaryen still looked unconvinced. He slumped sideways, pressing his face into the palm of his hand.
"Because they've closed the roads. He doesn't even know whether they'll be allowed through. It makes no sense."
You pressed your lips together, unsure whether to answer, moving a little closer, you reached for his free hand. He allowed you to take it, gently tightening his own fingers around yours.
"He's thinking about the future. About survival. If we all remain here together, we risk wiping out the Targaryen line in the blink of an eye. Every courier who brings us news could also be carrying the sickness. If even one of us became infected, it would be a tragedy. Separating is the right choice."
The heavy breath that escaped him seemed to drain the last of his strength. He knew you were right. He had probably already thought the very same thing himself. But admitting it- accepting that his loved ones had to be treated like a bloodline that needed preserving was something else entirely.
"Then I should be the one to go. To see what's happening at home-”
You shook your head, ignoring the cold knot of fear twisting in your stomach at the mere thought of letting him leave.
"Don't be foolish. You know why it has to be him."
He released your hand and straightened in his chair, irritation creeping into his expression. You could hardly blame him.
"Precisely because I'm the future king, I should be the one returning home-"
“Baelor.”
You called his name firmly, cutting him off before he could bury himself beneath the weight of his own guilt. It almost felt like scolding a child- not so differently from the way you would reprimand Sigfrid, only with far less drama and shouting.
“A good king knows when to step aside. You have nothing to prove. You need to stay here, where it's safe. And let Maekar take on the task of easing his conscience however he sees fit.”
You lowered your voice until it was almost a whisper, as though sharing a secret, though nothing you were saying was truly shocking. “We both know what's weighing on Maekar. He's trying to help you. You can't stop him.”
He wasn't happy to hear it. He looked ready to flee at any moment, just as he had on other occasions whenever you tried to confront him about those uncertain days.
“I've never blamed him for it. Ashford, I mean. It was an accident—”
“But that's exactly the point.” You cut him off. “You've never blamed him. But he has.”
You shifted until you were sitting on the edge of the table, resting your feet on the chair between the man's legs. “If you'd been angry with him, shouted at him, or thrown him out of the family he probably would've been happier. He would've taken it as punishment. But that's never been the case. And that speaks highly of you- but it also leaves him trapped in limbo. He sinned. And so did his son. Aerion already has his punishment. Maekar doesn't. He needs to go home and take this risk in your place. He nearly cost you your crown once, he won't let you make this choice now. And perhaps the best thing you can do as his older brother is let him choose for himself.”
You let the silence settle over you once more, giving Baelor time to repeat those words to himself a few more times. There was nowhere else to be, after all. You didn't know whether you were behaving like a wife, but at the very least you could manage being a better friend.
“You're right. Of course you are.”
He stood, leaning over you until your foreheads touched.
Your heart fluttered at the closeness. Your mind, worn thin by the absurdity of those days, slipped all too quickly toward thoughts that were far less regal and far more physical, all because of something as light as that gentle touch.
You wouldn't have admitted it, not even to yourself, but even in a situation so absurd, part of you still longed for the intimacy that had been promised to you as his wife.
“I have to admit...” he murmured only a breath away from your face, his hands stretching out against the tabletop, caging you between his arms. “I'm afraid. I want to believe everything is fine back home, and sending Maekar away will only bring more disadvantages.”
You reached up to brush a stray lock of hair that had slipped past the curve of his ear. He still hadn't shaved- too consumed by recent events and, truthfully, you didn't mind.
“Or perhaps tragedy has already struck, and the kingdom is moving forward without a ruler. Or worse, under the guidance of a frightened council acting without knowing where their king is... or whether he's even alive.”
You cradled his face in your hands, stroking him gently. He melted into the touch like a wounded beast, lowering himself until his face disappeared into the curve of your neck. “I thought you were trying to comfort me, not destroy me...” he joked softly, wrapping his arms around your waist. You answered in kind, your own arms circling his neck. Your fingers slipped gently through his hair, slowing whenever they reached the old scar.
“It's a wife's duty to keep her husband's feet on the ground,” you whispered into his ear, barely holding back your amusement. “I know you're afraid. But this stillness is poisoning us in another way.”
You shared a slow breath, lungs filling in unison. Your chests brushed together before rising and falling with the same quiet shiver. The stillness of your hands became a beam of light illuminating your consciences. The unspoken meaning behind your words pressed against the wound in your relationship- a relationship that, for now, felt more like a deep friendship than the union of lovers.
You missed that burning desire you'd felt back home, when he had been just out of reach and the two of you had behaved like lovers. Now that your relationship bore the weight of everything that had happened, neither of you truly made the first move anymore, and part of you couldn't help feeling guilty for it. Before all this tragedy had descended upon you, Baelor had tried to reach out. But between your tears and the sleepless nights that had returned in scattered waves, he had stepped back, respecting your space.
It was a noble gesture.
But it had also left you both stranded in an awkward stalemate.
How could you ask him for affection? For intimacy? When the world outside stood on the brink of collapse?
Besides... truthfully, you wouldn't have had the courage to ask even under different circumstances.
But that was a private conversation between you... and your virginity.
“Part of me accepted a long time ago that I wouldn't be home the day my father died. I'm always away- or at Dragonstone. It was normal. I got used to it. But like this...” he sighed heavily before pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “Gods... I'm mourning the passing of a man when I don't even know whether he's ill or not, while you're enduring the very same grief in silence. I'm sorry. I'm being insensitive.”
You let him mutter a few more words about his princely lack of tact before placing your hands against his chest, smoothing the soft evening tunic beneath your palms. “We're all carrying the same burdens. Yes... I'm worried about home. But it's also true that we knew nothing before we crossed the borders. As long as winter keeps everyone behind closed doors, there won't be much coming or going. But afterward...” You paused. “It could become a terrible blow.”
You had sent a letter home, but no one had heard anything from the courier since. The more you thought about what might have become of him, the more your mind drifted toward apocalyptic visions of plague and pestilence- a city blanketed in corpses and a spring blossoming over a land emptied of life.
“I know.”
There was nothing else to say. Nothing the man could do to lift your spirits. And as time slipped mercilessly onward through an evening that tasted of wine and bitterness, you sought warmth in one another like two castaways searching for water.
With the snap of a finger, the distance that had settled between you vanished.
The awkwardness dissolved.
It wasn't forced.
It wasn't artificial.
It was simply the natural caress of two souls weathering the same storm.
You rubbed your nose gently against his like a lazy cat before your lips found each other in a kiss. Wrapping your legs around his waist while he tilted his head to meet you, the arm around your waist drew you tighter against his chest and the soft sound of your lips meeting became the only noise in the room, accompanied only by your unsteady breathing.
“Come to bed tonight,” you murmured against lips still damp with the kiss.
Your hand returned to his face, fingertips brushing through the roughness of his beard before he pulled you even closer into his embrace, as though your nearness alone could melt you between his fingers.
The plea came out weak. You might even have called it petulant. But you had no time to dwell on it, because the fiery look the prince gave you was enough to make your whole body throb with need. Just imagining spending an evening curled up in that enormous bed within his arms left you aching.
Partly from desire. Partly because, in times so dark, you longed for the comfort of a fleeting distraction and he seemed to want the same thing.
The prince answered with a silent nod, dragging his nose along the delicate skin of your cheek before leaving a trail of kisses from the corner of your mouth to the line of your jaw, you tilted your head back, granting him better access.
Then, all at once- The door opened.
With your head still tipped back, you recognized Valarr immediately by the distinctive streak of white hair.
The young one had apparently decided to knock at the same moment he opened the door, managing to get one foot inside the sitting room before noticing the intimate scene he'd stumbled into.
His eyes met yours. You didn't want to shove Baelor away so abruptly, but both of you, startled, scrambled to compose yourselves and in the process, he stumbled into the chair behind him. It rocked dangerously backward before crashing back onto all four legs with a loud thud, a fitting musical accompaniment for the little performance you'd just put on.
The young man opened his mouth once.
Then immediately shut it again.
He awkwardly pointed over his shoulder, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the floor while you climbed down from the table and straightened your skirt, only then did he finally speak.
“Uncle- I mean... Maekar is packing. He's ordered the servants to help him. I don't know what's going on, but he won't answer me and...” he cleared his throat, finally releasing the doorknob before taking a step back into the corridor.
“I'll go talk to him.” It was Baelor's only reply after clearing his own throat.
The two of you exchanged one long look before he hurried past the doorway, disappearing from sight almost immediately, leaving his son standing motionless where he was.
“I'm sorry,” Valarr murmured, unable to meet your eyes for more than a couple of seconds at a time. You simply shrugged as you stepped toward the hallway yourself, “Don't be. It wasn't the right moment anyway.” With that, you headed in the opposite direction, toward your bedroom.
Needless to say, that night too you slept alone.
Maekar had left (not without complaints from his sons), and you had no idea what they had spoken about, but he seemed to have calmed down enough to get a few hours of sleep, pack his belongings the following morning, and mount his horse during the hottest hours of the afternoon, armed with his brother's many recommendations. You had barely managed to give him a small nod, while Daeron at least had pulled you into a brief embrace, whispering in your ear to keep an eye on the rest of the family because he had a bad feeling.
Without the three of them, the house had become much emptier and quieter. Between one man's drunken chaos and another's daily dramatics, the two boys made their absence painfully noticeable, as did the constant clicking of Maekar's boots, even when he was simply marching to the kitchen to fetch an apple. Valarr and Matarys spent most of their time studying or training in the gardens, and you still felt far too out of place to join them. You found yourself completely alone, with your future husband buried beneath paperwork, and Reinmod… that- though always by your side, was doing his best to adapt himself to the manners and duties expected of a knight serving the royal family, and you didn’t wish to disturb him.
You could not help but think of Baelor's previous wife and how he had always been lost in study and work, and the thought that you might end up sharing her fate soon settled heavily in your stomach. There had not been much passion between you, no flame pulling you toward one another because his mind was always somewhere else. You had fallen victim to routine before you had even spoken your vows, and the feeling gnawed relentlessly in your guts.
Most of the marriages you had witnessed throughout your life had been very different- unhappy or downright bizarre. Lucilla had unleashed herself during her first months in Winterfell, leaving everyone speechless with her manners and beliefs, rendering Sigfrid incapable of thinking clearly about how he ought to behave for quite some time. They were so different that even the way they speared a piece of broccoli with a fork became a subject worthy of debate.
You and Baelor, on the other hand, were far too alike, in both your strengths and flaws. It was almost like looking into a mirror and seeing a version of yourself that differed only slightly. Yet what you were truly doing was holding yourselves back around one another, becoming neutral- complementary pieces. You would never have dared reprimand him the way you would have with Sigfrid, nor joke casually over lunch, the only time you spent several uninterrupted hours together, during which most of the conversation came from his two sons. Besides, there was an unspoken rule that the plague was never openly discussed in front of the younger son, so there was never much opportunity for conversation with Baelor seated at the head of the table surrounded by letters while the three of you ate.
You spent your time reading some of the books you found in the residence's vast library. Trying to mix usefulness with pleasure, picking up a few books about the Faith of the Seven- if only to avoid appearing completely ignorant on your wedding day- but they were unbearably dense tomes. The Old Gods were nameless and passed down mostly through spoken tradition; these, on the other hand, had titles, names, epithets, descriptions, symbols- they were an enormous nuisance, and you didn’t particularly care about them anyway. So you would set the volume aside, promising yourself you would surely finish it later, only to spend the rest of the afternoon reading historical accounts and more frivolous legends instead.
You didn’t know how to escape the ring of scorched earth the two of you had drawn around yourselves. A false one, at that, because you had not forgotten the way he had confessed his feelings that evening at your feet, and you certainly had not lied about your own. You could blame the plague and the fear it had brought, but perhaps another couple in your place would have emerged stronger than before, would have sought comfort in each other. You had sought comfort against that table, but it felt like nothing more than a pebble lying on a narrow road that, yes, sloped gently downward, yet stretched toward nothing but weeds of boredom on the horizon.
One afternoon, while you were finishing the final chapter of one of the books you had borrowed, Baelor appeared at your door- or rather, at the circular gazebo in the middle of the gardens that you used as your reading corner whenever the weather allowed.
You lifted your gaze as soon as you noticed him standing a few paces away, several opened letters in hand. At first, as happened every time a raven arrived, you feared the worst, but you quickly let out a relieved sigh when he held them out to you with a simple question.
"Can you read these?"
The question seemed cryptic at first, making you think of some riddle or a grammatically questionable sentence- not that the Targaryen lacked a rich vocabulary by any means, in reality it was the desperate plea for help of a deeply confused man. The letters had been signed by informants from the west, and they were an absolute disaster. Tiny handwriting with an entirely peculiar style, M's written backwards, dots placed over letters that technically had none. It was like looking at the work of a painter, only spread across a few inches of parchment, all in the same colour and following a method of reading no one had bothered to explain, leaving both of you hopelessly stuck.
Unlike Baelor, however, you were accustomed to northern illiterates- and worse still, to your brother's chicken scratch, making you perhaps the only key capable of deciphering the hieroglyphics that had been delivered to you.
"Well... I'll need a little while. Maybe by tonight I'll understand what these letters are trying to say. I hope." You shifted the parchment beneath the sunlight, holding it against the light in hopes of making out the spaces between the words, but they all seemed entirely random.
The man's sigh made you uncomfortable, even though you knew it was not directed at you. He still seemed to be standing on the edge of irritation. "You spend every afternoon shut behind that desk. You'll ruin your eyesight before time if you keep this up." Once again, you tried to bridge the silence between you, a gesture he seemed to appreciate, judging by the small smile that crossed his face.
"You overestimate my age."
He rubbed his eyes, bothered by the late afternoon light, and stepped beneath the gazebo's circular shade. You moved your legs from the stone bench to make room for him, but he never sat down, leaving a space between you so dense it almost felt tangible.
"You could sit down for a while... I'd tell you to relax with a book, but perhaps it's better if you give your eyes a rest." You slipped the letters inside the book's cover before closing it, your fingers drumming lightly against the rough surface to distract yourself from the discomfort. You wanted to ask him again to sit there, but you felt you had already made yourself clear by moving over, and saying it outright sounded almost needy.
"I still have to finish writing a few letters. But perhaps afterwards-"
"Afterwards at dinner? Or tonight? Or tomorrow morning? Or another entire afternoon?" Sarcasm dripped from every word. How you had gone from I don't want to disturb him to throwing passive-aggressive remarks was a mystery whose answer you already knew, tucked neatly beneath the rug.
"It's all I can do-" he tried to explain, but the fact that he had completely missed the real point behind your jab only irritated you further.
"Exactly. Then why not postpone it? We don't receive that much news, and you'd have less work if you simply gave me more opportunities to read them. Or at the very least, we could do it together so you wouldn't spend all your time alone." You gave him the chance to respond, but when you saw him struggling to find a clever answer, you continued, your gaze hardening.
"You promised Matarys you'd spend the afternoon with him. Remember?" you pointed toward the sky, now painted orange. "It's almost sunset. I suppose you postponed that too."
The blow struck like a spear through the chest. The guilty expression that crossed his face was proof enough that he had completely forgotten the promise.
"He told you?"
You shook your head. "I overheard him in the library with Valarr. He was waiting for you there." You rose to your feet, slipping your feet into the low shoes you had left on the ground. You knew you were acting out of an irritation that had been simmering for far too long, and part of it was your own fault. If you had truly wanted to, you could have forced the man into a proper conversation. Yet in a relationship like yours, there was to wondered where one person ended and the other began, what marked each other's territory and what belonged to the neutral ground between the two, because you kept sending smoke signals from opposite sides without ever truly meeting in the middle.
"I'm sorry," he murmured quietly. The sky rapidly lost the brightness of the afternoon sun, and only then did you realize it was not evening approaching, it was heavy black storm clouds rolling overhead, swollen with rain, as though summoned by the tempest raging inside your chest, one you were trying desperately not to unleash upon him.
"What does it matter to me? Apologize to your son." You snapped more quickly this time, turning your gaze toward the finely wrought gate carved with twisting vines as though you were about to miss some terribly important appointment. After all, just like Baelor, you had absolutely nothing to do, and every unfinished sentence became another excuse to remain trapped inside that bubble of discomfort, pretending time alone would somehow fix everything.
You took a few steps down from the gazebo to walk past him, but stopped abruptly, your eyes fixed upon the white marble, a raindrop had fallen, darkening the polished surface.
"Why wouldn’t you come to bed with me?"
Oh, you knew exactly what you were doing.
From the moment he had approached and you had suggested he sit down, to the comments about his eyesight and Matarys- you knew exactly where this was heading. It was despicable of you to use the struggles of a young boy as a weapon to stab at his father, it was not your place to speak on the matter, you weren’t his mother, you barely knew him, and you had promised yourself you would never interfere in their relationship. Matarys had only been complaining in the faintest way to Valarr, and you imagined his brother would have acted as the bridge between them if there had truly been a need.
Instead, you had seized that fleeting moment as an excuse to voice your own grievances.
Why do you ignore Matarys? Why do you ignore me? Why won't you come to bed? Why is the only kiss you've given me in months one that felt like the touch between two secret lovers instead of a couple about to be married?
And why couldn't you simply ask him?
Well, now the bitterness had spilled over, and at least one of those questions had finally escaped your lips.
"I tried."
Disappointment struck before you could even process the meaning of those words, turning toward him, you watched as he let himself sink onto the bench where you had been sitting only moments before. The confusion on your face was enough to make him continue. "You still have nightmares, I-" You immediately shook your head. "That's not true. I'm fine, I mean... every now and then I think about it, but that's normal." You shrugged, caught completely off guard by his answer, but he replied firmly.
"It isn't normal."
The shadow beneath his eyes was unmistakable, as was the tightness pulling at his mouth. It almost felt as though he were scolding you. "What did you expect? That I'd simply forget about it? Of course I think about it- how could I not? But I sleep better now, I get some rest... I don't understand what this has to do with anything." You took a step toward him as the rain began to fall in earnest. At first it was only a few scattered drops, but they came more frequently now, while the first rumbles of thunder echoed in the distance.
