@flockoff featherface updates!!!

Unfortunately for Baelor (and by extension, for you too), the Gods do not hold either of you in their favour for the next day. Baelor is tugged away from the desires that pull at his heart (which begs him to write to you, to pour out emotion after emotion onto parchment and sent it with flowers of his own) and thrown into the boiling pot that is the matters of the realm (of course, this was not an actual boiling pot. We would not allow that to happen to your dear, darling husband to be!).

The first problem was being awoken at ungodly hours of the morning - before the sun had even risen, before it began its slow trek across the skies. Two servants stand outside his chambers (practically shivering from both the cold of the morning and the potential wrath of their Prince),

"You wake me at hours that others would consider unsociable. Heavens know I have half a mind to walk back into my chambe-"

"The young Princes would not return to sleep! Forgive us, Your Grace, but not even the nursemaids could nurse them to sleep. We really did try, Your Grace, but in the end…"

In the end, nothing replaces a parent's love, he supposes. He sighs - wrapping the robe around him tighter as he follows the servants to the nursery. With every step closer to his sons, their cries become louder and louder - until he walks into the room. With a flick of his hand, he dismisses the maids and takes the boys into his arms (well, Matarys into one arm. The other hand is clutched on to for dear life held tightly by Valarr). Matarys immediately settles in Baelor's arms, and Valarr tugs him towards the fluffy rug on the floor. Baelor sits down - crossing his legs and absentmindely patting Matarys - as Valarr curls up, resting his head on Baelor's knee,

"What is it that has you so worked up tonight, Valarr?"

"…"

"Valarr.."

This was not entirely new behaviour. Ever since their mother had passed, he would have horrible nightmares most nights. Fears troubled the young boy's dreams, and because he still shared the nursery with his younger brother, Matarys would be awoken with him. No matter how hard Baelor would try, Valarr would not say a word - resigning himself to resting against his father until he fell asleep again. Baelor thought tonight would be the same, holding his boys close until they flew back into their dreamlands.

It was not.

It takes Valarr some time to gather the courage, but he finally pushes himself up from where he had been lying. Baelor looks at him as the boy wobbles slightly - finding his footing and then wraps his arms around Baelor, leaning his mouth against his father's ear,

"Papa."

"Yes, Valarr?"

"Don't forget.."

He did not need to know the words to finish the sentence. The tearing of his voice, cracking at the end as he buried his head and sniffled into his father's shoulder was more than enough for Baelor to tug him closer. He kissed the top of his son's head, his heart breaking as the boy shivered and shook with every small cry that he tried so very hard to conceal,

"My sweet boy. Oh, my sweet darling son. What makes you think that I am forgetting either of you, or leaving you behind?"

"…"

Valarr tries so very hard, you know. He may be only two years of age, and he may not have seen much of the world, but he knows already to be strong for his father and his brother. He has been determined not to cry, not to make a big fuss. But when a knight makes an offhanded comment outside the nursery, of Baelor leaving his sons behind to marry another - even though Valarr may not understand everything, he understands enough of the words to know the meaning behind them. And so, it is not entirely wild that Valarr is unable to stop himself from crying. But it does break Baelor's heart, seeing his son's fists balled up, desperately wiping away tears as he pulls back just enough to see the tears in his father's eyes - which only make his lower lip wobble as sobs begin to break out. Baelor lays Matarys down safely before pulling Valarr in properly, lowering his voice to not startle the boy,

"I am to be married, yes. But you and Matarys are a part of that. I would never forget you - the two of you are my life! My everything, Valarr! I could not live without my sweet sons - not now, not ever."

His words work, soothing the boys painful sobs into smaller whimpers as Baelor's hand gently pats his back,

"Hush now sweet boy, you should not concern yourself so much with such things. I have always been here, I am here now and I always will be here, yes?"

Valarr nodded, letting Baelor wipe his tears away gently as he yawns,

"Now who's a sleepy baby, hmm? I think Valarr is~!"

It does not take long for Valarr to fall back asleep, tucked safely in his father's arms. Once Baelor is sure that he will not stir, he lowers him back into his cot and places Matarys back into his own. He moves to leave the room, only to take one more scan around it. His eyes follow the old curtains - drab and dull - around to the old closets. He makes a mental note to see if he can redecorate in some way and make the nursery more child friendly. Finally, his eyes land and soften on the sight of his sons. Both fast asleep - snoring, no less.

Outside, the birds begin to sing their sweet morning song as cold clouds part and make way for the sun to make his daily rounds, blessing and warming all of Westeros with his joy - but inside, Baelor makes his way back into his chambers. Usually, he would greet the guards whenever he returned. Today, he pushes into his room and immediately drops onto his bed.

He gets maybe two hours. Two blissful hours of uninterrupted sleep, entirely dreamless and blank until something begins knocking on the doors to his chambers again. At first, he thinks he can ignore it - surely whoever it is will understand, and leave.

They do not leave.

If anything, they become more determined. He can hear two fists, pounding on the doors now. Still, Baelor chooses to lie there - his brows twitching more and more with every moment that passes by. Until a voice joins the aggressive pounding,

"BAELOR! I SWEAR TO THE FUCKING HEAVENS ABOVE AND HELLS BELOW, IF YOU DO NOT GET YOUR ARSE OUT OF THERE RIGHT THIS FUCKING MOME-"

Ah. Maekar. His lovely, sweet brother who would never want anything but the best for him, right? Yet here he stands, preventing Baelor from returning to sleep. Baelor groans, pulling himself out of the bed and pulling the doors open. Unfortunately, Maekar had not heard his brother moving towards the doors - nor did Baelor warn him that he was opening them, leading to a grown man (a prince, nonetheless) falling face first into the carpet below.

"…"

"…"

"…

"Not a fucking word."

Maekar remains there as Baelor closes the doors behind him, before helping him up to his feet. His face is… bright, 'fuck off' red, and the permanent scowl is only worse now that he has been witnessed falling face first onto carpet,

"Would you like a-"

"No fucking thank you. I am here on business, Baelor."

"Business?"

"…yes… I may need your help with something.."

The eternal grump's face falls into something closer to embarrassment (perhaps from the idea of having to ask his older brother for help, like a child) as he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Baelor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and stretching his fingers out across his face to try to dissipate some of the anger bubbling within his soul,

"Surely it could have waited, no?"

"It is somewhat urgent, brother."

"Maekar-"

"Dyanna and I will be taking Daeron and Aerion, and moving after you are wedded - to Summerhall, no less."

"I am sure it ca- wait, what??"

"This is why I needed to talk with you! I need you to-"

"You are moving? You, Dyanna, Daeron and Aerion?"

"Surely you are not so shocked? How long can we all remain here?"

"I just-"

"What?"

"I thought we would have more time, Maekar."

"It is not immediate, you know. The children need time to adjust to such a move, and I do not wish to disrupt your children nor mine. Plus it would be good for mine to meet and know their aunt before we leave."

Baelor could not find fault in his argument. Despite how it may feel nice (as an idea) to raise the children together, it just was not practical. Add to this the fact that Maekar despised how busy and packed King's Landing always was, and that Summerhall offered a peaceful retreat. It would serve as an easier place to raise his children - away from the craziness of the Red Keep. Plus, it was not horrendously far.

"…"

"Baelor? I am here not only for this, but for advice. I know of accounts, in general - of course we were taught them when we were kids, but I need to understand better how to run a household alone."

He feels the familiar swell of brotherly pride that would bloom across his chest whenever one of his brothers would ask him for advice. With a smile, he turns and finds a book that he had been conveniently rereading (an attempt to refamiliarise himself with his duties by his father's side, and hopefully help you adjust into your new role when you would come to King's Landing), handing it to Maekar,

"Here - this should help. It covers everything, and I've added my own annotations where needed."

"Really?"

"Really."

He opens the book, flicking through the pages with a less distressed hum (which honestly - was probably the best he would get from Maekar). He closes the book, raising it and nodding,

"Thank you - oh, and you should probably go see Mother. She asked me to bring you to her solar."

"Before breaking fast?"

"Presumably?"

The two shrugged their shoulders. Maekar left, and Baelor changed into more suitable clothes for the day. He had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be as free as he would like, and a less constricting outfit seemed like a smarter decision. By the time he makes his way to his mother's solar, the guards outside inform him that she has already left to break fast - and he should probably return after. With this, he leaves to join his family in breaking their fast.

The waiting was the worst part of it all, honestly. You woke up early in the morning, having the maids draw you a piping hot bath so that it might last longer than usual. Where usually you would pick a citrus oil for your bath - something that felt normal to you - today, you pick something sweeter. An oil that smelled of vanilla, cardamom and amber, with the lightest spice to it. Something that made you think of Baelor, actually.

It was the thing that stuck with you the most. The scent he wore when he danced with you. It had filled you with warmth (in more ways than one, though that was not just the perfumed oils he wore on his skin), and floated across the wind on the balcony when he recited poetry to you late in the evening. You had held on to the scent all these years, and it finally felt right to wear it yourself.

You took your time lathering yourself in exquisite oils before breaking fast, and spent your morning with your eyes scanning through books. Time passed slowly as you eagerly awaited another raven arriving.

You had responded quickly, so surely he would respond just as soon, right?

Morning meals in King's Landing were busy - everyone knew this. Yet it seemed as though everyone required the Hand of the King's presence today. On the way to breaking fast, Baelor had been tugged into three separate discussions, two light debates and one slightly more serious one. By the time he finally arrived to his family, most of them were already halfway through,

"Ah, we thought you might be taking your meal in your solar this mornin-"

"No, no. I was.. tied up in my obligations."

"I see. Come, join us."

Daeron points to a chair beside him, and Baelor is all too happy to see a pile of food awaiting him. He eats his food in (mostly) silence, happy enough to witness his family interacting with one another (in particular, watching Rhaegel ask Maekar question after question as Daeron (the child) clambered onto his father's lap).

At the end of the meal, Myriah taps on Baelor's sleeve, directing his attention towards her,

"I presume the morning has you busy?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"And the afternoon too? We have much to plan for the wedding, Baelor, and I believe the earlier we begin, the easier. In particular, I want for the tailor to have your measurements, and for you to pick your clothing for the da-"

"If it matches Lady Baratheon's, then that is all I care for."

"Really? Even if she picks the most gaudy, pretentious and absolutely foolish of materials?"

"Then I shall stand in the Great Sept, beside her, wearing equally as gaudy, pretention and absolutely foolish of an outfit. We shall match one another, Mother."

A knowing smile found the Queen's face, recognising both the mirth and warmth in his voice,

"The tailor still needs your measurements, you know."

"Tomorrow, perhaps? Today might be busy.."

"Tomorrow it is then. I shall send for you."

With both that conversation and task completed, Baelor files it away in his 'Not quite finished, but definitely out of the way' section of his brain, following after his father to the meeting of the day. Usually, the small council would not meet so often - they all had their jobs to do, and knew how to do them. But with a wedding so nearby, the small council was meeting more and more often - keeping Baelor busier than he would like.

To make matters worse - three lords wished for his undivided attention. As much as he wanted to rush back and push them all away, his position did not allow for that. And so, he spent the whole day pushed from one end of the Red Keep to the other.

By the time he actually ends up taking dinner, the moon is already out. The stars are already shining in the dark night sky, and the realisation finally dawns upon him.

"Do you think he has forgotten, Lyonel?"

"I think that he is Hand of the King, sweet sister."

"Or what if he thought me too foolish? I should not have sent the petals, what a foolish thing of me to do!"

"Or - and stay with me here - he has simply been too busy?"

"…"

"That's exactly what I thought."

Silence finally fills the library for a moment, and Lyonel returns to reviewing the household accounts (boring, but unfortunately extremely necessary. Especially given the closeness of your wedding.) as you pout and attempt to read again.

It did not last long.

"But what if-"

"I promise you, he is likely just busy!"

"Maybe, but he could also be realising that marrying the 'Storm's End's Delight' might be a poor decisio-"

"Don't you dare! You are my sister - my pride, my joy and the apple of my eye. He is more than lucky to have you as his wife, and future queen! Do not think that you are lesser in any way, shape or form!"

"His raven arrived by now last time."

"Last time he probably had time to write. Again - he is the Hand of the King. Does he seem like the type to leave you waiting intentionally?"

You consider the possibility for a moment. The idea of Baelor leaving you waiting on purpose did not feel in character for him, and you shake your head. Lyonel closes his book, crossing the room to sit beside you,

"He would not do such a thing - he knows I would more than willingly take him to the field if he causes you any hurt."

"You should not say that!"

"But it is true! Now, the hour is late - and you should sleep. Perhaps a certain letter from a certain prince might arrive in the morning, and you do not want to be exhausted tomorrow, do you?"

"No, the thought of being exhausted does not feel particularly enticing."

He hums in response, sending you away to bed (which of course, has you feeling like a child once more. You attempt to object, but the yawn that replaces your objection speaks louder than any words could). A heavy feeling settles in your heart as you undress for bed and lie down - but reminding yourself of the man to whom you are betrothed (his nature, his kindness - the soft smile paired with his warm eyes) is enough to settle your fears.

"I did not- I forgot! I forgot, and she will think me a fool, Maekar!"

"…I thought we were here to help me learn more of how to run a household?"

"No! No, this is important. I cannot let her think ill of me! Not like this!"

"She will no-"

"She could. She could think I hate her - I do not. I could not hate her if I tried!"

"I am painfully fucking aware of that, brother-"

"She sent me petals last time."

"Yes, petals that fell every-fucking-where!"

"I should send her a flower!"

"…"

"A flower."

"What?"

"Surely you know what a flower is by now, brother."

"Of course I know what a fucking flower is! What the fuck does that have to do with anything???"

"I should send one to her! As gratitude for the petals she sent me, of course."

"I am leaving, before you subject me to more of this and I find the urge to throw myself from the window far too strong to hold back - good night, Baelor, and good fucking luck!"

"Good night, Maekar."

He leaves, muttering curses under his breath all the way back to his chambers, where his wife waits patiently for him. Ah, Baelor had not quite realised how lonely he had been as of late. Not having someone waiting for him was something he missed dearly, and only spurred him on as he sped towards the gardens. He spends some time there, shifting from foot to foot as he scans the flowers that sit in front of him. Dragon's breath feels wrong, evening star (despite its beauty) will most definitely not survive the trip… and his eyes lie on the bushes of roses and lavender. In particular, the golden rose feels apt.

He plucks two golden rose flowers, and some fragrant lavender before returning to his solar and penning his next letter to you,

To the sweet Lady Baratheon, who has not left my mind of late,

I must begin with an apology, my Lady. I had not expected to be so busy that I would not have time to write back! Today has been… an unfortunate cluster of mess, but I would like to take the time to thank you for your previous letter. It was beautifully written (as expected of such a beautiful woman, of course) and brought me much joy! The petals were beautiful - are beautiful, actually. They sit safe in a box, where their fragrance does not dissipate.

Today was.. something. Honestly speaking - I have been pushed from corner to corner of the Red Keep in the last few hours! I think the corridor that joins the small council chambers to the rest of society knows me far better than it should! Oh, something good did happen today though - here, I'll paint a picture for you:

I was stuck in an absolutely awful conversation with the Lord Duskendale (some boring thing about his chickens, and how the Crown owed him more chickens. Someday I shall understand his words, but not today, it seems). Out of sheer boredom, I happened to look out of the window beside me - and watched the good Lord Rollingford attempt to flirt with a lady by handling her horse for her. Unfortunately for him, it appears the horse was not too fond of him - kicking him (not too harshly, thankfully) into the mud behind him.

He lay there, in the mud, for three minutes as all the Lords and Ladies watched and - well, I suppose it is not too funny a story..