"My dear..." He sighed before quietly saying your name. "...you cry in your sleep."
Your heart skipped a beat in time with the storm. Your lips trembled.
"It's true. I didn't come by the first few nights. Everything was so absurd, and I needed time. Then one evening I came into your room and you were already asleep." He rubbed his eyes again. "You looked peaceful. But the moment I sat down on the mattress, you tensed like a bow. For a second I thought you were awake. I tried to come closer. I shook your shoulder gently... and you started sobbing in your sleep. I didn't know what to do."
The brutal honesty of his words settled in your stomach like stones. you remembered none of it, yet you had no reason to doubt the man. Someone like Baelor would never make up something so cruel.
"You did it for three nights. On the fourth... I stopped coming."
"Why didn't you tell me? I don't remember any of that happening- I... we could have talked about it." The guilt blended with the irritation that still lingered inside you, and the resentment seeped into every word, the prince noticed it as well, and the brewing storm overhead merged seamlessly with the hurricane of frustration that had been consuming the two of you for weeks.
"About what?" he asked. "About what happened to you? About the sleepless nights? The nightmares? We had plenty of time to talk about it, and you never said a word. I wanted to give you space-" You swallowed the bitterness and cut him off, "You never asked. I thought you didn't care- you always have so much to do... or at least that's how it seems." That final sarcastic remark seemed to be exactly what he needed to become defensive himself, and he rose to his feet to face you.
"You knew this wouldn't be easy, and the absurd situation we're living through now certainly hasn't helped." The rain grew heavier, but you ignored it, "That's not the point. I'm not accusing you of causing a plague just to avoid me. But every other moment, you ignore me and barely speak to me. The four of us are trapped here together with the servants- it's not as though there's anything else to do."
He stepped out from beneath the gazebo, closing the distance between you. "So now giving you space to adjust is considered rude? That's exactly what you asked me for back in the carriage-" but you didn't let him finish "Yes, but you asked!" you practically shouted, the argument now nothing short of a landslide.
Your voice came out trembling, yet loud enough that it unsettled both of you, it was an entirely new experience for you, arguing so openly with a member of the royal family- a man infinitely more educated and refined than you—as though you were scolding your younger brother…. the taste it left in your mouth was bitter.
"Even when your sons ask to spend time with you, you don't-"
"That has nothing to do with us!" This time it was he who raised his voice, loud enough to cut through the crash of thunder.
“Don't use my sons as an excuse-” but things had already slipped beyond either of your control, and you stepped toward him with a roar of your own. “What exactly are you accusing me of?! I only told the truth!” by then, the rain was coming down in sheets, and a fierce wind lashed against you, sending your clothes whipping wildly around your bodies, “Yes, but they aren't the point! The point is us- you... and me... and I can't…”he glanced around as though the plants themselves might offer him the answer.
“…talk to me? Sleep with me?!” you closed the distance until you were nearly chest to chest, while he remained standing one step higher on the gazebo.
“Fuck me the way a husband is supposed to fuck his wife?!”
Your eyes stung with shame. You were not even sure you truly meant it. You weren’t angry because the older man probably felt uncomfortable at the thought of becoming intimate with you- you understood that. To some extent, you felt the same, you were simply angry, rambling because he kept remaining silent or speaking only in half-finished sentences.
Still, you had clearly struck a nerve, because once again he was left speechless, frozen as he stared at you the way one might stare at a wild animal, “I don't understand why you're so angry now. I thought you needed space and time to adjust. I know we haven't been very intimate since we've been together, but... is that really what this is about? Just physical contact?” He reached for your arm, trying to pull you out of the rain, but you shrugged him off roughly, preferring to remain beneath the cold downpour rather than stand that close to him. Your lips trembled from the cold, and you kept blinking against the rain stinging your skin, but it was nowhere near enough to ease the tension.
“Just?” you repeated, throwing your arms out to your sides as you took another step back. “We're married! We're supposed to have children! And I'm sorry to remind you, but between the two of us, you're the one who's getting close to old age-” Baelor stepped down from the gazebo, “We signed the marriage papers barely two months ago-”
“You signed the papers!” You snapped even more furiously, shouting so loudly that you felt a sharp sting at the back of your throat, though you paid it no mind.
“Are we really going back to this? I thought we'd settled it-” without thinking, you stepped forward and jabbed a finger against his chest, “No! You settled it, not me! And if it hadn't been for me, we probably wouldn't even be here! And when you argued with Maekar! And now, if I hadn't insisted on this! You keep dragging out everything that isn't about the kingdom forever! But these things matter too!” You flinched as a particularly loud clap of thunder cracked overhead, but recovered almost immediately, “Your family matters, and they shouldn't be treated like some political agreement. You know what? You treat everyone as though they were a platoon of knights! That's why Valarr is becoming the same way! But you have to talk! You have to let people in- you have to make the effort to open that damn mouth of yours and use it! Aren't you angry? Sad? Fuck... I thought you liked me, but if I don't make the first move, you just stand there! I thought men liked having sex- shouldn't you- I don't know- just pin me against a wall already?!”
You prayed to the gods that no one could hear you two… or better- that no one could hear you shouting, because you would become the servants' laughingstock.
“Is that what you want?!” He reached for you again but stopped halfway, his hand suspended in the air. “You want me to be a monster? To force myself on you after everything that's already happened to you?”
You shoved him with little success, your hand still pointed accusingly toward him, as though it truly held any kind of power. “No! Yes- I mean, that's not what I meant- and that's not all I said! Don't ignore everything else!” But before you could step away, he caught your wrist, keeping you close, “I'm standing here listening to you, aren't I?!” You jerked your wrist back violently, and he let go, sending you stumbling several uncertain steps backward through the puddles forming across the stone floor. “Oh, wow. You're actually listening to me. I'm so grateful!”
You continued retreating until you reached the entrance archway. By then the storm was directly overhead, yet even with the freezing rain soaking you to the bone, heat coursed through your veins, leaving you suspended somewhere between rage and sadness.
“Oh, now you're leaving? You throw all your accusations at me and won't even give me the chance to answer?” The faint trace of irony you heard in his voice became the final blow to your temper. “Now you know how to talk? You know what?” You stormed back beneath the gazebo, snatched up the book that had been abandoned on the bench, and hurled it with all your strength onto the soaked ground, the letter he had given you slipped free, landing beneath a rose bush that offered no shelter, the parchment quickly becoming drenched.
“Translate your own fucking letters! I wouldn't want my bothersome presence distracting you!”
And then you ran back into the house, leaving a trail of dripping clothes behind you.
You did not dine with the rest of the family that evening, asking one of the maids to bring your meal to your room, only to later request another chamber be prepared, because that bed become part of your waking nightmares.
You had never noticed that you cried during the night. You didn’t even remember having nighttime memories, and it was difficult to understand what kind of trick your mind was playing, you already carried so many fears that opening a door you had believed sealed shut was a heavy blow to your sanity. You had looked ahead, trying to focus on the present and the uncertain future, but so much else held your mind back, and where the world attacked you with an invisible illness, your nighmares instead dragged you down- or rather, kept you frozen in place without ever revealing itself.
You barely touched your food, only nibbling on a few tubers before having everything taken away. You didn’t wash off the rain immediately, instead asking for a bath to be prepared before going to bed, you remained in the tub for a long time, hiding your tear-swollen face, suspended between the fear of your nightmares and the realization that Baelor would not come knocking on your door that night drying your hair before the fireplace and had tea brought to soothe your nerves, but nothing worked… remained awake the entire night staring at the stormy sky until dawn arrived.
Part of youself regretted changing rooms so hastily, because none of your belongings were there, and you disliked bothering the servants so late at night just to fetch some trivial thing to occupy yourself with. Even so, you still weren't convinced, continuing to pace around the room like a spinning top. Even when daylight came, the difference outside was barely noticeable, mile upon mile of dark clouds hid the sun, broken only by intermittent spells of rain that varied in strength. Between your nervousness and the fading anger, you remained tense, though for a different reason now. It was an awful feeling, one you could not vent to anyone. Speaking to Valarr now would only make you feel more uncomfortable after everything you had spat at his father, and while Reinmod was someone you trusted, he was never particularly talkative when it came to offering answers or solutions.
You wanted to believe it would only be temporary, that once you reached Dragonstone everything would be fine, that you would make friends at court, but the lives of nobles were a game of serpents, and the thought of constantly watching every word that left both your mouth and everyone else's was a waking nightmare you struggled to accept. You would have no close relatives there besides Reinmod, your husband, and his entire family… but honestly? Maekar? Aerion? No comment. And while Valarr was a good young man, he already had a wife. A wife who, unknowingly during the journey, had separated from the rest of the family to visit her parents and was now stranded just as all of family were. You didn’t even know how she was doing, you had barely spoken to her, nor had you asked Valarr for any updates.
And then- even when the kingdoms were not brought to their knees by disease, the Targaryen family lived scattered across different residences. Making friends with your own relatives would have been difficult regardless.
But again, would they even accept you?
The second wife of the great and noble Baelor, yet not of Targaryen blood. Who knew how many had tried? How many fathers had put their daughters forward? You had come from nowhere, with no warning whatsoever, and suddenly there you stood beside the throne.
Lost in your doubts and uncertainties, you spent a long while brooding by yourself until you noticed a familiar carriage through the window, one of the smaller ones used to carry provisions and letters.
Without thinking twice, you hurried outside with your heavy robe draped over your shoulders and the hair left loose, practically skipping down the stairs like a little girl. For a brief moment, you ignored the unpleasant knot in your stomach, thinking only of home and praying to the gods that your reply had finally arrived.
You stopped at the rear entrance where the servants unloaded supplies, remaining at a safe distance. One of the cleaning women immediately noticed how nervous you were and, understanding at once, murmured something to the coachman, who pulled a bundle of letters tied together with twine from beneath his coat.
The bundle was passed into the woman's hands and opened beneath the shelter of her shawl to keep the letters dry from the rain. She crossed the part of the courtyard while the workers carried on with their tasks, but as the lady sorted through the letters, her expression did not seem promising. Indeed, when she stopped beside you, her slow nod confirmed your fears.
"Still nothing from the North, my lady."
You took the bundle of roughly ten letters with a crestfallen look, turning them over simply to read the recipients and authors. They might at least serve as an excuse to approach Baelor again later that day. Surely you couldn’t keep giving him the cold shoulder forever, even if you still believed you had said nothing wrong- perhaps only in the wrong tone.
"But there is a letter from Prince Maekar."
You jolted at her words and shuffled through the letters more quickly until you found it: a much thicker envelope than all the others, sealed with the royal sigil and bearing the man's signature across the back.
"Please check the others and deliver them to their rightful owners. I'll bring this one to the prince myself." You gave the order hurriedly before disappearing down the corridor. It was still early in the morning, and you knew where to find the man at that hour. He liked to have breakfast alone on the small terrace on the opposite side of the villa, a habit Valarr had confessed the man had ever since he was young- and probably even before that. You had never judged him for wanting a little time to himself in the mornings; it was everything else that irritated you.
The weather did not seem powerful enough to overcome the Targaryen's will. He sat beneath the covered part of the terrace with a book and a cup of tea. The wind had died down, but the floor was covered by half a centimeter of water as the rain continued to fall from the sky and spill down through the wrought-iron grates to the floor below, preventing you from stepping outside with the train of your gown and the slippers you still wore. So you knocked against the glass to catch his attention before opening the door.
He had not expected to see you- much less for you to come looking for him, but the surprise vanished when he saw the letter you were waving in the air, and he hurriedly abandoned everything to come back inside. “It's signed by Maekar.” Those were the only words you gave him as an explanation before handing it over.
He did not even bother returning to his study, hastily opening the envelope and tearing through the seal. Inside were two separate sheets, both incredibly long. You leaned over his arm to read, and the first few lines alone were enough to make your arms fall limp at your sides.
Maekar had written a long letter filled with information, without embellishments or greetings of any kind, regarding the situation at court, and it was just as terrible as you had suggested. But the true problems were written in the opening two lines alone, which read:
"Daeron II Targaryen, known as the Good, has died from the Great Spring Sickness,"
From there followed a spiral of dreadful news about the uncertain state of the throne and countless other deaths among noble titles you had never even heard of.
Gently, you slipped the second letter from between his fingers, this one was more personal and mostly described the man's condition and that of his children, who had managed to remain together and- at least until the day the letter had been written- were all in good health, even if the journey had not been an easy one. A long silence accompanied both as you read through the accounts, every passing moment dragged you further toward the ground. There was little or nothing positive in those words, and worse still, no sign whatsoever of a cure or survivors of the illness. Yet what worried you the most was the defeated look in Baelor's eyes.
The argument you had shared had become evaporated water above your heads, joining the dark cloud before falling once more with the cold rain, sinking into your bones, you placed a hand on his arm, gently squeezing the muscle of his bicep, you didn’t truly know what kind of relationship the two of them had shared, but the king had a good reputation, and Baelor had never once complained or shown resentment whenever he mentioned him. He had been an elderly man, you knew the prince had accepted the likelihood of his passing long ago, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less, losing a father and such an important figure for a future king was no small thing. Not to mention that, with this loss, he had lost both of his parents.
“Maekar is well. And so are his children,” you murmured, your side pressed gently against his as you offered him the letter you had finished reading, hoping that at least this one might provide some comfort, you could see the shadow of a tear trapped in his eyes as he read the second letter, and a heavy sigh escaped his emptied lungs.
You continued rubbing his arm with your thumb, giving him the time to read everything, then his arm fell back to his side, and once again he remained silent.
“I... I need a moment to myself. Could you tell Valarr the news, please?”
He didm’t look at you, and you didn’t expect him to. You gathered the papers and let him walk away down the corridor, the air, once heavy with rain, now stagnant with grief.
Lunch was perhaps one of the most awkward moments of your life up until then.
Baelor was nowhere to be seen, Matarys' face was swollen from tears shed in solitude, and Valarr kept trying- unsuccessfully, to start some frivolous conversation at the table, even though he himself looked as though he'd been trampled by a horse, and perhaps he had… fter all, it confirmed that whatever relationship the four of them shared, it must have been a good one, judging by how everyone in the house had suddenly fallen into mourning.
Valarr pushed his cutlery aside with a careless gesture before letting himself sink back into his chair.
“Can't you go talk to him?”
You cast a glance toward the younger boy, who had his spoon resting in his soup before answering, “What am I supposed to tell him? He needs a moment. You're his son. You go. If you're worried.” Before the prince could reply, little Matarys spoke up instead.
“He isn't answering. He locked himself in his room.”
You swallowed a piece of bread with a dry throat, scraping painfully against the back of it and nearly making yourself cough, “You're his wife,” Valarr replied, not sounding particularly shaken or surprised by his brother's words, cornering you while the two princes stared at your figure as though you held the solution to everything in your pocket.
“What exactly should I tell him? This isn't the first parent he's lost. You know why this is weighing so heavily on him now. When he feels ready, he'll come out.” you pushed your own plate away as well, signaling to the servants to take it away, thanking them weakly, unable to meet their eyes. You were doing a rather poor job of behaving like a future ruler so far.
“You're his wife. If he won't talk to you, then who should he talk to?” Valarr shot back more forcefully this time, You kept glancing toward the youngest, hoping he would have the good sense to escape the conversation, but he seemed more than determined to stay and even to support his brother if necessary.
“You're his son—” he didn’t give you time to finish, “I'm the first heir to the throne after him. What exactly am I supposed to say? I'm sorry Grandfather died, but you need to pull yourself together for the good of the Crown?”
Annoyed by Valarr's tone, you shrugged irritably, “Or better yet- I'm sorry dad. Do you want to talk about it?”
A bitter smile pulled at his face before he shoved his chair back as though he suddenly needed air to breathe, “You don't understand. I can't do that. It wouldn't be-it wouldn't- I mean-”
“Too emotional? Not princely enough?” you whispered, almost ironically. “You're chained by duty, and may the gods forgive me, but as much as I admire this family perseverance, you're poisoning yourselves. I'm the last one to arrive here. You're his sons. Just hug him.” You sighed, almost exasperated, but once again it was Matarys who surprised you.
“Our father is a man and a king. We can't.”
The raw truth of those words was both a cry for help and a battle roar at the same time, the deep wound of a boy raised on duty and few joys, the shadow of the conversation you had shared with Baelor at Winterfell darkened every emotion you felt at that table, blinding everyone.
“And what do you know about men and kings? You're just a child.”
The words struck him as though they were tangible, making his shoulders curl like those of a scolded pup. “I will be-” but he stopped when you suddenly shot to your feet, the chair scraping sharply against the floor, “How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen? You're a child. You men and your obsession with growing up. One day you'll become an adult, and you'll regret not crying while you still had the chance to allow yourself to. Don't put words in your own mouth when you don't yet know their weight or their meaning.”
A deep shame colored the young boy's cheeks as he searched for his brother's gaze in vain. Valarr looked just as uncomfortable, staring off into the distance with his jaw clenched. You recognized the first signs of tears before they even appeared, the trembling lower lip, the glossy eyes. Like a good stepmother, you were failing before you had even begun, making your stepsons cry, and you had to look away to keep from drowning in guilt.
“I'll go talk to him. But please... try to relax.”
The word sounded foolish even as you said it, and you did not even attempt to explain yourself before hurrying out of the dining hall, the two of them had only just learned of their grandfather's death; they were hardly going to leap with joy anytime soon. But the atmosphere had become unbearable, and they were all dragging one another down, you found yourself missing Maekar a little. The man would probably have yelled at everyone to pull themselves together and wipe those looks off their faces, it wouldn’t have been a good solution, but it was better than nothing.
You looked for him in his study first, only to find it empty, then you checked the bedroom, which had remained untouched since the last time you had been there, proving that despite your absence, the man had not been using the bed. So you stopped a maid, hoping to discover where Baelor spent his nights- the few in which he actually chose to sleep. He had taken a room on the opposite side of the villa, where a small balcony overlooked the trees stretching for miles. You had the maid lead you to the door, and once she had walked away, you knocked against the wood.
“Baelor. Open the door. We're all worried.”You heard rustling on the other side, a sigh, but nothing more.
“I heard you. Come on. Don't make me break the lock, because I know how.”
You lied. Or rather, you did know how, but it had been ages since you'd last done it, and you hadn't the faintest idea how these locks worked, it would probably have taken you less time to climb the rain-soaked wall and enter through the balcony.
“I'm fine. I'm just finishing...” a long silence followed before another heavy sigh reached your ears. At last came slow footsteps across the floor and the click of the lock.
You stepped inside before he could change his mind, nearly shoving him aside from behind the door, the bedroom was noticeably warmer than the one you supposedly shared, loose parchments lay scattered everywhere, books were stacked in untidy piles, neatly folded clothes rested across both chair and bed. The balcony door stood open, and outside a small round table held a single cup of tea that was still steaming despite the cold and the relentless rain that had been falling since the previous evening.
“You didn't answer Matarys?” You asked without preamble, your gaze immediately drawn to one particular book, still damp, its pages warped with moisture- the tome you had thrown onto the courtyard floor, now in dreadful condition and likely unreadable.
“I... didn't hear him?” He asked without moving from where he stood as he closed the door. “He probably didn't know you were here and looked for you in the main bedroom. He said you didn't answer him, but he'd found the door locked.”
He seemed to think for a moment before shrugging. “Perhaps it was the servants. They lock the doors when the floors are wet.”
You nodded absentmindedly before taking the chair from the desk and carrying it outside, motioning for him to follow you, the abandoned cup of tea between the two of you like a war axe. “I'm sorry for losing my temper yesterday. I don't regret what I meant, but I took these past few days out on you, and you didn't deserve that.” The words burst out, shattering the sheet of ice between you. Baelor reached out to take your hand in his, and your fingers intertwined, that nervous habit he carried everywhere was now directed at you as he gently squeezed your knuckles, his thumb brushing the skin where your engagement ring would soon rest.
“We both made mistakes. I admit I don't know what to say... what I should say now. To you. To my sons...”
The question left your lips almost instinctively. “Forgive the bluntness, but... hadn't you already lost your mother? You were close to her, weren't you?” He nodded, his eyes lost in the landscape beyond, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, he brought your hand close to his face, his breath tickling the back of it.
“Yes. But they were little back then. Matarys barely remembers her. But that's not it...” You found yourself distracted by the heterochromia of his eyes reflecting the pale daylight filtered through storm clouds, by the way the precious rings glimmered on his fingers, by the refined fabric that lent him an air of royalty he seemed to carry wherever he went, you found yourself believing that even covered in mud, he would somehow shine with a light of his own.
“May I ask how your mother died?” The question caught you off guard, and you inhaled uneasily. But before he could apologize, you answered.
“An accident.”
You gently pulled his hands back down onto the table so you could cradle them both in yours, lightly scratching the rough palms with your nails and drawing a shiver from him. “My mother loved animals. Spent so much time with dogs and horses and… wanted to train them herself, but she was beginning to get too old. Her previous horse had died from an infection, and she'd taken the loss terribly, so she asked for a new mare.” you began recounting the story, piecing together fragments of those days, you couldn't even remember how old you had been. You had spent so many years trying to forget that now it was difficult to drag those memories back to the surface.
“You've seen her. She's a good horse, but when she first arrived at Winterfell, she was wild… came from a breeder who no longer had room to keep all his animals. She was young and barely trained, and my mother took a liking to her.” you looked up to meet the prince's eyes with a bitter smile. “No one knows exactly what happened. She went out for a ride and... she never came back. We found the body in the woods, cold. The horse had stayed by her side. Most likely... the mare panicked and threw her.”
You pressed your lips together, taking a moment or two to hold back your tears.
You remembered that clearing perfectly.
You had been the one to find her.
“Her eyes were closed. The healers said she might have been paralyzed by the fall and then collapsed shortly afterward because of the age... or the fright.” The man gently squeezed your hands, and you returned the gesture. “I like to believe she passed peacefully. That's what the gods would have granted a woman so faithful. Perhaps they even did her a kindness. My mother loved those animals so much... She always said she'd never wanted to become an old woman confined to a bed. The gods granted her wish.”
“I'm sorry. It couldn't have been easy.”
The rain was falling even harder now, and with the wind you could feel the dampness creeping over your ankles, but you didn't want to stand up and risk breaking that moment, “It was difficult. My father reacted with anger, he wanted to kill the mare. I stood in his way and took her with me. Mother would never have forgiven him if he'd hurt that animal.”
You shrugged.
“A foolish death for a great woman. But I've accepted it for what it is. It will come for everyone.”
You gave him more time to answer, to gather his thoughts and open up, you leaned back against your chair as if to show him that you would wait all the time in the world, still holding one of his hands in yours, idly turning the thick ring around his finger the way a child might.
“I suffered greatly when my mother died,” he began, “but there's... a difference between us. As a woman and a mother, no matter how much I loved her, there are some things only one particular parent can teach you. I did everything for my father. Everything he told me, ordered me to do, taught me. I gave up outings with friends, with my brothers, i put on my armor at the first rebellion to make him proud...” The sigh that followed was almost a sob, as though he were holding back a cough in his throat.
“And now that he's gone, after all the time we spent together... I feel nothing.”
Your eyes widened, caught completely off guard by the confession. It was not what you had expected, Baelor had become a river in flood, “I feel pride, as a subject does for his king, as a student does for his teacher, but... I can't see him as a father. I can't grieve as a son should. I felt... empty. I immediately started thinking about the consequences, about everything I have to put in order now. I barely felt that hint of... sadness. More like... oh no, now I have to fix everything. I...” He looked down at your joined hands. “I kept thinking about what you told me. About my previous wife. And I wondered... is this what my children will feel for me one day? My brothers... my wife...”
You gave his hand a gentle tug. “Baelor, don't say such foolish things-” but he wouldn't let you continue. “I felt inhuman. The duties of the Crown have stifled me... what my father did to make me the man I am today- a good king, but a cold son and a distant father. When I think about Valarr and what I'm teaching him-” You rested a hand on his shoulder, giving him a small shake. “Valarr admires you-” but you realized too late that you had chosen the wrong words. “I admire my father too. But it isn't the same thing.”
He let go of your hand to rub at his face, hiding the shadow of a tear, “I don't want Valarr to become like me… Or Matarys- You were right... about the way I isolate myself and keep everyone at a distance behind that stoic mask I was taught to wear-” You leaned forward, grabbing the front of his tunic. “Stop it.”
You dragged your chair closer until your legs brushed against his and rested your forehead against his, “Your sons love you. And they're terribly worried about you. You're better than this... than that, Baelor. I'm sorry about yesterday. All right?” You cupped his face in your hands, stroking his cheeks, and he leaned into your touch without a word, his eyes closed. “We both made mistakes, but you mustn't confuse the two. Your sons looked for you all day, but they wanted to give you your space, so they sent me, hoping I could offer you company different from the family grief you're all sharing right now. I was the one who didn't want to come. I wanted to leave you alone to cool off. I was angry with myself because I'm afraid.”
The admission stole the air from your lungs, but you kept speaking, frightened that the man would begin saying such nonsense again.
“I'm afraid of sleeping with you. Of not... being able to. And when you told me about the nightmares... it felt like confirmation. That I'm broken, and there's no cure-” Baelor spoke your name the way a dying man might call upon the gods. His thumb brushed the corner of your eye, wiping away a tear. “Don't ever say such a thing. You're a survivor. There is nothing wrong with you.”
Bent toward one another, you exchanged a mixture of apologies and words of comfort, without thinking, you shifted onto his lap, wrapping your arms around him. The embrace tasted of salt, bittersweet in every sense, nothing around that table had truly been resolved, yet you both felt better, knowing you were no longer alone.
Within tragedy, you had found the cornerstone of that relationship.
Confessing new fears had allowed you to see one another in a different light, stripping away parts of yourselves you had kept hidden, making it easier to relax in each other's presence.
You had taken small steps together, spending quiet moments reading books or sorting through paperwork, and your personal relationship with the boys had improved as well. Though they never openly admitted it, the kids were grateful for whatever had happened between Baelor and you. Even Matarys had changed, where there had once been polite distance, the young prince now sought you out on purpose, asking you even the smallest everyday questions. The boy still suffered from the loss of his mother, even though he pretended to have moved on, after your scolding at the table, he must have seen an anchor in your figure, someone with whom he wasn't forced to maintain the princely façade he wore around his brother so as not to worry him, or around his father in hopes of earning praise. It felt strange because, if you had been asked to describe the feeling, you would have called it maternal instinct or something similar, In truth, however, you still felt completely out of your depth when it came to the subject.
You still hadn't consummated your marriage with Baelor, and by that point you had asked him to follow tradition and wait until your wedding night, giving yourself more time. You limited yourselves to gentle touches, holding hands, fleeting kisses, embraces, sometimes, while helping him with his work, the two of you would sit together on the sofa and eventually fall asleep curled up beside one another.
According to the future king, those were the only nights he didn't hear you whimpering in your sleep, otherwise, the nightmares continued as usual.
You didn't remember them. You never would have known you had them if it hadn't been for the man's testimony, and although the situation drained you mentally, you didn't know what to do about it, so you chose to keep your mind occupied whenever you could. Perhaps the secret to peaceful sleep was hidden within the walls of Winterfell, or at Dragonstone. Perhaps all you had to do was let time heal the wounds that could not be seen with naked eye.
You were trapped in that spiral where you tried to remember, yet thinking about it meant reliving those memories and becoming paralyzed by them all over again, as though you were still there, surrounded by flames. As time passed, you slowly began examining your own conscience and realized just how much your life had been shaped by habits born from trauma. Perhaps it hadn't been so obvious back home, where the walls had always been familiar, but here, surrounded by strangers, you found yourself watching the shadows and dark corners twice, startling whenever you crossed paths with a poor soldier out of uniform. You caught yourself quickening your pace or avoiding certain parts of the house altogether, such as the cellars, because they resembled too closely the fragments of memory that occasionally fluttered before your eyes.
Those moments of Where have I seen something like this before? had become far too familiar, and you kept brushing them aside, hoping you would simply forget.
You admitted it to Baelor one evening as you shared a cup of tea. “I'm afraid of going down into the cellar,” you murmured before the fireplace. “I went down there to accompany one of the maids. She wanted to show me the food stores... for that recipe I wanted to make... and... I realized I'd been short of breath the entire time.”
The prince set his teacup down before turning fully toward you. “Would you like to go there with me?”
It was a question the two of you had begun asking each other often, an outstretched hand of peace, an invitation not to isolate yourselves inside your doubts and loneliness, the best way to become friends before lovers.
All things considered, it was working.
“No. The cellar isn't the problem. It's the air... the darkness. The dust and the wood.”
By then, both had begun instinctively seeking each other out physically, either by taking each other's hand or exchanging a chaste kiss, you had taken a step back when it came to physical intimacy. You wanted it to be something natural, something you sought because you truly desired it, not something dictated by the day's tragedies. There would be time for passion, first, you both needed to find your footing again.
It came to be known as the Great Spring Sickness.
It brought every corner of the world to its knees and, ironically, eventually managed to distract you even from the worries within your own home.
By the time you received the first letter from your brother, you had already been at Dragonstone for several days. Although the numbers were declining and the situation was gradually improving, it was still advised to avoid returning to the larger cities, at least from there Baelor was able to keep things under better control.
The North had shut itself off from the rest of the world, suffering the usual hunger and fever, but nothing that seemed any different from what was considered normal back home. Enclosed with the letter was an illustration of your nephew, a chubby little boy described as blond with deep pale eyes inherited from his Lannister blood. Lucilla and the child were both in excellent health, and peace finally seemed to have returned home, though the Targaryen bastard remained missing, more than ever, people hoped he had died alone from the sickness.
His existence lingered over your lives like a shadow. After all, he was the very reason the two of you had met, and even if neither of you ever spoke openly about it, you knew Baelor intended to bring justice to your suffering by capturing the man- or at the very least bringing you undeniable proof of his death, but there was still so much to do, so much to organize, and without either of you even realizing it, you spent your first true night together at Dragonstone. Exhausted by the preparations for the coronation, with the people slowly rebuilding their lives and desperate for celebration, everyone hoped the appointed day would become a reason for great joy, a moment of peace and the fulfillment of a dream for many. That, however, meant organizing an event of monumental proportions while still respecting the precautions recommended because of the remaining outbreaks of the illness.
It happened exactly as you had hoped, naturally.
Paperwork, planning, meetings... and after dinner, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion overtook both of you. “Just for a moment,” you had murmured before your thoughts drifted away and you collapsed onto the bed without even changing. Half asleep, you felt the man lie down beside you, falling into soft breathing before the mattress had even stopped trembling beneath his weight, you had shifted closer to his side and closed your eyes, allowing sleep to claim you.
You never really spoke about it afterward, there was nothing to say, except perhaps that next time it would be wiser to change clothes before climbing into bed.
Especially because summer was approaching, and you were having something of a climate crisis.
As you explained to Matarys one afternoon, it wasn't that the North never grew warm, but you weren't accustomed to that kind of heat, to the heavy humidity, the relentless sun beating down overhead, before even a few weeks had passed, you had begun carrying a parasol everywhere because you simply couldn't bear it anymore.
You were beginning to see the upside of the Faith of the Seven. Baelor would be crowned in a hall, and so would every other important event- including your upcoming wedding, which had by then become common knowledge and had already given rise to the first whispers at court.
At least you'd be in the shade.
There was nothing particularly worrying about the gossip, however, after such a tragedy, no one had the nerve to complain about the king's second wife, especially one who had already proven she could keep pace with both her husband and his daily duties.
A few evenings before the coronation- which, for safety reasons, would be held at Dragonstone with only a handful of guests serving as witnesses, you appeared at the door of his study carrying several reports and notes you had only just finished, the heat drained your strength, and you had begun working during the evening hours to avoid the blazing sun pouring through the windows. Dressed in a light nightgown, you waved the papers in the air the moment you stepped through the doorway.
“I've finished Maekar's letter. It only needs your signature,” you announced without even greeting him first, setting the parchment down in a corner, Baelor was bent over another sheet of parchment, writing who knew what before finally lifting his eyes to address you.
Only for the words to catch in his throat.
You had never owned anything like it back home, so you had asked several maids to give you an actual lesson on nightwear, what was appropriate to wear, how to step into the corridor if necessary, whether different colors or embroidery carried hidden meanings. Prevention was better than cure, and as queen you risked being judged for something as insignificant as a single hair out of place. Trying to strike a balance between comfort, the oppressive heat, and propriety, you had chosen a long sleeveless tunic in red and black, woven from such fine silk that you could barely feel it against your skin. Whenever you stepped into the corridors, you usually draped something over your shoulders, as etiquette required, but late at night, while moving through the family's private quarters, you avoided that extra layer of heat whenever possible.
And this was the first time you had worn that particular gown, a gift from Baelor himself, who had tried to make your first southern summer as comfortable as possible.
“What? Is it too sheer?” you asked in confusion after noticing his gaze fixed on your chest, indeed, standing so close to the candlelight, the dark outline of one nipple could be seen where the fabric stretched over the outer curve of your breast.
“I know I should be careful, but... it's so hot...” you murmured, almost whining. The prince shook his head and took your hand, “No, my dear, I know. It's just that... you're beautiful. I'd even dare say red suits you.” your cheeks warmed at the compliment, and to hide your embarrassment you stepped closer to kiss his temple.
“A rather arrogant comment, if I may say so,” you teased, resting an arm against the back of his chair. “Targaryen pride or something of the sort.” you pressed another kiss against the top of his head. Since returning home, he had finally managed to shave and cut a few inches from his hair. You had protested a little as you watched the first curls emerging from his head be mercilessly sacrificed, but your voice hadn't had much of a say in the matter.
Just as you had decided to let your own hair grow so the maids could weave it into the intricate Valyrian braids passed down through generations, helping you blend in more naturally with the rest of the family.
The man slipped an arm around your waist, drawing a pleased murmur from you despite the heat, setting down the quill he'd been writing with, he sighed. “What time is it?” His voice was quiet as he buried his face against the soft curve of your stomach, you ran your fingers through his dark hair while gazing out the window, where the night sky stretched silent and filled with stars.
“Late. Didn't you notice when the sun went down?” he shook his head, rubbing his nose lightly against the soft fabric with a deep sigh. “No. I was trying to write a politely worded letter to our allies across the sea, who seem more concerned with gold than with the safety of their own lives- and those of their subjects.” You barely suppressed a grimace as you noticed several discarded sheets of parchment covered in drafts that disguised insults beneath only the thinnest veil of courtesy.
Picking one up, you quietly read part of it under your breath.
“As I would like to remind you of the fragile condition of the common people... Oh, here it is- your previous inability to preserve the funds generously provided by the Crown- Oh no. A terrible insult for an arrogant noble.” You joked, earning a few quiet chuckles as you looked over the absurd requests that had been made of the future king without anyone on the other end offering even the slightest certainty.
“Perhaps I should leave these matters to Maekar... or one of my other brothers. I haven't even been crowned yet, and people are already asking me for miracles.”
You let the two of you sway there for a while before setting the parchment aside and gently forcing him to look up at you. “I approve. You should look your best on the big day. If you keep this up, you won't even be able to stay on your feet when it's time to take your vows.” You drew his head into the valley of your breasts, hugging him against you and ignoring the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together.
“Are you calling me an ugly old man?” he muttered, making you burst into loud laughter. You leaned back to perch on the edge of the desk.
“I'm calling you a tired old man. Or do you dare deny it?”