Nonetheless, know that you have been on my mind today (not just today, I should say. You appear to occupy my mind often, sweet Lady). Despite being horrendously busy, I have thought of you and you alone. Particularly, the sonnet you chose felt profound. I could not stop myself from repeating the lines in my mind as I went about my day (specifically, when stuck in conversation with Lord Duskendale - how a man can be so dull, I have no idea). The beauty of the sonnet has stuck with me (though not quite as much as your own beauty has, if you do not mind my saying).

I bring you another poem. This one was one I thought of sending you often, just after your nameday tourney.

Part of me wishes I had the courage to send it to you, my dear,

Come when the nights are bright with stars

Or come when the moon is mellow;

Come when the sun his golden bars

Drops on the hay-field yellow.

Come in the twilight soft and gray,

Come in the night or come in the day,

Come, O love, whene’er you may,

And you are welcome, welcome.

You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,

You are soft as the nesting dove.

Come to my heart and bring it to rest

As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.

Come when my heart is full of grief

Or when my heart is merry;

Come with the falling of the leaf

Or with the redd’ning cherry.

Come when the year’s first blossom blows,

Come when the summer gleams and glows,

Come with the winter’s drifting snows,

And you are welcome, welcome.

I do so very eagerly await your arrival in King's Landing - I suspect the next few weeks will be busy with planning, but I will endeavour to write to you. If not daily, then regularly. At the very least, I shall write to you every three days (and if I do not, please write to me). Please do not ever mistake my silence with any doubts - I am loyal to you and you alone, and intend upon becoming your dutiful husband.

Yours, affectionately,

Baelor.

P.S., I hope you enjoy the flowers! I shall have some proper flowers sent to you soon.

His heart finally settles once he finishes the letter. He takes his time to roll (careful with the flowers inside of course. Given the nature of the contents, either side of the letter was secured to prevent anything falling out) and stamp the letter with his personal signature. As he left his solar in search of a raven, he passed the florist (who had been brought in on the Queen's insistence, to plan for the wedding),

"Ah, would you do me a favour, please?"

"Your Grace! Oh, erm.. of course! Though it is late-"

"I wish to send flowers to somebody."

"I see - any particular flowers?"

He thinks long and hard - what flowers would be appropriate to send as a bouquet?

"There should be red roses, and red tulips. And there should be some shade of purple in the bouquet too, and orange - I wish for these to be flowers of love, but they should look like sunset itself. They are to be sent to the Lady Baratheon - my betrothed - in Storm's End. Can it be done?"

"I can have it delivered by noon tomorrow, if you like?"

"Perfect - have the bill sent to my solar in the morning."

The florist leaves with a plan, and Baelor continues on his journey. Lucky for him, Bloodraven finds him before he could turn onto the steps beside him,

"My Prince."

"Please, you know me better than that!"

"Very well - Baelor. You have been searching for me?"

"I require a raven, if you please."

"To send your letters to your betrothed?"

"Indeed."

Bloodraven sighs, running a hand through his hair. His ravens were not just carrier birds to send on errands for lovesick princes! Yet there is a look in Baelor's eyes - hope, joy and a love that he had not seen in a long time - that he could not ignore,

"Very well - it will arrive by the morning. Give the letter over, and return to your chambers."

"Thank you kindly-"

"No need, Baelor. You should know that by now."

The two exchange familiar smiles, and Baelor returns to his chambers - much less stressed than before. As he drifts off to sleep, he thinks of you again, and prays that nothing delays his efforts this time.

The morning arrives sooner than you expect. Part of that might be the claws tapping at your window, begging to be let in.

Hang on - claws????

You shoot up in bed, head whipping to the right. And there - with a letter attached to it - sits a raven. You unlock the window, quickly letting the raven in and freeing the letter from it (something it seems to be awfully glad for. Who knows how long the poor thing had been begging for your attention?). Somewhat absentmindedly, you set some bird feed on the nightstand beside your bed. The raven immediately rushes to it as you unravel the letter. The flowers fall out first, and your heart blooms as sweet lavender hits your nose,

"To the sweet Lady Baratheon, who has not left my mind of late,"

So he had written! Your heart begins hammering in its cage, beating wildly as you read each and every word. In fact, you read it so quickly that you have to make yourself read it again. And again, and then again, just so you can fully appreciate every thing he says. Despite him calling the story not so funny, you find yourself giggling at it anyway (you recall Lord Rollingford from a few functions of past, and the image of him falling into mud is funnier than it should be).

Though you had not asked him to, he explains his absence - and it fills a hole in your heart that you did not realise you had. From there, the day only gets better, when a big bouquet filled with pretty oranges, purples (both deep and pastels), pinks and reds arrives in your name. Lyonel receives it at first, eyeing the note attached:

To my sweet betrothed,

Baelor x

He mutters something about 'idiots in love' as you snatch the flowers from him - placing them in a vase and taking them back into your chambers, onto the nightstand beside your bed. The maids and servants hold their giggles, watching you sneak back into your chambers to appreciate the flowers throughout the day.

This time, instead of speedily penning a response, you wait. You wait, and you read. With everything you read, you collect something new to send him - compiled all in a letter. Little moments with Lyonel and his family, pieces of poetry that remind you of him… it does not take you long to amass a collection to choose from.

Two and a half days pass like this, when you finally write back,

For the lovely Prince Baelor, of whom I cannot stop thinking - every moment of the day,

Though I appreciated the apology, it was not necessary. If anything, I am just glad to have heard from you!

The flowers in the letter were beautiful (were they from the gardens in King's Landing?) - but the flowers you had sent in the bouquet were… they were gorgeous. Stunning, even. I find myself staring at them often, you know. They remind me of the sunset under which we spoke - was that intentional?

In your previous letter you claim that your story of Lord Rollingford is dull, and not funny, but I must disagree with your interpretation, my Prince. I have met Lord Rollingford, and I know how he is - and the idea of him falling back into mud… perhaps this is cruel of me, but I could not help the giggle which escaped me upon the image that filled my mind!

Speaking of things that fill my mind.. I think of you. I think of you when I wake, when I sleep. When Lyonel irritates me with his constant teasing and annoyances, when I take my walks through the gardens. In short, I cannot stop thinking of you. Hearing that I occupy your mind as much as you do mine brings me comfort and truly does make me happy.

I do hope you will forgive me, for I do not have a poem today - but instead, a quote: "Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you."

I think it is more apt than ever, with the two of us~

I do have some questions too, if you do not mind?

Firstly, could you tell me more of Valarr and Matarys? I understand they are young, but I am not due to arrive in King's Landing until three weeks before the wedding. That is not enough time to know such young babes, and I should like to know a little more about them - if that is alright, of course.

Secondly, my duties. I know I will not be pushed into them immediately, but could you outline some of them to me? Just so I can.. prepare myself, of course.

For now these are all the questions I have - but if you have some of your own, please do ask.

Faithfully yours,

Lady Baratheon.

The letter is sent quickly, and arrives just as quickly (in the morn of the next day, as Baelor rises). A smile graces his face as he reads through it, keeping it in his little box that he had set aside just for you. His day is immediately bettered, just from receiving a letter from you.

The loss of his wife had left him entirely empty. Once a man who would easily throw on a smile, cover the burdens that rested upon his shoulders and carry on with life - Baelor now found himself sitting in his solar, an uncomfortable feeling never leaving his chest. Couple that with the two babes - entirely reliant upon him - and Baelor could not take another moment of crying babes nor the realm needing him. He had not felt such a loneliness, nor a desparation in so very long and yet now his days were filled with nothing but loneliness and desparation. Though his marriage with his wife may not have been entirely one of love alone, it did not stop him from feeling so cold upon her loss.

It was then that his father approached him. Still sat in his solar, a tray of food cold and untouched as a familiar knock on the doors announced his arrival,

"Come i- Ah, Father. What brings you here today?"

He tries so very hard to plaster on a smile, but all he manages is a thin line that is not quite a frown. It shall have to do, he supposes, as his father walks in,

"Baelor! Your mother and I miss you dearly, you know."