The hands came to rest on your legs, his thumbs gently stroking them, his back relaxed against the backrest and a small smile coloring his lips, “Tired? No. You're right.”
You didn't miss the way his gaze lingered on the hem of your gown brushing your knees. Every now and then, you still found yourself thinking back to that day when he had seen your bare back and helped you get dressed, part of you sought that feeling again, and sometimes you had even asked for his help with particularly complicated dresses, though it never carried quite the same intensity. That same mixture of desire and uncertainty- whether to let his touch linger on your skin or not, the same shiver you felt now.
“But you disagree about the old part,” you murmured, casually pulling one shoulder strap higher to draw the fabric more snugly across your chest, catching his attention. “I believe I still have a few tricks up my sleeve before I'm ready to be called an old man.” he leaned forward to brush his lips against yours, you slid your thumbs along his sharp cheekbones before leaning back just enough to make him follow you. “Look at you,” you whispered against his lips. “The great Baelor Targaryen begging for his fiancée's kiss.” you kissed the bridge of his nose before he gently caught your wrists in his hands.
“Wife.” He corrected you firmly, sending a shiver down your spine. “My wife.” the prince clarified before pressing his lips to yours. You exchanged a heavy sigh into each other's mouths, letting your lips linger together, by then, kissing him had become an everyday occurrence, and you had gained a little confidence in your touch, allowing yourself to deepen the kiss until your tongue brushed against the edge of his upper lip. “You haven't put the ring on my finger yet, my lord,” you tried to joke again, but there was no amusement in his features. His hands slid down to your waist, his fingertips grazing the curve of your breast before trailing along your thighs until they reached the hem of your gown.
“But you are mine.” He pulled his mouth away from yours, leaving careless kisses along your cheek and beneath your ear before moving down to your neck, gently biting the taut skin you exposed to him. His hands pushed the gown higher along your thighs, making you tremble almost imperceptibly, especially when, growing tired of the awkward position, he rose to his feet.
“I didn't take you for the possessive type. I discover new things about you every day,” you said softly, half-closing your eyes to focus on the gentle yet rough kisses he lavished upon your skin, his thumbs reached the edge of your underwear, and you tensed for a brief moment, just enough to make him hesitate and search your face for reassurance.
“I'm alright.” You reassured him, shifting your hips further onto the surface and sending a few sheets of parchment fluttering to the floor in the process. You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him closer between your legs. “Kiss me.” You ordered firmly, leaving him no time to protest, truthfully, the man would not have wanted to be anywhere else in that moment. He returned to your lips with greater hunger, catching your lower lip between his before deepening the kiss, his hand moved slowly between your legs, giving you every opportunity to pull away from his touch, but when you tightened your legs around his waist, he understood the message and began caressing you through your underwear.
Although you were no stranger to pleasuring yourself, this was an entirely different experience. Once again, you found yourself caught off guard by the certainty with which he touched you, his middle finger tracing the full length of your opening, already damp enough to soak through the fabric, before moving in slow circles where your clitoris throbbed with need, drawing a quiet murmur from your lips.
“How does it feel?” he asked, running one hand along your arm and across your back, idly toying with the strap of your gown. You almost burst out laughing in his face at the absurdity of the question. “Does it look like I'm not enjoying it? Please, keep going-” This time it was you who kissed his neck, opening the front of his shirt, you wanted to bite him and taste the salty flavor of his sweat-dampened skin beneath your tongue, but you certainly couldn't leave him with a hickey like a pair of lovestruck adolescents, so you settled for kissing the skin of his chest, where a light dusting of salt-and-pepper hair tickled your nose.
A long moan caught in your throat as he began using two fingers to caress you the underwear was a loose pair of night drawers that matched the rest of your nightclothes, and he slipped his hand beneath the fabric without difficulty, stopping only with his fingertips resting against the damp entrance of your cunt.
“Baelor... please...” you mewled, ready to hit him if he tried asking for your permission again, but instead he surprised you by suddenly gripping your hair firmly at the base of your head, drawing a gasp from your lips. “Say it. Tell me you're my wife.”
The command made you tremble like a leaf.
It was something entirely unlike his usual self, unlike his composure and his courtesy. That need burned through your loins, making you quiver like a violin string teased by those fingers.
“I'm Baelor Targaryen's wife-” you stroked the back of his head before gently biting his dark chin, shadowed by his short beard. “I'm your wife,” you murmured against his skin, happy to indulge the desire he had voiced, and satisfied by the obedience you showed him, he pushed his middle finger into your needy cunt.
Oh, it was everything you had wanted for weeks.
There was no way to describe what had been going through your mind ever since you had moved to Dragonstone, the way the two of you had grown closer since arriving at that castle. The dark stone, the carved capitals, the dragon statues in every corner, you truly felt as though you were in the dragon's lair there, in Baelor's home, surrounded by everything he had built over the years. The study itself cried out the man's name in every corner: the paintings of seas and plains, the books arranged by title, author, and genre, the drawers filled with writing quills, he even kept bottles of ink neatly stacked inside the bottom drawer. During your first days there, you had teased him over the care with which he handled his rings in the bedroom. He must have owned a dozen of them, yet he always wore the same four in rotation, you had joked that he looked just like a dragon guarding his treasure, and the image had stayed with you ever since.
Everything in those corridors cried out Targaryen, yet the only one you truly knew was him, so to you that was Baelor Targaryen's home and no one else's. You were going to become the wife of a dragon, and you would become part of his treasure, and that was exactly how the man made you feel through the care with which he spoke to you and treated you.
You still carried many fears and doubts, but the need burned just as fiercely, and the shadows of your nightmares paled in comparison.
He moved his finger inside you a couple of times, savoring the warmth of your body wrapped around him, he bent down to kiss your chest, pushing one strap down to bare your left breast so he could gently bite the soft flesh, you melted beneath his hands like clay, spreading your legs wider to give him more space.
“I didn't take you for the biting type...” you murmured near his ear, but he did not answer, leaving a kiss at the edge of your nipple, his beard scraping pleasantly against your skin. Between your legs, a second finger joined the first, making you clench around them. “I'm not.” He replied in turn, his voice low and warm enough to make your nipples harden.
The man swept the clutter from the desk to either side, sending a few objects crashing to the floor, but neither of you paid them more than a passing glance before you were pushed back across the wooden surface.
The sensation was divine. He kept a steady rhythm, you could feel the cold ring brushing against the curve of your backside and his thumb rubbing your clitoris, stimulating you in every possible way, and yet what aroused you most was the way the prince held himself over you. The dark look of lust, the way his eyes wandered across your body, and the glossy sheen of saliva on his lips that you felt yourself drying against.
“I've wanted to bite you ever since I saw you dressed like this. Or yesterday, when you wore that gown that left your back bare. You're always so soft whenever I touch you, i've dreamed of tasting you ever since that evening you stormed into the guest room at Winterfell.”
The wet sound of your folds being stretched made it difficult to keep up with his words, but biting your lip to hold back a moan, you answered anyway, selfish in your need to hear him speak while he touched you, yet too shy to ask him outright.
“So have I. Sometimes... I think back to it, to what you might have done to me when you undressed me,” you confessed, pulling him closer to kiss the rough skin of his neck. “Gods... I would've let you do whatever you wanted to me-” you moaned as his thumb slipped a little lower, exposing more of that bundle of nerves. You could feel yourself dripping, the wetness trickling against your skin until it soaked the taut fabric of your underwear, stretched to make room for his calloused hand.
The murmur he let out vibrated through your entire body, making you whisper in return, “I wish I'd had the courage. But even like this, it's enough. In just a few days, I'll be a man who possesses almost everything by bloodright. But what truly makes me happy is the thought of having you by my side,” he kissed the sensitive spot behind your ear before moving his hand to squeeze your exposed breast. “I like you dressed in red and black. I like you in my bed, at my table, bearing my name,” the words were a slow lament against your skin as his fingers pressed deeper into your warmth. Your cunt was tightening, trembling beneath his touch, and your hips moved instinctively in search of the sensation, the heat was suffocating, and lying there, your sweat-dampened back clung to the wood, preventing you from sliding any closer to him, so you tightened your legs higher around his waist, pulling him toward you as best you could, resting your feet along the arms of the chair behind him and trapping him between your tensed muscles.
“My husband.”
The words came out strangled as you felt every nerve in your body tighten, drawing you closer to your climax. You clung to the muscles of his arms, pressing your nails into his shoulders and savoring the feeling beneath your fingertips. The thought that a man with such gentle manners and such a calm voice possessed such well-defined muscles and the history of a mighty knight stirred something even deeper within you. You still had not seen him naked, and the growing need was beginning to strip away your modesty, leaving you desperate to peel away every layer of polished etiquette and expensive clothing until all that remained was the man beneath them, raw and real, Baelor Breakspear.
“You're beautiful,” he murmured against your ear before pressing his lips to yours once more. You curled your toes, trying to draw him closer to your body, but he was immovable, and with his free hand he reached beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher and stretching you into a position that gave him easier access to your center. You whimpered into his mouth as the last barrier of resistance crumbled, your head falling back and your eyes squeezing shut when your climax crashed over you, stealing the breath from your lungs. You were a mess of warmth that slid along the curve of your backside, soaking both your underwear and the wooden desk. The wet sound of his fingers continuing to stroke you echoed in your ears while the coarse beard along his chin grazed your neck and chest, where his lips continued to kiss your damp skin.
“You're a vision. I promised I wouldn't keep treating you with divine reverence, but you're making that very difficult.” When he finally withdrew his hand from beneath your underwear, you melted bonelessly across the desk, your legs draped over the arms of the chair, your head light. You were drenched in sweat, and you felt a small measure of relief when he finally lifted himself away from you. You wanted to pull him back down and kiss him again, but you simply didn't have the strength.
“Why did it take us so long to do this?” you asked, finally sitting up with a shiver as your skin peeled away from the wood. A sheet of parchment had stuck to your side, and you had to pull it away by hand before tossing it aside and slipping the strap of your gown back onto your shoulder.
“I thought you wanted to wait... after everything that had already happened with my family.” The unspoken reminder of the violence you had endured lingered in your memories like a stale heap of refuse, harmless now, yet foul enough that its presence could never truly be ignored.
So you did what you always did. You looked away.
“As far as I'm concerned, I liked it.” You slid off the desk, noticing the outline of sweat you had left behind, and worse still, the damp spot where your ass had rested.
“Though perhaps this wasn't the best place for it,” you whispered, embarrassed, before pressing yourself against his chest, between your legs, you could feel the unmistakable outline of his desire pressing against your stomach.
“I don't think I'd be nearly as good at it, but you can teach me,” you murmured against his lips, lowering your hand toward the waistband of his trousers before he caught your wrist. “No.”
He cleared his throat before tightening his hold on your elbow. “I don't need it.”
The look you gave him was unmistakably skeptical and accusing. “No offense, my dear, but even a man with as many virtues as you has his limits.” You tried again with your other hand, but he stopped that one as well. Your fingers, still slick with the traces of your arousal, were beginning to dry, leaving your skin sticky and rough against his.
“I don't need it. Not like this. I'd rather do it in a bed. And with fewer things weighing on my mind. To honor our vows, not as an outlet.” You swallowed several layers of disappointment, trying to understand his reasons before letting yourself be swayed by false assumptions. You nodded, though not entirely convinced.
“Would it be selfish to want both? Being your wife would mean that too.”
“I thought we wanted to take things one step at a time. I'm happy I was able to give you pleasure... especially since it was your first time with everything.” You gave up trying to reach him, resting your hands against his chest.
“Oh, you do like it, don't you? Being my one and only.” You murmured, gently tugging at a few coarse hairs of his beard, earning a smile in return.
“I won't deny it. I only hope I'll be able to give you pleasure. For now, though, I'd rather take a cold bath.”
He kissed the back of your fingers before smiling at you.
“I'd ask you to join me, but that would rather defeat the purpose, don't you think?”
The coronation had not gone the way you had hoped.
Or rather, it had gone exactly as you had planned, only with an extra no one had bothered to tell you about.
You had behaved well, kept your smile in place, shaken hands, greeted everyone, worn the dress you had brought from home as a representative of the North before a future wife, but beyond that? You were furious.
Perhaps your relationship was doomed to an endless cycle of mistakes of the same nature, perhaps life itself was, or perhaps you simply needed to stop drinking wine forever whenever you were angry.
You had retired early, believing you had learned your lesson, taken a cold bath, yet in the meantime you had ordered more wine, and the sweet taste of grapes lingering at the back of your palate was a poor consolation for the anger burning inside your chest.
That was how Baelor found you in the bedchamber, the crown still resting upon your head and your dress torn, while you sat in the upholstered armchair facing the small balcony. The moment he opened the door, despite the sweltering heat, the air seemed to freeze. You sensed the hesitation with which he set his crown upon the dresser before taking a few cautious steps toward you. Your half-empty goblet still rested on the low table to your right, and the long pale blue nightgown you wore hung almost completely open at the front in a futile attempt to preserve what little coolness came from the two brief gusts of wind that passed through every half hour.
"I'm sorry," he murmured as the very first thing. "I've spoken with Maekar and Aerys, and we believe this is the best choice for the realm at the moment." All you could do was let out an irritated sound through your lips before tapping your nails impatiently against the wood.
"I'm happy for you," you replied bitterly, stretching your legs out before you.
Another long moment of silence followed before he answered, "I thought that, at least in part, you'd be happy-" He flinched when you slammed your hand against the table, nearly knocking over the goblet, before turning toward him in fury. "How could I be? You hid it from me!"
You rose to your feet to confront him face to face, by now you recognized the prince's expression whenever he knew he was in the wrong- or at the very least had not been considerate toward you, and that only fueled your anger even further.
"You're drunk-" Baelor tried to step closer to hold you, but you slapped his hands away. "Don't you dare! Of course I-f- fucking- am!" you snapped.
You paced across the room like a trapped animal before throwing open the door and leaning your head into the corridor to see whether Rainmon (newly appointed as one of the royal guards) was nearby. Finding no one, you stepped out and shut the door behind you.
"I found out in front of the entire court that you're leaving for who knows how long and abandoning me here alone! I had to pretend all evening that I already knew- greeting all those vipers and gossips asking whether I was saddened by your departure when I hadn't known a thing until moments before!" you shouted at the top of your lungs, nearly striking him in the chest, you could still feel that searing disappointment standing motionless beside him while hundreds of eyes were fixed upon you. You could hardly believe you had managed to keep up appearances.
"I didn't want you to worry," he explained, attempting to approach you again, but you shoved him away once more.
"And risking a scene in front of everyone was better?! I would've understood! This isn't about the marriage! It's about the lie!" you shot back, your throat already raw from shouting. The man finally seemed to give up, sitting down at the foot of the bed with a deep sigh.
"What do you want me to say? I truly am sorry. But you have to admit these past few days would've been terrible if I'd told you. That's part of why you're angry." And the truth was that he was right, but by then you had already set yourself on a one-way path through your outburst of rage, "You don't even know where he is! We haven't heard anything about him since he tried to rape me months and months ago!" you blurted out, heedless of your choice of words.
He shook his head.
"We've received reports about some of his subordinates. They've grown arrogant, believing they can walk openly in daylight while the people are still hiding in their homes for fear of the sickness." You stopped in front of him, tightening the ribbon of your robe as it loosened with the force of your movements. "What? Where? When? Why didn't you tell me?"
He bit his lip before answering. "For a few weeks now. Not in the North. Along several western roads, he must have moved taking advantage of the general chaos. We can catch him, we have hunters on their trail. Bringing back Maelys' head now will restore morale and secure my claim to the throne once and for all." He reached out to take your hand, but once again you brushed him away.
"And I agree with that. But why didn't you tell me!?"
At that, the man finally showed a flash of anger himself, raising his voice, "Because you flinch every time I mention his name!" He rubbed a hand over his face before continuing. "Even now. You don't want to hear about him. You can lie to yourself all you want, but I see you. I care about you, I- I love you, alright? And I worry about everything you do, everything you say, everything you eat., i make sure you feel welcome here, that you're treated with respect, do you think I haven't noticed?"
He took a deep breath before speaking to you again, his tone gentler. "I didn't want to frighten you, my love. I can't take you with me, and all I can do is leave you in King's Landing with Valarr and his wife, and I'm not happy about that. I wanted, at the very least, to give you a few peaceful days because, regardless, the next ones never were going to be." He stood once more and approached you, and this time he did not allow you to pull away, holding you firmly by the forearms. "We'll sign the marriage papers to make your position secure and unbreakable. Then I'll leave. We'll celebrate when I'm home. It'll be what the realm needs, and what you need. We'll put this behind us and look forward."
Your lower lip trembled as you stammered your next words, "And how long do you think you'll be gone? A month? A year?!" You clenched your hands until your nails dug painfully into your palms, "I can't even go back home because it would make me look foolish-it isn't fair- I... I want to be with you..." You sniffled, rubbing at your nose before it could drip onto your chin. "I had my doubts when I made this decision, when I chose to follow you believing there could be something more between us, but now I'm certain. I love you Baelor, and I don't want you to leave me here..."
You covered your face before he could see the cascade of tears falling from your eyes, the man drew you toward him, trying to make you lift your head, but you folded in on yourself instead, lowering your gaze and collapsing to the floor as though your legs had simply stopped working. Baelor followed you down, wrapping his arms around your body while you buried your face against the king chest. The king. Your husband.
"I know, my darling, and I hope you understand just how vitally important you've been by my side throughout all of this. But now we have to make this one last effort. I need to know you'll be alright, that you'll watch over my children, and they'll do the same for you. The court is weak, but it's treacherous, you must stay clear-headed, my love. Please."
A long moment passed as you sobbed in his embrace, unable to accept his words, you could have blamed the wine, but the truth had already been laid bare before the man long before you had even admitted it to your own conscience.
Gods... you did not want to let him go. It was not Dragonstone or King's Landing, not South or North. As long as he was there, everything would be alright.
It took you another few moments before you were finally able to look at his face. The damp tracks of tears upon his cheeks betrayed the stoicism he was trying to project, and you leaned forward to kiss his lips, your breath uneven. "Don't do anything stupid. If you don't come back, I'll pray to the gods to torment your ghost until I can join you and finish the job myself."
Another kiss.
"Alright. I promise. "Two days later you boarded the ship bound for the capital, but along the way Baelor took his place at the head of his army, accompanied by Maekar, and turned south instead.
He bid farewell to his children and to you with one last kiss upon your forehead, and you watched him leave as you took your place beside Aerys in your new home with a hastily drafted marriage contract.
—
Maelys' death was cause for celebration.
When word spread, accompanied by the first eyewitness accounts and raven messages describing the bloody battle, it was as though the last year had never happened- or as though everyone had simply chosen to forget it, if only for a few days.
You kept a journal in which you wrote every evening about the daily dramas of life at court, it had originally begun as a collection of notes about things you needed to do during your husband's absence and the council that barely knew you yet expected mountains to be moved from your very first day. Still, according to his brothers, you were handling it rather well.
Better still, you had found a good friend in Kiera, with whom you shared your daily joys and frustrations, while Valarr mostly busied himself with the guards and made sure his brother did not find excuses to escape his swordsmanship lessons.
When the royal messenger returned to formally announce the victory throughout the city, you took the opportunity to spread the news as widely as possible and prepare for the victorious return of the king. Lately you had heard very little from him, or rather, Baelor had carefully avoided many details in the letters he sent, reducing them to parchments far too sparse for a man whose vocabulary was usually so rich. Your brother too, had left the North for a time to accompany him and while good news reached you from one side, the gods dragged you back down from the other.
Lucilla had taken to writing to you much more often ever since she had been left alone at home with a child, she was managing well, and every letter included a portrait of your nephew who, judging by each new drawing, seemed to grow before your eyes. You kept every one of those letters tucked safely inside your journal or hidden away in your wardrobe.
This time, however, no drawing accompanied the envelope bearing her signature.
You waited until evening before reading it. The castle was in turmoil because of the army's return, and you had countless matters of every kind to decide, not to mention that the court councillor had immediately taken advantage of the situation to order the dress in which you would swear your vows before the Sept. You would have preferred for Baelor to enjoy a little peace, but seeing everyone's eagerness, you had let go and left the rest to Aerys for a while. The man did enjoy dealing with tedious paperwork more than with reports of war itself after all.
With a little peace- finally, you were able to retrieve the correspondence that had been sent. In the quiet of your chambers- or rather, the king's chamber that had been prepared for you and Baelor once it had been left empty for a long time after the epidemic, you sat at the small table to read the first letter. You immediately understood the gravity of the situation because the woman had avoided any little drawings or affectionate nicknames of any kind, leaving only a cordial greeting and, beneath it, the message you had feared since leaving Winterfell.
Your father had closed his eyes for the last time a week before the raven arrived. After miraculously surviving the winter and the illness that had wiped out healthy men, the Stark patriarch had closed his eyes for the last time, going to sleep as he did every evening after leaving a gentle caress upon his grandson's chubby cheeks, never to wake again. The letter had been written with trembling hands, the woman had grown deeply attached to the Stark despite the short time they had spent together, and it seemed that ever since the heir had been born, he had tried, whenever possible, to spend a few moments with the child and enjoy his company.
Without you and your brother by his side during those final days, Lucilla had been his support in old age, and as much as the news destroyed your soul, you could do nothing but be grateful that the man had lived long enough to experience the joy of his grandson's presence.
At the end, a note referred you to the second letter, a final will that your father had written in his own hand before his body had become barely usable, one that had remained with the scribe instructed to deliver it to you once he had passed away.
You did not open it, however.
You still had that messy piece of parchment where the man had left in your hands the words you had exchanged, and you kept it as a precious treasure, rereading it on the most exhausting nights, deciding you would open it later, when you were not so alone, perhaps after exchanging a few words with your brother. You remained standing all night, pressing your feet into the colourful carpet while thinking again and again about what you could have done better, whether there had been some mistake along the way that you could use to punish your conscience with pain.
But you found nothing.
There was nothing.
Not even a painful death, not an injustice. It had simply happened, as it was meant to, and your presence there would only have made things worse, dragging you through those corridors like a ghost waiting for the end of the man while your place beside your husband had not been out of place by even a single word.
It only left you feeling empty.
And you missed Baelor in that moment more than anything else.
The days before had been spent with people filling your head with endless details about the correct placement of the banners at the entrance of the walls and the precise route that had to be marked for the army’s return the evening before their arrival, everything was tense and everyone struggled to sleep.
Valarr and Matarys were excited to see their father again, but (with deep shame) you had allowed the two of them to drink a few cups of wine and they had passed out early, confused by the effects of the alcohol, in your defense, you had promised the younger one a stem only so he would stop being teased at the table by his older brother, but after noticing the faint blush colouring his cheeks, you had panicked and dragged him to his room, haunted by Valarr’s laughter as he was taken away instead by his wife.
You had remained there checking the speech that had been “strongly advised” for Valarr to recite as a little performance for his father’s return, hoping you could reshape it a little for the young man’s sake, he had every right to want to stand beside his father in that battle, and instead, hidden away at home, he could only congratulate him for his victory and welcome the man with an embrace without stupid speeches. Except the recent loss seeped into your nerves like molasses at every moment of the day.
It was a flash before your eyes. The visual memories you had of your father were fading, making room for increasingly blurred edges, missing details. Even Winterfell itself was beginning to confuse its corridors, and you wondered whether it had taken so little for you to forget the place where you had lived your entire life, or whether it was simply the way your body was trying to protect itself from the pain of loss and distance.
Your body remained motionless for endless moments, the quill suspended in mid-air and your gaze fixed on the wall as if it could show you a clearer mirror of memories than the one you desperately searched for in the corners of your consciousness. You couldn’t even be overly happy about the death of your attacker, because he too had become nothing more than a blurred stain, mostly a distant sensation that you could easily lose, considering how overwhelmed you were with work. Of course- you were glad, but you would have wanted to celebrate with Baelor and not rejoice toward the sky alone.
And as if the gods themselves had listened to you, heavy footsteps crossed the corridor before stopping at the door of the chamber, followed by knuckles knocking against the wood.
Recognising the sound of armour, you thought it was one of the royal guards and gave him permission to enter, but receiving only silence, you raised your gaze in confusion, only to remain open-mouthed.
“Wh-” You stood abruptly and rushed into his arms, “I thought you would arrive tomorrow,” you gasped, wrapping your arms around the man's neck. Baelor stood in the doorway wearing the same armour you had watched him leave in, with more beard and hair and an ugly bruise emerging from the curve of his neck and disappearing lower beneath the metal.
He lifted you effortlessly. There was a terrible smell of sweat and horse, but it was familiar, good, and the lips pressed against his had a salty aftertaste as you held his arms around his neck. “Me and the others took advantage of the chance to avoid all the fanfare,” he joked, closing the door behind him and pushing you both into the darkened chamber.
“Let’s call Valarr and Matarys,” you murmured against his lips, the thought of that stupid letter behind you, ready to be thrown out the window, but he shook his head. “I already passed by. They’re asleep. And you should be in bed as well.” he said it with raised eyebrows before making you sit on the desk, keeping his hands on your hips.
“I had to sort some things out.” You pushed him down to bring his lips back to yours, gently biting his lower one “Do you know how much they tortured me over your return? If you don’t go back now and make the entire circus on horseback, I’ll make the great Baelor Targaryen disappear!” You joked, pulling a warm laugh from deep in his throat tapping your lips together two or three times before intertwining your fingers with the buckles of his armour, shaking the metal. “I missed you-”
Your lips trembled. “I missed you so much-” You bit the inside of your mouth as if that could prevent you from shaking, and to stop him from questioning your unstable mood, you kissed him again, harder, trying to undo the armour buckles before his gloved hands stopped you.
“Wait-” Baelor tried to speak, but uselessly, because you managed to open one of the shoulder guards, making it fall to the ground with a loud metallic crash. “Enough waiting,” you mewled against his mouth, “We’re already married, we have to celebrate our union, I have- I can’t take it anymore- doing this-”
You struggled in the darkness, trying to understand the direction of that armour so unfamiliar to you, when the man finally removed his gloves and helped you open the rest, pulling away the thick covering and remaining only in his chainmail shirt after kicking away his boots and the helmet still hanging around his neck.
“My dear,” he murmured softly before stopping you, holding your wrists close to his chest where his heart was beating wildly.
“Maelys is dead. It’s over.”
He declared it with his back straight and a burning fire in his eyes, but you shook your head. “I don’t want to hear his name mentioned in our bedchamber never again. Do you understand me?” you asked, resting your forehead against his. “We’re alright. I’m alright. I promise you.”
There was a long moment, almost antagonistic, between your eyes. A contest of gazes between two people challenging the other to show their weakness, to prove they were fragile, exposed to the storm that finally seemed to have passed. But there was only one thread connecting both, one certainty of strength and desire.
You were no longer afraid of that intimacy. You had stopped being frightened of your marriage, of your choices. You wanted to belong to him in every way possible until you became one single thing. It seemed to be enough.
Baelor moved away just enough to remove the heavy shirt made of fine metal, which rang like chains being released. The softer, lighter undershirt was easily opened, and thanks to the moonlight you could admire his sweaty chest, partially covered by numerous bruises mapping his lean body. The skin was rough beneath your touch and marked by countless wounds that were still healing. Your hands wished you had a lantern so you could touch every curve and every mole, you wanted to tear away the little that remained covering him.
Baelor wrapped his arms beneath your legs before dragging both toward the bed, where he left you with a thud against the mattress, hovering above your body with a short breath.
“I thought it would- happen differently,” he admitted with slight embarrassment and a small smile before lowering his hands toward your undergarments, you wished there had been more light so you could fully enjoy the sight, but you settled for loosening the front of your gown, revealing untouched skin.
“Me too. But I desire you more than I love you.” You joked with a grin before pulling yourself up onto your elbows to meet him once more in a kiss.
You bit his lip, pulling him against your body as though he was a blanket, your fingers brushing over the place where the wound on his head marked him in a tender caress, the hair was at least somewhat orderly, but his beard was two or three fingers thick, and although the sensation was unfamiliar to you due to its length, you were not displeased, tugging at the dark strands as you had learned to do. “I don’t mind this look. But afterwards, if you don’t take a bath, I’ll throw you out of the chamber.” You warned the king before biting along his defined jaw and lower down his neck, but you were stopped when he himself lowered down to cover your chest with hickeys and bites, making you giggle at the tickling sensation of the dark hairs scratching against your sensitive skin.
“Don’t leave marks on me, we risk a scandal-” You slurred before a heavy sigh escaped you when his teeth slowly sank into your breast, where the left one was held by his rough hand, the right was teased by the tongue and pulled by his wet lips, leaving a damp trail along the imaginary path, your back arched into his touch to give him more room over your curves as he moved lower, kissing your stomach and passing the curve of your navel before stopping above the mound of Venus, still covered by the undergarments that were darkening with your own arousal.
“Baelor-” You pleaded, opening the legs for him, but to your great disappointment, he moved even lower, following the curve of the leg you kept bent in the air.
It took you a moment to understand what he was aiming for, only to let out a loud sigh when his closed lips kissed the long jagged scar. After so much time spent on healing the worst had passed, and what remained was that ugly, wide, swollen mark on the inside of your thigh, that the healers had promised would over the years become lighter and less raised- at least partially. You had suffered at the thought of remaining scarred, it was neither small nor pretty (as much as a scar could ever be), and on the colder days, when the frost seeped into your bones, your thigh pulsed like salt rubbed into an open wound. You had been warned that you would probably occasionally feel pain where the muscles had been torn, and that with time the discomfort you felt when walking for long periods would become more noticeable.
But you were alive, and that was enough.
“Baelor-” you whined again as he took all the time in the world to kiss every inch of that mark, the skin there was especially sensitive, and the solemnity of the gesture was enough to shake your chest with an emotional swell that you were desperately trying to force back down into your stomach.
“My beautiful wife,” he murmured softly against your skin, pressing you back into the mattress when you rolled your hips in an attempt to offer him your sex directly before his face, with little success.
“Stop it-” you tried to grab his head, but in the darkness you could barely make out the shape of his shoulders, and before you could resort to force to make him stop, the hand that wasn't keeping your leg pinned slid between them so he could brush his thumb over the fabric, rubbing your clit through the cloth.
“I spoke your name,” he murmured against the scar, pausing every so often to leave those featherlight kisses. “Before I killed him, I told him the Princess of the North sent her regards.”
You exhaled sharply, tensing so hard it hurt, torn between the need to grind your center against his fingers and the instinct to flee and yell at him to stop talking.
He slid his palms over the skin of your legs before taking hold of your underwear and easing it down, carefully slipping it off while his lips followed the curve in turn, kissing part of your knee before letting the garment fall to the floor, but instead of climbing back into your arms as you longed for him to, he retraced the trail in reverse, returning to the scar and drawing another strangled sigh from you before moving even lower.
“No, wait- don't-” you jolted as you felt his warm breath against your damp skin, but before you could come up with a good excuse not to let him, his lips were on you, licking a long, wet trail between your folds before closing around your clit sucking firmly.
A long moan shook your chest as your hips struggled to escape the overwhelming stimulation, but Baelor caught both your legs to keep you from squirming and buried his nose in the hair at your mound. his beard scratched along the curve of your backside, and his strong hands kneaded your muscles in an imitation of a massage. With your hips raised and your face buried in the pillow, you mumbled a few incoherent words, a litany somewhere between prayers to the gods and a mangled version of his name as the wet muscle of his tongue thrust deep inside your cunt.
You stroked his head, trying to catch his short hair between your fingers with little success. “Baelor-gods, fuck me, I can't take it anymore-” you sobbed as you felt his lips close around the sensitive nub once more, that desperate need to be filled by the man, longing to finally share that climax with him after so long setting his pleasure aside for yours.
When his mouth finally released you from its damp hold, you let out a small sigh of relief, even though it meant delaying the orgasm simmering low in your stomach, Baelor lowered your hips back onto the mattress so he could move up to you, and a smile slipped across your lips at the sight of his beard glistening with your arousal, though you paid it little mind as you kissed him with even greater fervor than before. With his warm body pressed against yours, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and parted your legs to let him settle between them, where you felt the tip of his cock resting against yours.
“I want to confess my sins.” He smiled gently before caressing your cheek; you could have bitten him for stopping yet again, “I've dreamed of having your body from the very first moment I saw you,” the man husky voice vibrated through his chest, echoing against yours. “In the greenhouse-with your unsteady steps and eyes glazed with wine, you were my undoing...” You cupped his cheeks before lightly scratching at the coarse beard beneath your fingertips.
You met each other in one last kiss before his swollen cock was slowly pushed into your warmth, the measured thrust stealing your breath with a sensation entirely new.
You let your head fall back, your eyes closing as the king filled your cunt completely, until your hips were pressed flush against one another.
You remained motionless, your body arched beneath him, savoring the faint burn that grazed deep inside your pussy in a way your own fingers never could, Baelor kept his face buried in the crook of your neck, where you could feel him drawing slow, deep breaths, his arms taut on either side of your body to keep himself suspended above you, your legs wrapped around his hips.
“Baelor-” you moaned, rolling your hips once to test the reaction of your muscles, when no discomfort came, the last of your hesitation melted away, and you dug your nails into his back. “Fuck me,” you whispered into his ear, finally ready to give yourself to the man in every way.
The first thrusts were slow, meant to test the waters, you must have pressed against a bruise or two without meaning to judging by the flinches that ran through the man- reactions that had little to do with the passion consuming you both. But as soon as you found the right rhythm and position together, Baelor's hips grew bolder, driving forcefully against yours, his cock rubbing along the soft inner walls of your cunt as they welcomed him, slick and feverishly warm. “Harder-” you panted, pressing his face deeper into the curve of your neck, your nails raking across the muscles of his back, after the attention of his tongue, the body felt already so close that it embarrassed you, but between the heavy thrust of his cock burying itself deep inside your warmth and his lips sucking at the skin of your neck, you swallowed the bitter aftertaste and gladly surrendered to the king's devotion to your body.
“I- I'm, I have to, I'm going to come-” you gasped, baring your neck even more to his ministrations as the force and speed of his thrusts increased, tearing louder and louder moans from your lips, “Come. Cum around my cock, my love,” he commanded, almost growling into your ear, one hand gripping your thigh to spread you even wider for his assault. You threw your head back as fresh tears dampened your temples before a loud moan announced your climax, your walls fluttered around the man's thick cock, making him shudder on the brink before he came deep inside your channel, spilling a hot release into your fertile womb.
Both your hips jerked in uneven motions as your broken voices blended into one, your fingers clung to whatever they could reach, and your lips found each other in one last wet kiss before your bodies melted into the mattress, leaving the dark chamber filled with a cacophony of heavy sighs and broken moans.
The two of you settled onto your sides, pulling the covers over yourselves as best you could, and fell asleep utterly exhausted, your face buried in the curve of his neck while the heavy arm rested around your waist.
The following morning, at dawn, you opened your eyes with boneless limbs, the head still in the clouds while Baelor remained fast asleep, softly snoring with his face half-buried in the pillow.
The window had been left open the night before, and the biting cold had frozen the room, at some point in your sleep, you had turned over and uncovered yourself, and it was probably the chill against your skin that had woken you.
You took the opportunity to slip free from the man's arm and quietly rise from the bed. The robe abandoned on the floor covered your naked body before you crossed the room to gently close the window, savoring the last traces of darkness as they gave way to the first rays of the sun.
You stood there for a long while, thinking back to the previous evening, the joy you'd felt upon seeing him standing in the doorway, and how passion had swept you both away, turning a moment of intimacy into a perfect union you already longed to experience again as soon as possible.