"I must apologise, Father-"

"-and Maekar keeps grumbling to everyone and-"

"I can imagine, but-"

"-and I cannot stop Rhaegel from wandering the halls again and- Ah, I have overwhelmed you - my apologies, son. Please sit, I promise I have come here with something other than our troubles to add to your pains."

Both men takes seats beside the fire (which had dwindled substantially over the day, now mere embers barely keeping their warmth. Still, they tried their best to glow and warm.). It is then that Baelor finally mentally acknowledges the chill that had surrounded him, and a shiver drives up his spine as he takes his seat. King Daeron, for his part, seems to be in good spirits. Perhaps the news he brings is one that will finally resolve whatever emptiness he has tried to fill over the last six moons. Somewhat unfortunately for Baelor, his father makes him wait - summoning a new tray of food to replace the previous one. He urges his son to eat, waiting patiently as he drinks his tea. When Baelor is around a third into the meal that sits in front of him (a hearty lentil soup, that seems to ease the hunger he did not know he had felt), Daeron finally speaks to him,

"You are to be wedded again!"

The spoon drops as Baelor looks at his father both with confusion and indignation. Marriage? Already?

"Repeat that to me?"

"You are betrothed once more, Baelor."

"Betrothed?"

"I apologise - I come to you both as your father but as your king too, my son-"

"It has barely been six moons-"

"-and between the needs of the realm and those of your sons, this is the best solution! Valarr and Matarys require a mother, and it would not be a bad thing to reaffirm our ties with the Baratheons."

"I am to be wedded to a Baratheon? Not that.. not that it particularly changes anything, I suppose.."

"Yes, Lyonel Baratheon's sister - you remember her, yes? You danced with her at her nameday tourney-"

"Many years ago, Father! She must have changed so very much since!"

"As have you, my son. Listen - the betrothal is already fixed. She will come to us in two moons - do with that what you will. Of course, you cannot go to Storm's End, but you can pen letters, and-"

"I have no choice, do I?"

"The realm requires it, Baelor."

The soup that sits in front of him has gone cold already. His head hits the back of the chair as he slowly exhales from his mouth. For a moment, Daeron's own heart pangs. It could not have been easy for Baelor, suffering like this, only to be told that he was now to wed another so soon. But Westeros cared little for how one felt, and more for what befitted the realm. Baelor does not move from his chair, not until Daeron's hand finds his,

"Have faith, my son. Somewhere along the line, everything will finally click into place."

Baelor does not trust his own voice to respond, forcing a smile onto his face as he hums and nods. The King leaves, and Baelor is once again left to his own thoughts and the silence that only seems to scream around him.

Storm's End was never quiet. Between you, your brother, your brother's lovely wife and their gaggle of children - to gain a moment's rest in the castle was to have your prayers heard and answered by the Gods themselves. Something that was seldom heard of. Tonight was an entirely new matter that you had been (somewhat) dreading over the years. Your brother had finally secured you a betrothal that he swore would be the key to your future, your happiness and the success of House Baratheon.

Baelor Targaryen. Baelor 'The Hammer' Targaryen, Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen. Most known for his strong success during the Blackfyre Rebellions - in particular, the Battle of Redgrass Field, which had essentially determined the end of the First Rebellion.

You remembered the boy who had just been a few moons older than you, and danced with you at your nameday tourney. How he had made you laugh, made you giddy with joy and made you feel in ways that you could not explain.

Yet he owed a duty to the crown, and to the realm. And so you were not considerably shocked upon his betrothal to another - though you could not deny the pangs in your heart. You heard of his sons - Valarr and Matarys, the older being two and the younger barely being a few moons old - and the realm knew of his loss, so it was only a matter of time before he would take another wife. But taking the Baratheon Brat? The 'Delight of Storm's End'? Part of you wondered if it was his own decision, and another part of you wondered if he even remembered you - after all these years. Your brother snapping his fingers brings you back,

"Hellooooo dear sisterrrrr~! Are you there? have you already started dreaming of your half Dornish husband to be's well endowed co-"

"Lyonel!"

"You've heard the tales, surely?"

"Who hasn't- That's beyond the point!"

"So then what is it, sister dear, that has you so very lost in space, hmm?"

"I just- this is not a joke, is it? It would be awfully cruel of you to play such a joke on me, you know."

"Nay - I have the King's letter approving the betrothal right here, if that may soothe your mind?"

He slides the letter across the table. It is marked with the Targaryen sigil - the black and red three headed dragon. On one end, the wax stamp (marked with the initials 'D.T') that had been carefully lifted with a knife remains intact (your brother, unknown to most, was a fond collector of such stamps. Any and all letters that arrived in Storm's End were therefore opened carefully, so as to keep the stamp intact and safe for his collection.). The letter unravels in your hands, and in neat cursive, you read the words that glide across the page,

Dear Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End,

This is an official letter from the office of King Daeron II, at the Red Keep, acknowledging the agreements between House Baratheon and House Targaryen. I (King Daeron II) approve of the betrothal between my son and your sister, and the two shall be wedded in two moons at the Great Sept of Baelor. We eagerly await your arrival, and the beginning of a new life of joy for the lovely couple.

Hopefully, my son should send your sister some correspondence soon - I had hoped we may have some more time, so that the two may meet before being wedded to one another, but I am entirely confident that they will make it work! After all, we all remember fondly how they had danced together upon your sister's nameday.

I must end this letter with my sweet congratulations, and blessings upon yourself and your House,

King Daeron II.

It was real. It was as real as you, as the cold stones that made the castle around you. As the wild sea that crashed outside, practically screaming its joy to the world. You were to marry Prince Baelor within two moons. Your brother threw his head back - laughing wildly as the realisation set in your mind,

"A drink for my sweet sister! And drinks for all - for we must celebrate the beginning of forever!"

Baelor sat at his solar. He had written three letters - all of which did naught to make either him nor his soul feel any better. Not one letter read as a husband eager to meet his wife, but as a man who had long forgotten how to court. In frustration he groaned and lowered his head to the table - unintentionally getting ink on his forehead.

It truly was just his luck then that the doors to his solar opened. No warning, no knocks and a sense of entitlement that could only belong to the youngest of four princes,

"Brother."

"Maekar."

"You were not at dinner. Again."

"Ah, has dinner already passed?"

"I- What the fuck have you been doing today?"

"You have heard the news, have you not?"

"Of fucking course I have! She is good for you."

"Well, yes, but-"

"What?"

"…I fear I have forgotten how to court a woman, Maekar."

"…"

"…"

"…you cannot be fucking serious, Baelor. Say something pretty, say something sweet - you were always better at this shit than I was! remember how I made you write my letters to Dyanna?"

"That was before I had forgotten, Maekar."

"Then fucking remember! You have a chance to make things right, to fix whatever stupid hole is in your heart! Leave the grumbling and sulking to me - that's my job, Baelor."

"…"

"What have you got so far?"

Baelor finally raises his head from the desk, and his brother pulls a face of sheer disdain at the ink splotch on his forehead - throwing a handkerchief at him and gesturing to his forehead. Baelor pushes the crumpled letters towards his brother, before finding a mirror and scrubbing at his forehead to clean the mess that adorns it.

With every sentence he reads, Maekar's face only worsens. At one point he groans, and says. 'It cannot get worse than this'. Two moments later he answers himself, 'It has gotten worse. Seven fucking Hells, Baelor.', to which Baelor does not respond, only pouts and stares at the new sheet of paper that sits in front of him.

Blank.

Almost how his mind felt, at this moment.

"You danced with her at her nameday-"

"As everyone seems so keen to remind me of - yes I did. What of it?"

"Did you speak? Any authors she particularly enjoys? Poems, songs - anything you can work with? And get rid of the soppy shit."

"I thought that would appeal to her-"

"No!"

"Fine. I suppose there were a few.."

"Then include those, you fucking idiot!"

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and then tearing the letters that Baelor had worked so hard on - receiving a sound of protest from his elder brother. But Maekar does not care, and throws the torn up shreds into the fire, before pointing at his brother,

"Write better! She is to be your wife, and I know you are capable of better."