You still had some time to yourself, and took advantage of it to light the fireplace, stacking a few logs inside before setting the wood alight so the large chamber could warm after so many hours in the cold. Once you were certain the fire would burn safely without your constant attention, you returned to the bed, but instead of lying back down, you remained standing, staring at Baelor like an owl.
The man still bore traces of dirt on his skin, marks from fresh wounds that must have reopened because of your nails, and a few bruises stretched from one side of his torso to his neck, where you had managed to spot them the night before. Without thinking, you gathered the blankets pooled around his waist and pulled them up over the man's shoulders. After all, the sheets would have to be washed anyway, you wanted to crawl back into bed, but that brief moment of solitude was the final step before what you hoped would truly become your married life, and you wanted to savor its last taste slowly. You could already picture the joy on the two teenagers' faces when they saw their father. Perhaps Maekar had returned as well, along with his children, and the thought of seeing the whole family together in a moment of happiness filled your heart. Things would not become easy from this point onward, but you could at least celebrate that victory.
You knew this was the right moment.
That you had to close that chapter here, balanced between night and dawn, now that the scars had healed and the monster was dead.
With trembling hands, you opened the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe where you kept your nightclothes. Tucked away in the hard-to-reach upper corner were all your family's letters. You liked keeping them there, as though that small precaution might somehow help them withstand the relentless passage of time.
Taking out the bundle and returned to the desk, turning the letters over in your hands, you recognized the one you were looking for immediately. After all, it was the only one still sealed.
You opened the envelope with a deep sigh before pulling out a short rectangular slip of parchment, which, once turned over, revealed the few words written upon it.
"Burn that damned thing and move on. I love you. Yours, Dad."
A sob escaped your lips before you could even think to hold back the tears. Pressing a hand over your face so as not to disturb the peaceful sleep of the man only a few steps away, you picked up the other parchment you had kept all this time and looked at them both again, rereading the lines as though that alone would be enough to etch them forever behind your eyes- the memory of those trembling hands, that imposing frame even as his health failed him, and those small eyes that had watched you grow without ever losing their affection.
You stopped before the fireplace, unable to carry out the gesture, pressing your nose against the parchment in the hope that it might still smell of home... and of him. But too much time had passed, and the only scent left was the stale air of the drawers where you had kept them, mingled with the faint fragrance that had clung to your carefully laundered clothes. You kissed the paper where the man had signed not with his name, but with the title of father, and with your nose still damp, you tossed both letters into the flames, remaining motionless as the edges blackened and the words curled away until they disappeared into the air.
"My dear?"
Baelor's voice made the hairs on your arms stand on end as you turned abruptly, hearing him only a few steps behind you. He had slipped his undergarments back on and quietly come up behind you, perhaps after hearing you cry. He gently took hold of your arms, encouraging to step closer, but you didn't, instead trying to wipe away the tears running down your cheeks.
"What happened?" he asked, casting a quick glance toward the fireplace, where the last remnants of the parchment lay only moments from turning to ash. He brushed away a few tears with his thumb, carefully caressing your worn face, and you leaned into him as though he were an anchor.
"Nothing- I..." You looked into the flames once more. Finding nothing left of the papers, your heart trembled in your chest, but you swallowed hard.
"They were my father's memories," you admitted, meeting your husband's gaze with tear-filled eyes, "He asked me to burn them as his final wish."
You lost yourself in those mismatched eyes as they softened with genuine concern, "I didn't know... gods, now I feel terribly, and yesterday-" but you shook your head, clasping his hands in yours, you offered him a faint smile, but a sincere one.
"No. I'm alright. It was... what I needed." Rising onto your toes, you kissed him softly on the lips before brushing your nose against his. "Maybe we'll talk about it another day. We have a busy day ahead."
Baelor wasn't distracted by your touch, but he respected the boundary, nodding without taking his eyes off you. "Alright. But... don't do that again. I woke up and heard you... I thought I'd hurt you." To your ears, it was the sweetest confession imaginable, and yet you laughed- quietly, your eyes still wet with tears. "I have no complaints about that. Except perhaps the state you climbed into bed in." You stole another quick kiss before stepping away and pointing toward the armor still lying abandoned on the floor, "Go take a bath. The court still thinks you haven't arrived. And go wake your sons."
He raised his hands before placing one dramatically over his chest. "Yes, ma'am."
You walked toward the door, giving him another smile and one last glance at the burning fire before reaching for the handle, "I'm going to find someone to prepare your bath. Don't let them find you like this- it isn't very kingly," you admonished, draping a heavy cloak over your shoulders as you prepared to leave.
"Yes, ma'am," he repeated with an amused smile.
You stepped into the corridor, hoping to run into someone, but finding no one, you started walking away before the man called your name.
"I missed you," he murmured at last in that warm, deep voice that felt like home.
Your home.
You smiled at him once more, answering with equal affection.
"I missed you too."
And, wiping away the last traces of your tears, you disappeared down the corridor, ready to face the first of a long line of challenges adorned in gold and onyx.
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I once saw someone describe Aerion in the trial of seven as "seeing Dunk's second health bar come up" and frankly said that's the best summary of this face during that I have ever seen.
I'm having a crisis writing the final chapter of my Baelor story because I promised some smut, and now I'm stuck between the idea of making him both gentle and rough at the same time. I can't figure out how to do it, and I've been stuck on the same lines for three days.
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I had a relapse and haven't been feeling very well, and on top of that, some serious family issues came up and cost me a few sleepless nights. I had written a large portion of the chapter, then ended up hating it and rewrote the whole thing from scratch.
But these past few days I couldn't manage to do everything at once, and I wanted to give you another chapter as soon as possible, so I decided to split it in two. I don't know how long the next one will be, but it should be the final chapter.
You did not want to postpone the discussion, but you did anyway. It was a meager consolation- believing you could prepare yourself psychologically beforehand for that confrontation, which would have little that was proper about it regardless of the apologetic tone you wanted to use.
You had a horse prepared to finally return the plush toy, your brother was checking up the few personal belongings you had, and if everything went well perhaps you would stay one evening at most before leaving. The weather seemed suitable and it was better to seize the opportunity. Officially, you were capable of “riding cautiously” for a few meters, but the road to your new home would be long and you would probably spend it in a carriage because no one would allow you to travel that far on horseback, and it wasn't as if you wanted to. Taking that ride was mostly meant to loosen up your knees a little for the journey.
You had thought of asking Reinmod to accompany you to the house, but when you went looking for him you came across Valarr and his father speaking with the man in question.
“Oh, I caught you planning the downfall of my family, I knew I couldn't trust you.” You joked to make your presence known to the three standing outside in the garden. Valarr still seemed uncomfortable in your presence, but the prince did not show it too much, especially when he realized he wasn't the only one standing there burning on the spot.
“My lady.” The knight greeted with his deep voice while bowing, while Baelor merely smiled.
“Actually, we were asking your loyal guard whether he wished to follow you south to remain at your side. You would have someone familiar with you and it could only be beneficial.”
You were taken aback by the remark, but indeed it was not a bad idea- as long as he wanted to, of course. Reinmod, like everyone else, was attached to his home and defended it fiercely.
“That would be wonderful- if you wanted to. You grew up here like I did and I don't want you to feel obligated.” He did not hesitate for even a moment, shaking his head. “I would follow you beyond the walls my lady, if it meant remaining by your side. And... if I may. I do not think your brother and I will manage to tolerate each other for long without you between us separating us.” A flash of mild embarrassment passed between you, light as a gust of wind against your face, irritating but present. There was very little to say; he was damn right.
“I would be happy to have you by my side even as a Targaryen, Reinmod. Please, think about what you wish to bring with you and we shall leave together.”
The shadow of a smile crossed his face before he nodded and walked away with heavy steps. Knowing that you would still have him by your side warmed your heart and made you feel less alone at the thought of leaving.
Then you realized you had not asked him to accompany you.
“Oh- excuse me, I had to do something,” you blurted out without thinking as you moved to follow him before Baelor stopped you. “Were you told that I wanted to speak with you? I know you're very busy but, I would like a few words.” Valarr watched the two of you like a spectator at a joust, unable to focus his gaze on either challenger. You wanted to pinch his cheek because he was making you nervous.
“Yes, I was going to send for you when I finished here, I wanted to return that toy before I forgot about it… but I still don't have permission to ride alone and I wanted to ask Reinmod.” You turned to look for the man but he had already disappeared into the house, leaving you outside in the snow. You wanted to bash your head against the stone wall when the prince replied.
“I can accompany you. We can consider it a way of apologizing for last time.”
No.
No.
You didn’t want to.
You did not want to destroy the false peace you had built around that span of time you believed you had before speaking to him, but it would be even more obvious that you were trying to flee if you refused. Even though Valarr knew everything that was going on between the two of you- or at least had understood most of it, so there was no need to speak in hieroglyphics- you still felt uncomfortable and unable to refuse him. You could not even think of a good excuse to get rid of him.
“Well, if you have nothing to do. I need to reach a house beyond the market, a few minutes on horseback... or a little more because I've been forbidden from trotting.”
Baelor seemed far too pleased to hear that, and he held out his hand for you to take. Valarr cleared his throat to announce his departure and leave the two of you alone. You wondered if he had been in his room the previous evening while you had been screaming like a madwoman in his father's chambers.
So you asked.
Baelor let his hand fall to his side, letting go of that veil of impersonality between you as well- (by now a mere fiction) before answering.
“Yes. He saw me dragging you away from the guest wing. But I didn't tell him anything, only that you were drunk and tired and I was helping you.”
Oh, now you wanted to be buried alive.
“Anyone else?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. Daeron was in his room, but he was particularly drunk and tends to forget many of the things he does the next morning. I would have noticed if he had heard anything strange.”
You ran a hand over your face before sighing. “Okay, I- I have to do this. Will you accompany me?” He made an affirmative sound and together you walked to the stable where your horse was ready, tied near the entrance.
Now you had to live with the fact that Valarr had become yet another badge of shame you could pin to your chest. At least the poor boy avoided you like the plague, if you didn't see him, he didn't exist- or some fantasy like that.
“By the way... would it be possible to bring my mare as well? I know she's just a horse, but-” You watched him take the animal's reins before handing her a carrot, which she chewed with delight.
“Of course. We should probably discuss it better later, but it is already written in the terms of our agreement. You may also bring specific members of the household staff with you. But that would be a conversation you should have with Sigfrid.” You stepped closer to his side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment. “Yes... I haven't read them yet. I'll go through everything before dinner.” You admitted under your breath while allowing him to help you onto the horse, not too differently from the first time, except that now you still had a headache, but you were more clear-headed.
He climbed up behind and then made sure you were comfortable. One of the stirrups had been tied shorter to allow you to rest your weight without stretching your leg against the horse's curved side. You had the bag with the incriminating object beside your hip and the man behind you holding the reins, boxing you in. A flash of the previous evening struck you, but you tried to ignore it.
To maintain some privacy, you pulled your hoods up and took a side road so you would not have to ride along the main one during peak trading hours. You seemed to be doing well, and when the man asked, you confirmed it.
Even the side streets were crowded, mostly with children and animals that agitated the mare forcing Baelor to guide her into less lit and frequented alleys. As the voices faded and the houses gradually grew denser, silence took its place as an unwelcome third presence between you. Then you stopped abruptly. Or rather, Baelor gently pulled the reins, signaling the animal to halt.
A moment lasted an hour, perhaps an hour lasted a moment. You tried to grab the reins and urge the mare forward again, but the man snatched them away with a tug.
“Are we going to keep pretending nothing happened?”
You could feel his breath on the back of your neck even through the hood. He was pressed against your body, and turning to face him would have been difficult- or at least uncomfortable for your neck- so you pushed your hood back to look at him over your shoulder.
“If you don't get the horse moving, I swear I'll throw myself to the ground and start screaming.”
For the record, that was not what you had planned to tell him, nor did it resemble the apology you owed him after that terrible evening, but he had backed you into a corner and you were rapidly beginning to panic. The city houses rose as high as three stories and housed several families, but the narrow street where you were was deserted, and every door and window was barred to keep the warmth of the fireplaces inside. If anyone had been within those homes, you would have noticed because the walls were not that thick and footsteps would have echoed like thunder. During daylight hours these streets were deserted, children spent time with their neighbors and adults traded resources at the market, making those corners seem like part of a ghost town.
You could not even dismount because whichever side you chose, you would scrape your head against stone before ending up beneath the horse's hooves.
If you screamed, no one would probably hear you, and Baelor knew it. Yours was an empty threat whose sole purpose was to express your discomfort in that moment without raising your voice or insulting him outright. You did not want to admit that you were cornered, he did not seem willing to admit his tactic, and you did not want to expose yourself. It was a stalemate worthy of a final confrontation.
Yours was a warning that you were unhappy with the situation and would act without thinking if things got out of hand.
“So that's a yes?”
The tall shadows of the buildings covered you like a dark cloud. The prince lowered his hood as well.
“You want to talk about it here? I thought you had made your decision yesterday. When you- when I...” You huffed and grabbed the reins again, wrapping them around your fingers, you were regretting accepting his help so deeply that you wanted to bite off your own tongue. You shook the straps, but he pulled them in turn, agitating the mare, who took a few confused steps forward and back because of your squirming on her back before snorting unhappily.
“You needed sleep. I left to allow you to rest.” His free hand gripped yours to stop you from moving it and pressed it against your stomach, holding you on his chest. You would have liked to struggle more, but you risked frightening the horse and sending both of you crashing to the ground, breaking your backs or worse.
“I told you I wanted to talk.” He continued.
“And I told you I would after I settled this matter.” You shot back through clenched teeth. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear and shame turning into anger and irritation as a defense mechanism.
“You're a liar. You want time to rebuild a wall between us and that isn't what we need after yesterday.” He allowed you to turn sideways so you could look him in the eyes, still holding you tightly with your shoulder against his chest and the wind cutting through the alley, tangling your hair. “Arrogant of you to assume you know what I need.”
His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. His words echoed in your chest like a growl, making you tremble as well. “I need to kiss you. And I know you want it too. I'm tired of this.”
The admission struck like lightning, leaving you shaken by the raw truth- after all those evasions that had created a catastrophe around you, the Targaryen suddenly cut through the storm like a spear aimed directly where you were most exposed, the shame of the drunken kiss you had stolen from him.
“You should have played it better before.” Not an accusation, but not a caress either, trapped atop that poor horse suffering the tension of two adults too proud to admit aloud that you were victims of passion. Or rather, Baelor was trying to talk about it, but without fully committing, hoping that you would take a step as well and meet him halfway. But wasn't that what he had already tried? Now it was acceptable because he had finally made up his mind?
“Is that what you want? For me to leave you alone?” The question stretched between you as an ironic callback to the previous evening, and you had had enough.
“Let's go.”
You turned away again, trying to end that conversation, and he seemed to agree because with a slight movement of his hips the beast began galloping once more through the narrow streets toward your final destination. An acidic broth settled at the base of your stomach like the preamble to a treaty of war.
You had never been to the house they had moved into for the winter. You remembered the little girl's face well, but struggled to recognize her parents, gray and increasingly gaunt from winter's deadly bite. They had been warned that you would stop by, and found all three standing in front of the house, lost in casual conversation.
The place had two stories and stood before a small square overgrown with weeds. Baelor stayed behind with the horse while you headed to the door to give them some privacy.
“Oh, my lady-” was the only coherent phrase you caught before both of them showered you with praise and various apologies, their heavy accent mashing the words together and making them difficult to understand one time out of three. You calmed them by taking the woman's hands in yours as she waved them around while speaking excitedly. Her thin fingers felt skeletal between your palms and she was clearly suffering from the cold far more than you were beneath your heavy clothes. The little girl, on the other hand, seemed in excellent health. It would not have surprised you if the two based their entire diet around their daughter's well-being. Supplies could not have been plentiful for the less fortunate.
“Please. I'm sorry I wasn't able to come sooner, with everything that happened and your house” Shame struck your guts, making you lower your head, but once again you were overwhelmed with reassurances and confused insults aimed at the Targaryens. They were angry enough to be heard even by Baelor several meters away, but you were reassured by the fact that their dialect was probably too thick for him to truly understand the epithets they used to describe his family. They were a simple couple. Explaining that the Blackfyres were an indirect branch of the royal family would have been a discussion lost to the wind the moment you began it.
“You mustn't worry, my lady. The North stands united,” the woman gently squeezed your hand. “We have dear neighbors who will help us rebuild when spring returns. And perhaps we can paint it better next time.”
The remark delighted the little girl beside her, who nodded while clutching her mother's skirts. Finally, you released the woman and reached into your bag for the toy.
“I know it's poor consolation, but... I hoped it might make someone happy.”
The moment the first ear emerged from the bag, the little girl- whose name you were ashamed to admit you could not remember, squealed as she recognized the tiger. She didn't seem disappointed at all to see it dented or missing pieces. The moment you offered it to her, she snatched it from your hands, prompting a mild reprimand from her father.
“Oh, it doesn't matter. It's...” You fell silent for a moment searching for the right words, but you could not find them. It felt as though you were minimizing the loss of their home no matter what you said, and you would not have blamed them for feeling some resentment. You were simply happy to see the little girl so joyful as she hugged her friend, so you shook your head and finished the sentence in a whisper. “Everything.”
The man patted his daughter's head. He had short white hair and a long nose accompanied by a thick mustache, deep green eyes that looked at you the way any parent would look at their children. He placed a hand on your arm and squeezed your elbow affectionately.
“My only regret, my lady, is that our house didn't become that pig's tomb. It would have been an honor.”
His puffed chest and stern tone drew a smile, but you nodded.
“No matter how much time passes. The gods will punish the faithless and those who harm the noble people of the North.”
The two adults nodded firmly. That thread of unity binding you to the same land was proof that all of this ultimately made sense, that this marriage would in any case benefit the people of the North, and the thought warmed your chest.
“I must leave. But it has been a pleasure to meet you again.”