With that, Maekar leaves, and Baelor is alone in his solar once more. He thinks that perhaps a change of scenery will help him write better, and takes his brother's advice - turning to the library of the Maidenvault in hopes that he may find some kind of inspiration there. The library was tall and imposing - with shelves of books stacked high. In between bookshelves were desks, barely lit up with dim candles (old wax that had melted off the candles created a tall mountain where the candles would reside) and spaces for ink pots and quills. Baelor grabs several books and finds a desk, and what initially begins as a simple evening spent in the library becomes hours peering over books, staring at poems so that he may derive meaning from them.

The hour of the wolf has long passed, and his third candle has almost completed a full journey when he finally finds the poem most suited for a letter to you. It is well known, yes, but he recalls how your eyes had lit up when he recited the poem to you. As he scribbles it down, he pauses to think. For the first time since.. well, everything, Baelor finally felt a little lighter. He finally felt as though he may be worthy of a fresh start, and a small part of him felt both nervous and excited at the idea of sending you his letter.

It is not entirely shocking, then, that the Prince falls asleep in the library - found by the Grand Maester doing his rounds. The man does not distrub him in the morning, but drapes a blanket over him before returning to his duties.

A little over a day has passed since you had been told of your betrothal. Most of Storm's End has been filled with joy - rejoicing at the glad news. But you have been uncharacteristically quiet - waiting at the window for sight of a raven from your betrothed. All who had seen you saw not the 'brat', who would dance, sing and tease all around her, but instead saw the girl who would hide behind her father's legs as a child. The girl who would sooner bury herself under books than greet lords and ladies. The girl who was so very nervous, and overthought every possibility.

Your youngest nephew - Ormund, a babe of just ten moons - sat beside you. His pudgy fingers tugged at your gown, demanding your attention as you continued staring out into the skies. The sun cast a warm glow over the Stormlands, as evening skies slowly rolled in. A soft red streaked across the sky - a gentle fire, not unlike your betrothed.

A warmth settled over your heart at the thought of him - quickly tugged away by the babe who screeched and begged for you to play with him. Finally, after so long of staring out of the window, you granted him your attention - playing with the babe, helping him walk by holding his hands and leading him around the room. It is somewhat funny then, that the one time you look away from the window is when a raven arrives in Storm's End.

"Sister! Come quick, a raven has arrived for you! From King's Landing!"

You stopped - lifting Ormund to your chest as your thoughts went entirely blank. It most likely was a letter from Baelor, the official beginning of your (short) courtship. With your sweet nephew still clinging to you, you rushed through the halls, down to your brother (who had taken to feeding the raven that sat perched upon his shoulder). Lyonel handed the letter to you, taking his son as you carefully opened and unravelled the message sent just for you.

It had the same sigil, the same wax stamp (albeit with the initials 'B.T' instead of 'D.T') and the paper felt the same in your hands. But the handwriting.. something about it felt personal. As if you could tell that whoever had written it had taken time. Had really, truly thought about how to write it. Your brother (not subtly, mind you) was peering over your shoulder before you twisted away from him, putting yoursefl against a wall. He sighed and rolled his eyes, but ultimately allowed your privacy as you read,

To my dearest betrothed - the kind Lady Baratheon,

I must begin by acknowledging our betrothal. Though it is a small surprise to me, it is not one I am upset by. If anything, I feel somewhat glad at the agreement set by both of our houses! I am sure you remember the time we danced at your nameday (or, if your House is anything like mine, you have been incessantly reminded of it by everyone around you!). I must say - if I am being entirely honest, I found you quite endearing then, and am sure you are even more endearing now.

I also must apologise for the rushed nature of our courtship - I suspect part of it is to do with my children. Valarr and Matarys are quite young, and I believe that may be the motivation and push behind this. I do wish we could have the time to meet properly and for me to actually court you properly. Nonetheless, Storm's End is not far by raven, and we shall have to settle for courtship via raven! Oh, before I forget (for I have attempted to write this letter four times now, and I am dangerously close to falling asleep at this incredibly uncomfortable desk in the library) - I do not expect you to immediately become a mother to my children. Of course, it would be ideal, but they are not your responsibility to shoulder alone. Please do not think that is the only reason we are to be wedded.

I seem to recall you were as fond of poetry as I am. In particular, you enjoyed a certain poem - perhaps you remember too? Though it is very well known, and all of Westeros could recite it by heart, I cannot forget how your eyes lit up so sweetly, so very long ago when I recited it to you. The way you grabbed my hands on the balcony, as the moon cast a gentle glow upon us - far from this hubbub and distraction of the bustling hall below. Do you recall that night? How the stars shone so bright? It is one of my fondest memories, my Lady, and I sincerely hope you do not mind that I am reciting it again - even in written form.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

I would like to write more - but somewhat unfortunately, sleep seems to be taking my hand, and my brain (as you can see from my much messier hand here - I apologise, it is not usually so messy). The candle has almost completed its cycle, and the cold is beginning to seep through the walls. I think I heard the howling of the winds not long ago. My next letter will be less uncontrolled, I promise you this. Nonetheless, I shall think of you, and eagerly await your response to me.

Awaiting you, with love,

Baelor Targaryen.

You read the letter three times. Each time, your smile widens a little more, and heat rises across your neck and face. Lyonel watches eargerly - thinking at first to tease you, until he sees the look in your eyes. Something that cannot be faked, something that cannot be reasoned with.

A feeling blossoms in his heart - joy. Joy, that his sweet sister had found something of her own (even if it was somewhat thrust upon you). The smile that beamed across your face was not your usual smile of mirth and mischief, but one of true happiness. A smile that truly signified the beginning of something you had long awaited.

As soon as you had read the letter, you rushed up towards the library - Lyonel following close behind,

"Sweet sister - surely you shall indulge me upon the contents of your letter!"

"Never you mind that! I have a Prince to write to!"

He sighs, rolling his eyes and attending to his son as you search through the library. The Gods watch as you practically mirror Baelor - stacks of books piled on high beside you as you find the correct response to your betrothed. The hours pass by with ease. Your brother and his wife bring their dinners to the library - feasting with you as you continue your research. Soon enough, you are alone again - and have found the perfect poem. A sonnet, in fact, for you recall the Prince's appreciation of a good sonnet.

To my sweet betrothed - the gentle Prince Baelor,

It pleases me to hear from you after so very long, and to be betrothed to you. I have never forgotten you, nor how we danced at my nameday. How you kept whisking me away from the lords that took me to dance. How our eyes searched for one another throughout the tourney, and how you kept making me giggle throughout the feast afterwards! I also remember making you blush, and how your cheeks reddened more than the skies upon sunset - but I suppose that should be a conversation for another time~

As a result, I too am pleased by our betrothal, and am somewhat excited (and perhaps a little nervous, though I hope that stays between you and I, my Prince!) by the prospect!

I am grateful for your reassurances, and though I am sure I shall need time to adjust to King's Landing and the court, I am not opposed to getting to know Valarr and Matarys. If you do not mind my saying - I would like to keep their mother's memory, but also be… something similar to them. Whatever is most comfortable for you, of course. I also understand the rushed courtship - though I believe there may be another added reason why! My brother has not celebrated something in the full Baratheon manner, and I do believe he may be longing for another grand celebration (and quite frankly, this reeks of his scheming! I can already hear him demanding more wine of the servants as he dances along the halls - I must apologise in advance, though I am sure you are aware of how he parties).

Your letter brought me much joy, my Prince. I read it three times, before keeping it safe in my private journal (far from any prying eyes, of course) - and I do remember how you recited that poem to me! In particular, I remember how your gaze softened when I joined you, and how we spent (what felt like) hours under the moonlight - debating poetry and defending literary works against one another. I must admit - when I read the poem again, I found myself imagining that night once more…

And so I shall respond to you with a poem of mine own. I do not know if you know this one, but I recall you enjoying sonnets…?

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea

But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out

Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack,

Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

   O, none, unless this miracle have might,

   That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Perhaps this is a poem more suited to Storm's End. Though, I hope you see the beauty within it that I do.. The hour is late, my Prince, and my handmaids have called for me to rest twice already. Outside, the waves crash against the stone, and cold should fill the room around me - yet I cannot help but to be surrounded by warmth.

Thinking of you,

Lady Baratheon.

Your handmaids had called you twice already - you had not lied. In fact, they were on their way to call you again when you finally left the library (after sealing the letter and attaching it to a raven, who dutifully cawed and made his way towards King's Landing).

As you lie in the bath - the warmth of the water surrounding you easing your aching muscles (that you did not even know ached like that) - your mind floats away. You wonder what he looks like - had the few years that passed between you changed him? Fatherhood probably did, and the Rebellion most definitely did. Yet he was still likely to be handsome, you thought. The water grew colder, and time passed quickly as your thoughts left you. Before you knew it, your maids were helping you back out of the bath and into nightclothes. Sleep found you quickly, and you were grateful for it.

Away in King's Landing, Baelor sits with his sons in his arms. Though the two were very young, and most definitely did not understand the words he spoke to them, he still explains the situation in full detail. To be entirely fair - the young Prince Valarr nodded dutifully (though Baelor presumed that was more of habit, than actual understanding),

"It is.. difficult, my sweetlings. I miss your mother, but perhaps this will be good for us - and the realm, of course. You will understand as you grow, but I will not force anything upon the two of you."

Valarr responds with a noise - something that sounded incredibly profound, as if he had gained sudden wisdom. Matarys, on the other hand, was sucking on Baelor's thumb,

"I know, I know - we shall all endeavour to be good, yes?"

Both boys respond by reaching out to their father, sleepy and tired from a long day of doing nothing. As he rocks them both to sleep, his mind drifts off to you once more. He had not felt so nervous in a long time - did you read his letter? Did you appreciate the poem, or did you see him as some bubling fool? He tries to still the panic rising in his heart, but every few moments it returns to him once more. Eventually, even the heir to the Iron Throne must rest, and he succumbs to his sleep.

The morning light peeks in through red curtains - casting a glow across his chambers. Baelor awakens gently (unlike the previous moons, where he had both struggled to sleep and struggled to awaken). The day's schedule cycles through his mind as he dresses himself and makes his way to break fast with his family. Every face he passes in the corridors on the way is filled with either surprise or a sense of pity that he is eager to dispel - he needs not their pity. No, what he needs is joy and normalcy.

Unfortunately, his own family are not much better. King Daeron jumps from his seat - pulling his eldest into an embrace that he cannot escape from as his siblings stifle their own laughs. Queen Myriah is next, tugging him to the seat beside him,

"You must sit with your mother today! I shan't hear a thing against it!"

He did not try to fight her. Instead, he took his rightful place - ignoring the playful jeers from his brothers, and enjoying breaking fast with his family.

The remainder of his day was surprisingly relaxed. Even the small council meeting, for once, was not incredibly stressful. Everyone was agreeable, and no one really protested each other. Yet Baelor could not wrangle his thoughts away from you. Not even now, as he watches the evening skies - not yet the signature dark purples with blankets of stars glittering across them, but the softer blues of the sun relinquishing its rule over the day, slowly succumbing to the night.

"She will not respond that quickly, Baelor."

"I know, Maekar. Yet still.."

"Yet still you stand there like a green fucking boy!"

"…"

"Honestly - one day you're spiral into confusion and the next you're stood at the window like some wife longing for her sailor husband! Baelor - you have got to get a gri-"

"A RAVEN! I mean, a raven! A raven, Maekar."

"So it is.."

"Yes, it is!"

Baelor unfastens the letter attached to the raven, feeding it some feed he had stolen from Brynden Rivers long ago (who had been very aware of it, and the only reason he had not mentioned it was because it made his life ever so slightly easier with the ravens). He waves the rolled up letter in Maekar's face (much to his irritation) and specifically points out the wax steal with a stag (within which your initials are stamped in),

"Now, unless Lyonel Baratheon has a) changed his name and b) wishes to personally contact me, I believe this may be from my betrothed!"

"Fucking open it already!"

He grumbled, slumping into a chair and crossing his arms as he threw his legs onto the desk. Baelor grabbed his letter opener - treating the letter with more care than he had ever done. His thumb trailed over the stamp as he imagined you (or rather, what he had imagined you would look like after all these years) pressing the stamp into wax). The letter unraveled, and a few rose petals almost dropped out - until Baelor quickly moved the letter over the desk. Maekar leaned forward - carefully inspecting the petals as Baelor read the letter,

"She sent petals."

"Mhm."

"Petals????"

"Sure."

"She sent. Rose petals. With her fucking letter."

"Yep."

"…"

"…"

"You are both as in-fucking-sufferable as each other."

"Whatever you say, brother."

"Fuck me, you haven't even met her!"

"And yet she writes, and I feel ten years younger - dancing with her on her nameday once more. What can I say, Maekar?"

"You can start by saying thank you! It was I, if you remember correctly, who told you to send the poem!"

"Of course - thank you, my oh, so very wonderful brother without whom I would be entirely lost!"

The sarcasm is not lost on Maekar, who rolls his eyes and huffs,

"Well?"

"Hmm?"

"What has she written? Honestly, Baelor-"

"She wrote of being glad for the betrothal - which is to be expected. Nobody would exclaim dissatisfaction like that. But she also- actually, it might just be easier for you to read it - here."

He hands the letter to his younger brother, before opening up his drawers. There was an empty box, which required filling, and the rose petals (with the wax stamp) felt apt. As Maekar read (face twisting into a grimace not because the content was particularly distasteful, but because his nature was not so flowery), Baelor poured them both an evening tea,

"Seven fucking Hells - you both truly do deserve each other!"

There is no malice in his words. To a stranger, he may seem somewhat grumpy, but Baelor knows his brother well enough to know that his words are filled with love. Perhaps even joy, but that might be pushing the limits a little,

"Should I write back?"

"Wait until the morning this time. Write in the morning, and send it slightly later - so that it may reach her at a normal fucking time."

"Hmm.. that may be a good idea."

"Of course it's a good fucking idea!"

"Whatever you say, brother dear."

And with that, the two brothers enjoy their tea, before leaving to their respective chambers for the night.

Later on that very same day, as the sun begins to cast a comfortable evening glow across the land, you find your thoughts drifting as you clean up the bakery. Your mind could not rip itself away from the man who had captured it, lured it in with his snares and tied it up - holding it hostage as you desparately tried to think of anything but him. The way his hands flexed as he contemplated taking the tart you had recommended, how his arms wrapped around you as you fell into his arms…

You sighed, shaking your head in an attempt to clear your mind.

It does not work.

Instead, your thoughts shift to his smile next. The way it broke out across his face - small lines etching out from his eyes. You could not ignore the giddy warmth that bloomed out from your heart, nor the warm feeling in your stomach. You try again. And again. And a final third time, as you walk back to your uncle's dwellings. Yet try as you might, you truly cannot shake him from your thoughts.

Naturally, as you are plagued by him, he finds himself similarly plagued by you.

He had just put Silas to bed (Silas, of course, would not sleep without Oofy bundled up close beside him. And so, between that and the three stories he had demanded kindly requested his father to read him, the whole process had taken around two hours. Though, seeing the young boy wrapped up in bed with his favourite plush toy with little sheep casting his dreams off to sleep, Ormund could not fault the poor boy), and finally lay in bed.

Sleep rarely came easily to him as it was. Worries of his duties, his son and every other potential concern would always flood his brain as he lay. He had spent many a night staring up at the ceiling above him, rather than actually sleeping.

Tonight was no different, but instead of the usual worries (for example, when would Silas stop putting up a fuss every morning? Would he have to manage this every morning?), his brain floated back to the bakery. Specifically, to you throwing flour at him as he approached you - a simple mistake, of course. A smile worked its way on his face as he thought about how your eyes widened at the idea of throwing flour at the customer who your uncle had spoken of so kindly.