Encouraged by her mother, the little girl thanked you, imitating an unsteady curtsy while holding the edges of her trousers as though they were a long skirt before following her family inside. They waited for you to walk away before closing the door, the old dry sound of wood dragging against the floor until it shut. A common gesture and an everyday action that closed that chapter of your life like a gust of wind against your face.
“Done?” he asked softly. He had watched the exchange from afar, a small smile on his lips.
“Yes. I think it's over.”
You remained motionless, staring at the door for a while longer. So many sleepless nights for such a simple gesture. Was it worth it? Would you do it again if you had known what would happen?
“Yes,” you said again, causing a confused expression to appear on his face, and then continued. “It was worth it. I would do it again and again... I haven't felt this good in... a very long time.” You swallowed hard, wiping at an eye before a tear could even form.
“You don't think it was the gods' punishment anymore?”
The question caught in your throat. You gasped a couple of times before turning toward him.
“I-I don't know...” you admitted miserably.
The Targaryen took your hands in his, his thumbs brushing your reddened knuckles, but you did not pull away.
“Perhaps it's time to admit that you were only punishing yourself. And that you should be admired for a noble act.”
A bitter laugh escaped your lips.
“Saving a stuffed tiger is a noble act?”
He tugged lightly on your hand before brushing your skin with a chaste kiss. The gesture left you momentarily speechless, but you did not have time to question it.
“If we only considered great deeds noble, the human spirit would be mostly empty and without purpose. Poets may write endless scrolls and minstrels compose timeless music, but a life is balanced on small things. You have both.”
You stood still, warmed by the way he was looking at you. Baelor always knew what to say to tear down your paranoia. You had no strength left to correct him, and truthfully, you did not want to. You would accept those words like so many others, with painful affection.
“We should head back. By the time we reach home it will be dark. It's a miracle it isn't snowing.”
You slipped your fingers from his before you could melt beneath his gaze. You climbed back onto the horse and retraced your route.
“Would it be a problem if I asked you to have dinner with me? To discuss things calmly.”
The atmosphere had relaxed, but the barrier between you had not fallen. You continued to keep the drawbridge raised to protect that corner of self-respect you had left, but you nodded, once again swayed by the prince. The anger now lay dormant, lulled by his voice.
“Okay.”
You had finally read the family contract detailing all the clauses of the marriage.
You had sighed.
And you had signed it.
You wanted to use it as proof of your apology. You would make that journey to your new home with the man and then, at last, you would part ways. You were suspicious of his words- in the sense that he had admitted he wanted to kiss you, but by now you felt feverish. You understood nothing anymore. You felt lighter after freeing yourself of that tiger. You wanted to believe “hoped” that you would finally be able to sleep peacefully that night with your guilt laid to rest. You didn't want an argument with Baelor.
He had the power to make himself forgiven with only a few words... not that he had truly done anything wrong to you. You thought you were the greater source of discomfort between the two of you, but that sudden horseback ride had frayed your nerves.
And besides, he had kissed you.
You had not physically forced him.
You informed Sigfrid, placed the parchment on the table, in the same sitting room where you had gotten drunk the night before, and had the table set for two, seated opposite one another.
Numerous dishes had been prepared at your request and left in the center, covered to keep them warm so that you could speak without the servants present. Perhaps you had overdone it, and the candelabrum created too much atmosphere, but you thought it was a good setting to demonstrate that you were serious about your apology.
It was simple. You would show him the document, apologize, make the usual promises, go to bed, and that would be the end of it.
You only hoped Baelor was thinking along the same lines because he could not possibly be cruel enough to bring up your kiss now that you had finally taken a step back.
You waited for him in the room until he arrived and the two of you took your seats. Nearby, two pitchers sat filled with water and wine, but neither of you dared reach for the latter, preferring instead to fill your cups with cool water.
Both of you noticed how diligently you were avoiding the sweet liquid and exchanged a grimace while the dishes remained untouched.
“So this is how it's going to be, huh?” You tried to joke to avoid the tension.
“No more wine. Just to be safe.”
He laughed softly, in a way that felt unusual for someone like him, though both of you vibrated with nervous energy and none of it felt natural.
“Actually, I don't usually drink. Or not more than a glass. I've never been the type.” He confessed as he made the first move to cut into the thick meat on his plate. The sound of silverware striking porcelain filled the silence and relieved some of the discomfort choking you both.
“No? Not even when you were young? With your brothers?” You tried to steer the conversation toward something more casual, just as you had hoped, pretending everything could be fine and move forward. Gods- mistakes happened, didn't they? It was fine. Everything was fine.
He shook his head, savoring a couple of bites before replying.
“Unfortunately, being the eldest son of a royal family meant I lived very differently from my brothers. Learning a certain kind of etiquette and living under strict rules from a very young age. Wine loosens the tongue,” he shot you a quick glance, but you pretended not to notice it, “a risk for someone like me. Maekar was more the type. He had his share of adventures.”
Oh yes, you could imagine a young Baelor buried in books before a single hair had grown on his face, though the image was rather depressing.
“I'm not surprised. He seems like the type who sneaks out at night looking for women. Like his sons.”
The remark slipped out as you remembered Daeron's story. You didn’t really feel like judging. Being so high in the social hierarchy was isolating and full of duties and masks to maintain, being able to sneak away and pretend to be a nobody probably did wonders for the nerves every now and then. Even your brother had crossed beyond the borders of the North without flaunting his title around. It spared him a great deal of etiquette-related trouble.
Baelor nodded, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into the meat juices.
“Oh yes. Sometimes I point it out to him, but he tends to get irritated, so I advise you not to make the same mistake.”
You smiled faintly. Mocking your future husband's father was not something you wanted to make a habit of, but in the end family was also that, and you hoped that with time all the bickering you had shared would fade into the past and perhaps become fond memories of playful teasing.
It wasn't family if it wasn't problematic.
Or one would simply leave, wouldn't they?
Now that would be a luxury.
“I admit I had an equally boring childhood. My mother never let me do much. Sigfrid was the restless soul between the two of us.”
You finished the potatoes before using bread to soak up the remaining juices from the meat. Some of the tension finally left your shoulders. As far as you were concerned, you could have spent the whole evening like this.
“If I may ask, about your mother. She seems to have been a remarkable woman. Your face lights up whenever you mention her.”
Looking at the dishes, you realized you had ordered far too much food. There was enough left for at least another generous serving of every dish. Still, you moved a few sliced carrots onto your plate, mostly so you could taste them.
You were beginning to think about all the things that would be a last time for you. Would food taste different? Would the air sound different through the tree branches? Would the sky have the same color at sunset?
They were small things, but you took them for granted because you had lived with them your whole life. Already knowing that winters would not be so harsh and summers would be warmer depressed you. You should have taken it as a positive sign, but you struggled to see it that way.
And besides, you did not like the heat.
“She was... a particular woman. Fourth child, three older brothers, one who died after only a few months. My grandfather was a very harsh man. He raised three men instead of two.”
Unfortunately, the man had died when you were very young, but you had good memories of him. Over the years you would never have imagined hearing certain stories, but through a child's eyes it was easy to see only the good and beautiful things about the people you loved.
The prince nodded, encouraging you to continue without judgment. Both of you seemed full now and the water was gone.
Yet neither of you had reached for the wine.
“I don't know what to tell you. She was... rude. Honest. Like every man of the North. Quick with her hands. Everyone here feared my father, but nobody had the courage to look her in the eye when she walked by. She wasn't a Stark by blood, but she was in spirit. Nobody ever doubted it.”
A bitter smile touched your lips. You had admired her in silence for years. You had sharpened the gentler parts of your character, trying to make them as cutting and dangerous as hers. You hung on her every word and were proud of the affection she gave you. Perhaps she had not been a good mother, but you loved her deeply.
“I can see some of those traits in you.”
“Oh, I tried. But I never had her arrogance. She always said I had my father's gentleness. But in her final days, shortly before she died, she was really proud of me. She would have liked me to cry less,” the confession came out naturally, as though you were speaking to an old friend, “but she knew I'd manage. Or at least that's what she always said. That I would never let a man fool me.”
At last you exhaled in defeat, picked up the bottle, and poured yourself half a glass. You only wet your lips before taking a bite of carrots to pretend you were occupied eating. It was always a complicated topic- your mother in general with other men.
Usually the responses ranged from "What a temper" to "How did your father put up with her?" But it was that sort of love that was difficult to explain.
But Baelor was not someone else.
Not just any man.
Baelor was... him.
“I wish I could have known her.”
No polite phrase. No apology or joke. Just a simple statement that warmed your heart.
“Well. The mare we rode today was hers. We could say we're taking a piece of her home with us.”
For a while silence returned to the table. You took your time finishing the vegetables and wet your lips again. You certainly were not going to get drunk on a full stomach. It was more the anxiety of making the same mistakes as yesterday.
“Listen. Before I forget.”
You picked up the document and laid it on the table.
“I signed it. Sorry it took so long.”
You opened your mouth to add something else, but it would only have been empty apologies, so you swallowed the bite instead.
Baelor sighed heavily, leaning back against the chair as though the world pressed upon his shoulders. You watched him fold his hands beneath the table. You could almost see through the furniture how he was twisting the rings around his fingers. The pleasant atmosphere from your conversation had tightened once more, growing heavier.
“I have to admit I feel terribly guilty for what I did-”
Oh, you did not want to hear that endless exchange of apologies again. You let out a huff of your own before pouring wine into his cup and handing it to him.
“Please don't start again. How old are we? Just- drink. We made a mistake, me more than-” You stopped yourself before starting the same lament all over again.
“It won't happen again. Let's go back to talking about nonsense, but… enough.” His fingers brushed yours before he set the goblet down in front of himself.
“That's not what I mean. I spoke with your father today.”
You froze, glancing around as though someone else might be able to explain what you had just heard, but there was no one.
“Excuse me?”
He cleared his throat, staring at the dark liquid for a moment, a shadow of embarrassment covering his eyes.
“I requested an audience with your father through the servants. And he received me in his chambers. We talked for a while. This morning. About you.”
The air turned icy, and you tensed like a violin string.
“I would like to throw out numerous questions and accusations, but I think I can wait and let you explain yourself a little more clearly.”
You swallowed the wine to enjoy the sensation in your throat. In the end, the man surrendered as well and drank. You could have gotten up and called for a servant, asked for water and take a breath of cold air, but you were already predisposed against him. Even though- how could you not be? He could have at least asked your brother. The two seemed to get along. It was hardly a secret. Perhaps it was only an excuse you were looking for to vent your anger on him, once again.
“Yesterday I lost my mind in a way I rarely have in my life. I don't drink, as I told you, not like that.” He ran a hand through his hair before continuing. “I must have lost my sanity. The story with Aerion- I don't care about what I did afterward. Do you want me to be honest? I liked it.” Suddenly he raised his hands in embarrassment. “Not me helping you get changed- I mean- gods.” A sigh. Then once again his hand over his face.
Oh, that was an entirely different level of nervousness.
“I mean the kiss. And you were right, I was wrong and I dragged this whole thing out. I have never... done any of this before. The truth is that I spent so much time focusing on being the person my father wanted me to be that I never tried anything else. Affairs, drunkenness, stolen kisses- when my betrothal was arranged, I didn't say a word and I got married.”
He looked away, lost in memories.
“My wife always said that her friends kept asking her how she could be so calm with me always so far from home. How she could state so confidently that I wasn't unfaithful to her. So she would laugh and answer them -with his nose always buried in books, he wouldn't cheat on me even if he tripped over a pair of tits- It was funny, but perhaps in hindsight it was a sign that I never really tried” Every word was a weight upon his shoulders, making him seem smaller in your eyes, tired, “-to love a woman.”
His fingers trembled imperceptibly, you noticed thanks to the large shadows cast across the wood.
“It was just another duty to fulfill.”
He leaned forward over the table, moving dishes and pitchers aside to leave space between you, trying to reach you but still not attempting to touch your hands.
“You drive me out of my mind. And I don't know what that means because it's never happened to me before.”
He folded his hands together on the table once more. A long moment of silence followed his confession. You almost felt like an unwanted third party between him and his conscience as they fought in front of you.
“I didn't sleep at all. I thought about it all night, about what you said, about what I did. I wasn't joking today when I said I want to kiss you again.”
You leaned forward as well, trying to ease the tension with lighter words, uncertain how to answer him.
“I don't know how wise it is to reason based on the words of a drunk woman.”
But he did not seem willing to listen. The hand you had extended to pull the conversation toward calmer waters had been brushed aside, and instead he was dragging you exactly where you did not want to drown.
“But you were terribly honest. And if I hadn't dragged this whole thing out until today, we wouldn't be here. And the problem is that I think you were right. I behaved badly and I never wanted to hurt you. Or worse, make you cry after everything you've already been through. I was selfish.”
“Baelor-” you tried to stop him once again. “Do we really have to have this conversation again? Me taking your responsibilities and you taking mine? Please-”
But the Targaryen was a wall of conviction, and not even your pleas to end the torment seemed capable of stopping him.
“We could spend all evening talking about our questionable morality and how it has influenced us in questionable ways, but I don't care. I made you cry, and I am responsible because I could have acted differently and kept my distance far too many times, and I didn't because I am influenced by your presence and I don't want this to end.”
He slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out another rolled parchment.
“Before you read it. I want to explain myself and tell you that if you simply want to tear it apart and burn it, I won't stop you. But... if you're willing to wait, I'll explain. I think you should read it first, though, because I'm afraid I'll fill my mouth with apologies without ever getting to the point.”
You took the object with trembling hands unrolling it near the candles so you could better read the words written upon it.
The Targaryen family seal in red wax immediately caught your eye at the bottom, and beside it two signatures, Baelor's and your father's unmistakable hand. Shaky and broken because his hands struggled to remain steady, but undeniably his. You had revised far too many of his writings over the years not to recognize it from the first letter.
You returned to the beginning to read what in the seven hells it actually was, and as the words settled into your mind, your breath caught.
The prince noticed your rapid collapse because he reached out to take the hand you had left resting on the table, but you pulled it away as though burned.
In your hands was a formal marriage proposal. One like so many others.
Not unlike the one you had received when Lucilla had been proposed as Sigfrid's wife, except that in this case Baelor himself was proposing to become your husband.
There was a long paragraph explaining every benefit of such a union and what the kingdom would likely expect of you as future queen, how your presence would affect matters as a second wife with two heirs already in place, whom you would accept as “adopted children,” and that any heirs you yourself might have would be treated with the same respect and rights.
And your father had signed it.
His signature was there. It could not be forged. The seal was there. Everything was exactly like the first document, the one you yourself had finally read and signed, except with a different name and considerably more rules.
“Are you making fun of me?” you finally asked, looking at him.
You rose to your feet, dragging the chair across the floor with a long screech. You grabbed the other document and waved it in the air.
“I sign this damned thing after all the embarrassment and the scene- and the crying- and you come here and throw this in my face?! What happened to all those beautiful words about giving me a choice? And what exactly did you tell my father?!”
You had not wanted to raise your voice, but it happened anyway. First the trap on horseback and now this. It felt as though you had been flipped from a fairy tale into a nightmare with the snap of a finger, and you never would have expected it from him.
“As I said, you can burn it right now and I won't stop you. We signed in front of a witness under oath that if you were not favorable to it, then I would speak of it to no one and consider this parchment worthless paper.”
You threw both documents onto the table.
“I don't care what choice you're giving me- this was done behind my back! You have- one chance. One. And then-”
A sigh.
“Talk.”
He moved as if to stand, but stopped when you pointed at him.
“Stay seated. This isn't a conversation between friends. It's an interrogation.” Drawing boundaries between you was exactly what you needed after the shock of reading that parchment.
You felt betrayed.
Mocked.
Had the prince in white cloak finally stripped away his falsehood to reveal his true face?
He would be no different from so many other men, but after everything that had happened?
You felt humiliated, deceived like a little girl.
“I went to him with my heart in my hands. I didn't tell him many details, but I spoke about some of our conversations. About how captivated I was by the way you think and how I held myself back because I believed I was hurting you. It was a long conversation in which I bored him with my talking. But he listened. He answered by writing small questions. I want you to know that we signed before a witness to protect your choice, whatever it may be.”
You began pacing back and forth along the side of the table, chewing on his words, trying to understand them from every angle so you could use them against him. Your hands itched with nerves, the ghost of that tingling sensation you had felt for so long returning as a tactile memory to torment you.
“My patience is running out,” you finally shot back, stopping at the head of the table beside him. He had remained motionless in his chair exactly as you had ordered.
“I knew you wouldn't sign anything today if I brought it to you, so I took a chance and asked your father. To prove that I didn't want to drag us further into a meaningless situation. The truth? I was the first choice. When we spoke beneath the tree, I had come to tell you that I wanted to ask for your hand in marriage.”
He picked up the parchment and glanced at it while explaining the details.
“It would have been perfect. Taking you as my second wife would have maintained the balance of securing an alliance with the North without creating imbalance or favoritism, since any heir from us would be third in line to succession without bypassing bloodlines more highly valued within the family. I only had to tell you. But you...”
He hid his face behind his hands, elbows resting on the table as though sitting upright itself had become difficult.
“-You with your words. And the way you are. When you told me that you believed you had been justly punished for your sins. I... began to doubt my conviction, because I started seeing you as a martyr.”
Every word wrapped around your legs and dragged you into a pit. Your heart ached in your chest.
“What does that even mean now? Another complicated game about morality and religion? Because believe me, I don't need divine punishment to tell the truth now.”
He shook his head.
“No. I mean exactly what I said. You were right. You never considered me perfect. You appreciated aspects of me that are constantly stitched onto me, but you believed they fit. I sinned through arrogance. I saw you first as a girl, then as a woman, and finally as a martyr, sanctifying you. I was the one who considered you perfect.”
Exhausted from a thousand battles, you let yourself sit on the armrest of the large carved chair. Hardly regal, but at that point you no longer cared.
“Being a woman is truly difficult. These lands demand everything from you and give very little in return. And what you told Maekar?”
He turned his entire chair toward you, dragging the wood across the carpet. He was close enough that you could have touched your forehead to his if you leaned down. You wondered whether he positioned himself like that deliberately, giving you the space to dominate him in height where his body could not.
“That- that men tend to humiliate women when they cannot control them. You're right. My mother, my wife, my nieces, I know what you're talking about. And often I do nothing to change it because there are so many problems that I keep postponing them. I began to believe that if I married you, I would trap you in an unfair role. Not as a man who owns his wife, but as one who knows he has a great woman beside him and does nothing to help her. I would condemn you to a miserable life as queen at my side, but I-” His voice broke and his lips trembled.
He leaned closer like a wounded animal trying to take your hands into his, and although you hesitated at first, you allowed him. He held them as though you were in prayer, even the ring felt warm against your skin. His thumbs brushed the backs of your hands in circular motions, he didn’t even dare look at your face, keeping his eyes lowered somewhere beneath the table in search of words. It was a pathetic sight, yet it comforted you because for the first time it truly felt as though you were seeing the man naked before your eyes, no beautiful words learned from his tutors or facades built over years of public appearances, there were no princes or kings before your eyes, perhaps for a moment not even a man, what he had been forced to be his entire life with a golden destiny already marked upon his head.
Baelor Targaryen was bent over searching for a blessing you could not give him and it filled you with terrible pity.
“Baelor- get up,” you murmured softly, bending just enough to whisper the words into his ear, he was so hunched over the chair that he could have disappeared between your legs, you tried to climb down from the armrest so you could shake him, but the seat was carved from stone and immovable and he showed no sign of wanting to move, you felt guilty as though you had destroyed a great man with your whims, and you didn't know what to tell him to end the misery you were inflicting upon each other, where your faults began they blended into his, where virtues merged and doubts collided you remained small, swirling like two tornadoes merging and crashing into one another without rhyme or reason.
“Baelor,” you called him again, hoping to move him, but he bent down even further, pressing his face into your knees, he gripped your wrists and your instinct was to pull free, retreat, and yet for the first time Baelor did not allow you to do so, holding you in that position.
That dinner had collapsed in a way entirely its own, of all the possibilities you had imagined nothing could have prepared you for reality, a man who would soon be crowned king trembling and stammering fanatic nonsense about martyrs. And unable to find the right words to address him with, you gave him space, mentally at least, sighing as you rested your hands upon his head in a caress with a maternal undertone.
It seemed to be the right key to insert because the man's lips parted in an exhale mixed with a cough, then filling his lungs as though he had been holding his breath until that moment, a poor excuse to hide a sob.
“I am tormented by the kiss I stole you, I was convinced it would be enough to extinguish the flame, that it was a passing desire, an adventure after so many years alone, but it only made things worse.”
You had to bite your lip when you noticed the break in the man's voice.
Oh, what had you done?
“I imagined you in Daeron's arms all evening and I felt like a madman,” you stroked his short hair with clumsy movements, your fingers trembling, Baelor mirrored the gesture, doing the same to your wrists. “I wanted to let you go, be an adult, admit my mistakes, but I cannot. I am a selfish man and I want you the way a faithful follower would want their god by their side. Illuminated by your presence and soothed by the sound of your voice. So I ran to your father because I knew you would never have said yes if I had asked you after yesterday. I wanted to prove to you that I was serious.”
You could not help but let a smile slip through your tearful eyes. “Is this the part where I run away in tears and you chase after me in the rain?” you could almost see him smiling even though his face was hidden from you, but it was enough to ease that unbearable tension, even though you were still trapped in that strange position and terrified that someone might walk in at that very moment and see you, you managed to sit upright, confident that the man would not shatter in your arms.
At last he released your wrists, leaning back into the chair like a scolded child, you took the opportunity to slide properly into place on the large seat, the armrest now warm when you rested your arm upon it. Gods, you did not even know what to say, you had been caught so completely off guard by everything that you had barely registered a few words, you had heard them, but they had left you dazed, making you think you had misunderstood.
Marriage, the future, they seemed so distant now that you were shut away in that small sitting room.
“I'm sorry, but I don't think I would let you do that. You're still recovering.” The Targaryen leaned back against the chair once more, a faint red ring coloring his eyelids, the glossy reflection in his irises was undeniable proof of that moment of weakness, if you had looked down at the fabric of his robes you would have noticed small dark drops of tears, but it would have been too obvious a gesture and you did not want to insult a moment of vulnerability he had exposed to you.
“Is that a yes?” He asked after some time of motionless silence, there was no discomfort between you, no shame for the first time, perhaps respecting each other the most when you had both shown the worst of yourselves, in fact perhaps you were finally as relaxed as you had wanted from the beginning.
“You didn't exactly ask me.” You murmured quietly with a tired smile that he returned.
“Lady Stark, would you honor me with your hand in marriage?”
You took your time, wiping away a tear and drying your palms on your trousers, the damp stains remained there, signs of their passage and witnesses to that pain.
You answered with a question.
“Your mother... a Martell, right? A Princess of Dorne.”
He nodded.
“Have you ever visited Dorne?” You asked again, to which he made another affirmative gesture.
“For a few months mostly. My mother was very attached to the land, but with four children it was complicated to visit often. And she had responsibilities as Targaryen.”
The answer hurt you, but it was exactly what you had expected. “You see, unfortunately, for all your many virtues, this is something you will never experience, Prince Targaryen. The taste of longing for a land so unique while being confined to a new home.”
You picked up one of the letters under the man's attentive gaze before continuing to speak. “The cold of the North is deadly. Sometimes, hunters when they reach a certain age, instead of, I don't know, laying down their weapons, decide to go on one last hunt. The one that will take their life. I always thought they were mad.”
You read a few lines quickly to make sure you had the right parchment between your fingers before continuing.
“Now I understand it. Winterfell is a miracle granted to us by the gods. It takes great courage to live in these lands. To build a family, to raise children. But it is home, and that is precisely where its beauty lies.” You looked out the window where snowfall accompanied by strong gusts of wind rattled the glass. “The cold, the walls, survival. The warmth of a hearth after knocking the snow from your boots, an embrace beneath the blankets after losing feeling in your fingers.”
You looked back at him now, your hand bringing the parchment closer to the lit candle.
“Do I want to get married? No.” The parchment began to burn at one corner, the weak flame was slow in consuming the object and ashes fell onto the table, carrying with them the smell of burning.
“I love my brother. My home, the North. The woman who is about to give me a nephew, a father whose death I will not witness.” You had to take a deep breath before continuing, making sure the entire parchment had burned through, almost risking burning your fingers.
“But we both know none of this began out of pleasure. I don't want to go South, become a princess or a queen, change my surname and forget the pain of the cold that freezes your bones. But I have duties greater than myself. And you- for a moment you made me believe that at the very least I could have been happy.” The look you gave him was hard.
“To die of hypothermia is a luxury. It is like falling asleep... I would like to die that way too, embraced one last time by the biting cold that blows from beyond the Wall.” You cleared your throat to suppress a sob, you were holding together well and you didn't want that to become yet another tearful reaction on your part.
“You should not have done it. Behind my back. Like that. Perhaps it would have been our fatal mistake and we should have accepted it. It was cowardly. And I want you to know that you hurt me deeply.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
And you accepted them for what they were, apologies. Simple ones, with nothing more to add. “Marrying terrible men is the fate of many women, but you always presented yourself as better than that. Ignorance is less awful than a plan organized behind my back. You- you cannot fill your mouth with declarations of love while acting like this at the same time.”
Every word had the power to shrink and age the prince at lightning speed, but he agreed, he was not seeking immediate forgiveness, he knew it would not be that easy, nothing between you had ever been.
“I'm sorry.”
You took a deep breath, trying to recover lost air, but your chest ached in a tight grip, you rubbed your arms before throwing your head back against the chair with your eyes closed, the confession slipped from your lips without even thinking about it.
“I don't know what you're doing to me. I should be angrier than this. I only know that... I spent the whole day keeping my hands busy because I didn't want to think about our kiss again. And you undoing the laces of my dress and- your breath on my back… and- and...” you looked at him again, your eyes full of unshed tears. “I want to kiss you as though my life depended on it.”
And yet neither of you moved.
From the outside, more than the confession of two lovers, you looked like two monarchs drafting a treaty, waiting for the other's mistake so you could throw another accusation and perhaps flip the table and start a brawl. You kept your hands clenched into fists, your breath caught in your throat, and Baelor was not in much of a different position, his shoulders tense, ready to expect even a physical attack.
You gestured toward the remaining parchment, inviting him to take it, which he did without taking his eyes off yours.
“I want to marry you, Baelor Targaryen. But you must never do something like that to me again. You have to promise me. And I will be the devoted wife this alliance expects of the realm. And- the friend you desperately need,” a hint of amusement in your voice, “and the lover dressed as a martyr whom you dreamed about during your delusions.” A half-smile this time as you held out your hands to him, a clear invitation, perhaps more explicit than everything else you had said.
It did not take him long to realize that you had burned the old marriage contract, the only remaining proof of an alliance driven by a union was a new one bearing your names.
He set the parchment aside to clasp your hands in his, his features softened by poorly concealed joy. “I promise you. I will be an attentive husband and a loyal friend. I will try not to make the same mistake again and sanctify you at the risk of drawing the gods' wrath upon us.” He leaned down to kiss the back of your hand, slowing just enough to allow you to move away if you wished, but you remained still, giving him the confirmation he needed before his dry lips touched your skin.
“I don't know if what we have is love. But we will discover it together.”
Silence enveloped you once more and before it could become an unwelcome third presence or the push that would make you say something foolish, you tried to lighten the mood. “I think this is the moment when I run outside, we kiss in the rain, or something like that.” You succeeded in easing the tension, laughing softly at the image. “It sounds like a scene from one of those books my nieces read.”
You barely suppressed a grin before replying, “Oh right. Your many nieces and nephews. For a moment I had forgotten I was marrying such an old man.” You bit the inside of your cheek when you saw him raise an eyebrow. “Oh, now that everything is settled, are we moving directly to bullying your poor future husband?”
“I don't know. Will you be able to keep up with me? Perhaps we should kiss again to see if you have enough breath.” your voice lowered and you felt the jolt run through the prince's body and make yours tremble, the haze that rose in his eyes reignited that needy itch between your legs, persistent enough to make you forget that you were still very angry about what he had done and that you wanted to see him behave better in the future, but that was a thought for later. You had withdrawn from the man for far too long all day even though your heart had begged you not to.
You stretched across the table like a serpent, resting your chest against its surface, your elbows on the edge where the man sat, he moved a rebellious strand of hair behind your ear before sliding his hand through the locks at the back of your head, you grabbed his collar and pulled him toward you without much effort, he held his position more for the pleasure of watching you play, and with your lips finally brushing, you kissed.
Free from every restraint or trace of alcohol in your blood, you were finally able to focus on that gesture, in your inexperience and uncertainty, you let yourself be carried by the man's embrace, deepening the kiss and imitating his movements as best you could. You moved the hand that held his collar to caress his rough cheek, your eyes closed as you mapped that face with a warmth in your chest, aware that soon this man would become part of your everyday life. You didn't even know whether there were any foolish new rules of etiquette you would have to learn, but wherever you ended up, it was certain that you would've that kiss again and again in the privacy of your shared life.
Then a doubt surfaced once more and you pulled away, leaving you both breathless, neither of you letting go, the confusion clear on the prince's face at being stopped.
“What are we going to do about Daeron? And Maekar? They'll be furious... I mean, after all the promise and-” but he smiled with a huff.
“Maekar knows why I asked for this dinner tonight. And he told me to hurry up and inform him as soon as you accepted… he was much more confident than I was about your answer.”
Caught off guard yet again, you slowly shook your head. “Wait, how much did he know about this?”
He caressed your cheek with his thumb, eyeing your lips like a man in withdrawal, but he restrained himself. “Honestly? I don't know. He only told me that I had become easier to read as I got older. And that if I sorted out this mess, he would speak with his son. He's been trying to get him married for quite a while now. He'll look among the rest of our family.”
Oh yes. Them and their family marriages.
“That's all? Won't it be... awkward?”
This time he let out a louder laugh before stepping back. “It is not the craziest thing that has happened in this family. We've swallowed more bitter pills than this. Like Ashford.”
You could not help raising an eyebrow in an embarrassed grimace, yes... you not marrying Daeron was less severe than a blow to the head and attempted murder.
“Targaryen family drama, I suppose.”
You stood up, immediately followed by him as he offered you his hand. “Welcome to the family.”
You took it, keeping your fingers in his palm. “Now we have to tell my brother.”
The look you exchanged was worth more than a thousand words.
“I think he took it well.”
Valarr murmured at your side, followed by Daeron, the servants were loading your personal belongings onto the wagon, a few dresses, trinkets, some books dear to you, jewelry and more, you had not realized you owned so much in the first place, but you still struggled to believe that you were about to move your entire life to Dragonstone.
“I'm glad I'm not your husband. No offense.” Daeron muttered, glancing at Sigfrid.
Your brother had not taken it well, you had been rather sneaky in presenting him with the letter and the whole situation in the first place, you had requested Lucilla's presence and waited until he had drunk a couple of glasses, or perhaps five or six, before handing him the parchment while standing beside Baelor.
Of all the reactions you had imagined, you had not expected to witness a complete shutdown of his brain. He had gaped like a fish for a full minute, attempted a few words, and then, looking at you, had asked, “Are you making fun of me?”
You did not even find the courage to answer, you shook your head and that was enough for both of you, at least for him to run his hands through his hair again and again before standing up without adding anything else, heading straight toward your father's chambers.
The preparations had continued the following day and you had taken the opportunity to make another round of the castle, Baelor had promised that you would certainly return for one reason or another and not to worry, but nostalgia was a strange feeling and you could already feel it surfacing in your chest at the thought of leaving. Sigfrid had not been much support, remaining as rigid as a statue with a distant gaze and sealed lips, Lucy had assured you that he would loosen up soon, but you were beginning to believe that “loosening up” would be the explosion of anger he had been trying to suppress for hours.
Perhaps silence was a more worrying reaction than many others he could have given you, but there you were.
And even the more troublesome members of the family such as Aerion or Maekar had behaved themselves, you had tried to approach the man at least to apologize for all that drama, but he had outdone you with a comment that you believed was meant as a compliment.
“I would not wish any woman to marry my sons. Good luck with the crown.”
And that had been the end of it, without much fuss. A compliment? An insult to his sons? A cold observation? At least he seemed to have hinted at the shadow of a smile alongside his brother, but it was too soon for you to read his microexpressions, he was not even the type, he tended to be very vocal and explicit about his displeasure.
Reinmod had taken it upon himself to look after your mare for the journey, you had been thoroughly warned not to ride in weather like this until your leg had fully healed, you only had a brief period of freedom every ten days and you had already used yours the previous afternoon, so you were out of luck for a while longer.
In truth, you remained bewildered, it felt as though you had lived through a long dream from which you had not yet awakened, everyone had accepted it as though it were obvious (except your brother) and Lucy had seized the opportunity to proclaim that she would be friends with the queen, you and Baelor had danced around that pole for so long that you had become detached from the all-too-common practice of arranged marriage and the realization burned your cheeks. Perhaps those books about fairies and destiny had not lied, love blinded and sharpened the mind all at once, a tangle of doubts and uncertainties that you had never faced before. To everyone else, this was a sensible choice and an excellent pact for the North, for you and Baelor it was a marriage that meant far more than politics. You struggled to imagine an entire day of your life with him, and in truth you did not think it would be that easy, but only time would answer your doubts.
“We should be able to leave sometime today.”
The voice of Baelor- your future husband- interrupted your thoughts as he joined you in the garden, a small smile lighting the lines on his face that morning.
“Excellent. I...” you gestured toward the bustle of people before losing yourself staring at the stone walls, the snowy muddy ground, the decorations on the windows, a moment, perhaps two, trying to memorize as many details as possible. “Sorry. I wonder if I shouldn't... I don't know. Take one last walk around... perhaps that's too dramatic?” You only realized at that moment that the other two Targaryens had wandered off, leaving you alone in the middle of the path. “If you think it might do you good, I don't see why you should deny yourself. I know that... Dragonstone will be a great change for you, but I truly hope to return here one day. Even if only for brief periods, after all we are family now.”
Oh, that word made your heart tremble, but you tried not to show it.
“Were you serious? When…you told me about the tree?” you asked quietly before turning to him. “That you could plant one?”
His smile widened before he nodded. “If you wish. Certainly. And once I am crowned...” but you waved your hands, stopping him.
“Please, let's take one step at a time. I'm still trying to process everything. I don't want to think about that- and the wedding and Lucy's family-” he gently took you by the shoulders, squeezing softly.
“We have a long journey ahead of us. Let us get through that first. And make sure you recover completely. Then we will think about everything else, I will have to see the king to arrange the rest, and much as I dislike the idea, we will not be able to marry very soon.”
You placed a hand on his chest, smoothing imaginary creases from his clothes, little excuses you had already formed in your mind so that you could touch him in public without crossing the boundary of intimacy.
“It isn't a tragedy. I waited far too many days for you to make a move. I can endure your presence without calling you my husband for a little while longer.” You moved close enough for your chests to touch, one hand rising toward his face to scratch at his beard, but it never got there because you were interrupted by a fake cough that made you both step away from one another.
Maekar and his judgmental raised eyebrow stood there, an unwilling witness to your display of affection, and he did not seem particularly enthusiastic about it as a spectator.
“I made sure all the proper documents were delivered. I sent a letter ahead with a knight to inform the king.” Another glance, then he left.
“Well. Tough audience.” Baelor joked in a whisper.
You covered your lips with your hand pretending to scratch your nose, but the little laugh that escaped you was clear and pure as snow.
My loving you with a love that is unhealthy, aching, and desperate, like a child or a dog, changes nothing at all. It is not the kind of love you need. You need something else, something I am unable to give
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