He wondered - would your eyes widen the same when you finally realised who he was? Would you stop being so sweet and kind, so bubbly and filled with what he can only describe as the Heavens' own light? Perhaps you would grow cold, turn your heart away from him. Perhaps you would not say his name so sweetly again.

Oh, what a fool he was! Allowing his mind to spiral so far and so quickly over the course of the evening. He mentally smacked himself, shaking his head and huffing as he attempts sleep again. But he cannot take his mind from you. Specifically, how your form felt in his arms when he caught you. A perfect fit, he thought to himself. And your eyes when you looked up at him, so bright and shining with something he could not name, but he knew all too well.

Seven forgive him, he thought, as his hand lowered down his body - past his chest and abs (long adorned with the scars of war), slipping into his undergarments. Part of him knew he should not, for you were the baker's niece, and were entirely unattainable. To act like this was to form an attachment, and to form an attachment was dangerous. You would not ever take him, so to even allow his brain to think so would be risky. This, and the fact that he was older than you, strengthened the part of him that attempted to remain rational.

Another part of him - perhaps a part that he should focus more on keeping quieter - whispers into his ears. Sinful desires, and how this was not really wrong - after all, he would not act upon his thoughts. To touch oneself was not inherently wrong, surely, and he must relieve himself somehow. Besides, it had been so very long..

The night is not the time for rational thoughts. Not when he was buried under covers, hidden from the prying eyes of the Heavens, with none but his own hand for company.

His hand finally wrapped around the base of his cock, slowly working up and down his length. He could not bring himself to rush - not tonight. As he closed his eyes, he could not help but to imagine you - on your knees as you would pleasure him so sweetly. A groan hangs out of his mouth - he allows his imagination to run wild, and his hand quickens its pace.

The picture of your hand, rolling up and down his cock as he watched you through hazed eyes all taunted him. Dragging him to ruin. Lips teasing the very head as your tongue darted out - yes, you probably would tease him like that, all with a sweet smile that he would not be able to refuse. He would take your head in his hands, cradling either side as he slowly rocked his cock in and out of your mouth-

His thoughts are interrupted by a hot liquid spilling over his stomach, the sheets and his nightclothes. He cursed himself, and the shame of having to ask someone to clean for him was far too embarassing to endure. In his defence, he had not thought it would last this long, and had initially planned to move to the bathroom in time.

"Heavens above…"

Half an hour later, he had a bath drawn for him. Ormund sat in hot water, surrounded by the scent of oranges and a chamomile tea that sat just in reach for him to sip at. He could not help drifting at the scent of oranges, mind once again finding you as servants collected his sheets, quickly replacing them and rushing back out of his chambers as he lay in the bath.

Neither you nor him was quite willing to name what exactly it was that had clearly happened to both of you.

"PAPA!"

"Oof!"

The young boy threw himself at his sleeping father, who had been dreaming and snoring well into the morning. He knew his father would wake up like this, and a small part of him knew it was somewhat evil to do this, but that did not stop him (for children are rarely deterred by the aspect of such evils). Nor did the gaggle of maids and servants who truly had tried their very best to hold sweet Silas back.

Ormund awoke very abruptly - as anyone who has ever had a child jump upon them does, of course - eyes wide open as his body lurched forwards. In the distance, he just about makes out several maids and servants slowly creeping back out of the chambers - eyes wide as the doors quietly close behind them. His arms immediately found and wrapped around Silas, pulling the boy closer as he groaned,

"It is far too early, sweet child."

"Noooooooo."

"Yes it is."

"Noooooooooooo!!"

"Silas.."

"Papa, up up!!"

"Not up up, Silas. Down down. Sleep. Please."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Ye- must we do this every morn?"

"Papa wakeyyyyyyy."

"Papa sleepy, methinks."

"Papa wrong."

"Silas."

"Papa."

Ormund let his head hit the pillow as defeat almost took over, only for his eyes to catch on to Oofy on the side of the bed. Grabbing the plush toy, he employed a tactic that had been used far too many times (to the point that it was honestly luck that the boy had not realised it). Lifting it up to his ear, he (groggily) pretended to listen,

"Oh, is that so? Hmm.. very well, I shall tell him. But next time, Oofy, it must be you who tells him, not me! No! Of course not! Fine, fine, here I go - wish me luck!"

Somehow, everytime Ormund had done this, Silas would be entirely enticed and entrapped by his father - unable to look away. His big eyes peered up at his father, hands reaching out towards him and wiggling closer and closer,

"Oofy!"

"Yes, yes, Oofy. Here - hold him carefully! He has had terrible sleep last night, Silas."

"Why?"

"Why? Well, Oofy did not tell me that. But he did tell me that a certian little boy had stopped him from completing his sleep in the morning."

"But morning!"

"Yes, Silas. Early morning. Outside, the rooster has not yet crowed my sweet child. Come, come, allow m- Oofy to finish his sleep - unless you would like for him to be tired and angry all day..?"

The little boy considered his options. Play now, but have a grumpy Oofy who would not want to play with him, or sleep now and have a not so grumpy Oofy who would be much more willing to play.

It is not difficult to guess what he picked.

"…sleepy Papa?"

"Sleepy Papa."

The sun had not yet risen, slowly beginning to cast a soft yellow glow into the sky as it began its journey across the day. He pulled the boy into his arms properly now, nestling him into his chest as they both drifted off to sleep once more. Poor Oofy, on the other hand, had been discarded by his owner on the side of the bed!

You were not so lucky, far away from Hightower with no big, strong man to wrap his arms around you and read you tales in a voice that would melt away all your worries as you would fall asleep. Instead, you had spent the whole night staring at the ceiling. When the clock struck four, you pushed yourself out of bed - writing new recipes into a book (because if you are going to be awake, would it not be better to do something productive than to rot away?) until your head hits the table.

The rooster crows less than two hours later, and you jump up from the incredibly uncomfortable position you had slept in. Everything felt sore and stiff - even after you tried to stretch and fix the small ache in your neck. Nonetheless, a new day of work awaited you - and perhaps a certain customer, too.

You pass your uncle's room as you walk to the kitchen, and throw in a quick "good morning!", alongside some easy morning conversation. Both him and your aunt wave, reply with their own "good morning!" and return to breaking their morning fast together. Your heart both swoons and pangs at the sight - swooning, for there truly is nothing like true love, but panging at the nagging voice in the back of your head. You shake the thoughts away as you begin your journey to the bakery once more.

Part of you hopes your uncle would recover quickly, but there is a slightly selfish part of you that wished he would take his time. You try to admonish yourself for such thoughts, but you cannot help it - not when you think back to him again.

Today, you attempt a new recipe. Yesterday may have been the day for a lavendar and orange tart, but today is the day for the brand new blood orange cake you had been aching to try! Blood orange flavouring both the cake and the curd - both blooming with a tart freshness that sprung out - combined with a beautifully bright orange buttercream.

You take time when you bake, for no good thing is rushed. As you work through the process, you find yourself grateful for preparing the day's pastries the night before.

Time passes quickly though, and before you know it, the bell at your counter is already ringing. Your eyes widen - flicking towards the clock as you almost drop the piping bag in your hands. You quickly neaten things up before making your way out of the kitchen, praying you do not look too unpresentable,

"Sorry about that, I was trying a new reci- Oh! It's you! And who is this?"

Now, I hope you do not mind a little detour, back to the morning. For as Ormund rattled through his very particular morning schedule, he was unable to stop himself becoming more and more irate with every passing minute. Every minute that he spent peering over boring accounts, dull papers and petty disputes was another minute he spent further away from you, and he would not have that.

Unfortunately, sweet Silas absolutely could not have his father travelling alone - what an absolutley absurd notion! (You know, despite the fact that Ormund is a grown adult, Lord Hightower and Lord of Oldtown. Seven forbid him travelling alone..) After a lengthy back and forth (which mostly consisted of Silas screaming and Ormund promising him anything, anything to let him leave), Ormund settled his son in his lap.

He could not hold back the smile from his face as the boy clutched on to his father throughout the whole ride - fast asleep, with drool dripping into Ormund's clothes. As he approached the bakery, the awful voice in his brain finally spoke - what if you were put off by the idea of a child? Would that do it - would that be enough for you to push him away? Yet he had already come so far, and could not exactly leave him behind now.

Especially not when he yawned and stretched open an arm, still clutching Oofy in one hand and his father in the other.

So now, returning to the scene we were in - you finally acknowledged Ormund's presence, before your eyes flicked down to a very sleepy child. A stuffed toy in one hand, his father's hand clutched tight in the other and eyes that threatened to send him back to sleep at any given moment - how could you not immediately coo at him?

"Oh, hello you! Aren't you a sweet thing, hmm? My, my - you never mentioned this adorable little munchkin yesterday, did you?"

"Well…"

"Papaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-"

"Papa?"

"Yes, Silas?"

"Silas hungry. Very hungry."

You tried to ignore your heart, and how a guilty feeling appeared in your throat - too thick to swallow down and repress. Instead you went absolutely silent, choosing to watch the two,

"I did tell you to eat first, Silas."

"But then Papa go?"

"I would have waited."

"Noooooooooooooooooo."

"Yes."

"Nooooooooo!"

"Ye- Silas, we are not doing this, please just pick something to eat."

The little boy - Silas, as you had just learned - peered at the various trays that stood at his eye level, entirely unaware of the awkwardness that surrounded the air around them. Meanwhile, you rose to your full height, looking at Ormund,

"His mother probably would not like him eating something like this, right? I'm sure I could make something a little less swe-"

"His mother passed a few years back, she.. she would not know."

It was as if a force had grabbed you by the shoulders, screaming in your face and smacked you until you had lost all sense. Your mouth fell open as you searched for the correct words for such a situation.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Oh, erm-"

"Whatever is the- oh dear I ha-"

"No, no, it is not your fault, I should not have assume-"

"You had no way of knowing, truly."

"…"

"…"

"Still, I am sorry-"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, waving a hand as he sighed. It is now that you take in the messy hair, bags and slight wrinkles under his eyes - clearly lacking sleep. The drool on his clothes, which of course must have been young Silas. Your heart goes out to him, yet you do not know how to comfort a man in such a situation.

"Nonsense. I should have responded in a less pushy manner. Nonetheless, I believe Silas has finally chosen his pastry."

Silas' chubby fingers point at a lemon and elderflower cake you had baked last night, and decorated just this morning (before your brand new experiment, of course). A three layer lemon and elderflower flavoured cake, filled with a blackberry jam between each layers, an elderflower buttercream on the outside and an elderflower drizzle all around - topped with blackberries and candied lemon slices.

You smile, nodding and cutting a (slightly bigger than usual) slice for the boy, who stares at the cake as if he has fallen madly in love with it. You can practically see the stars and hearts in his eyes, shining as his mouth begins drooling again. Ormund bends down to his son's height - wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and apologising profusely,

"No need to apologise so much - how about you both take a seat, and I'll bring the cake over with some milk and some tea for yourself?"

He nods, and as he walks away, an idea comes to you,

"Actually, Ormund?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind trying a recipe for me?"

"As long as it is not mud and grass in a bowl-"

"Why would it-"

"Silas."

"Oh. Oh, I see. Well, how does my good sire feel about a blood orange cake?"

He runs his tongue across his teeth, musing over it before eventually nodding, You smile and turn towards the kitchen - preparing a slice of the cake, and a kettle of earl grey tea - and he makes his way to the table where Silas sits, playing with Oofy.

"Papa likes her."

"Hmm?"

"Papa likeyyyyyyyy!"

"What?"

He refuses to give him any further explanation, falling into a fit of giggles at his father's confusion. Ormund ruffles his hair in response, and the two wait patiently. When you appear with a tray of their cakes and milk/tea, Ormund has half a mind to invite you to sit with them.

However, it is of course then that your customers choose to make their appearances. First, sweet old Harriet and her huge, scary looking dog Daisy (a real sweetheart, of course) come in. Harriet takes a small plate of apple roses with some tea, and Daisy rushes towards Ormund and Silas. The latter immediately finds himself enamored with the big dog, playing endlessly with her as he quickly forgets his cake and milk.

Second are Lyon and Jemma - the lovely couple from the day before. The two, upon Ormund's own recommendation, take a slice of the blood orange cake to share between them.

You pretend his recommendation does not make your heart sway closer to his.

He notices anyway, of course.

Silas pokes his father's leg, looking up at him with a smile that could only mean evil, and for a moment Ormund cannot shake the horrible pit in his stomach that his son will once again cause a ruckus of some sort. The young boy gestures towards his father, encouraging him to come closer. The older man bends down again (trying to ignore the slight pain in his knees as he does),

"Silas…"

"Papa," the sweet boy whispers, "Papaaaaa!"

"Yes, my boy, I hear you."

"You like her!"

"Who? Daisy??"

Oh Ormund, you huge, blithering fool. Not Daisy!

"No!"

"No?"

"The nice lady!"

"Harriet?"

"No!"

"Jemma? My sweet son, I fear Lyon will not take to this idea quite so kindly-"

"No!"

"No- Oh?"

"Yes!"

"Silas, it is not like that-"

"Yes it is!"

Despite what he had tried to convince his son (or was he trying to convince himself?), it was in fact, exactly like that. Somewhere between the tarts, cakes and how the two of you immediately clicked with each other - Lord Ormund Hightower had very quickly fallen in love, and did not know how to safely fall out of it. And so, instead of tackling the problem head on, Ormund wrote a note.

Blood orange cake was lovely - absolutely perfect! If I recall correctly, tomorrow should be the bakery's day off, right? How about I take you to the market - my treat? O x (and Silas and Ooooooooooofy!)

It was the end of the day when you finally saw the note, smiling at the little addition scrawled on at the bottom of it - presumably by Silas himself. Perhaps it was slightly foolish of you, but you found yourself rushing home and rifling through your dresses to find the perfect one.

All the way back in Hightower, Silas drooled over his father's shoulder - fast asleep as the man stood tall, ordering servants to find the perfect set of clothes for him. He could not wear exquisite silks, nor expensive leathers, but he did not wish to wear a sack of burlap across his body either.

After what felt like forever, he had finally found the perfect outfit, draping it across hangers and allowing it to breathe in the air as he lay down for bed. His thoughts raced all over and around him as sleep evaded him.

The Gods know that losing one's wife is already a difficult situation alone. But losing one's wife, and being saddled with a wailing newborn and the responsibility of a city and its people looking to you for guidance without ever giving you a moment to mourn is even worse.

Lord Ormund Hightower knew this all too well. The last three years in particular had been difficult - between raising young Silas, governing Oldtown and dealing with whatever messes his family had created, the man had little time for love, or even any duty to himself. Very rarely did he exist outside the role he was to fulfil. Now, it is not that he did not receive marriage candidates - quite the contrary! But he often found himself rejecting them - finding some reason or the other He truly was unable to find it within him to truly move on, despite everyone around him urging him on.

"No," he would say, "I have.. responsibilities."

He would not elaborate any further.

And so, those close to the Lord would sigh, toss papers into a fire and walk away as he would be left frowning over petty disputes.

These days in particular, he took little pleasure in anything. Horse riding, hunting, reading - none really called to him in the manner that it would before. But there was a very particular bakery, located far enough from the busier streets of Oldtown to grant him a sense of privacy. Of course, he was still recognised - after all, who would not recognise their Lord? Only a fool would do such a thing. But he was not harassed, hounded and irritated. Instead, the people further out would often treat him much kinder than others.

Granted, many of them were elderly, and perhaps they looked upon him with pity. Nevertheless, it had quickly become his favourite place to be - especially when life had become far too hectic. For example, this very morning:

"NO!"

"Sila-"

"NO NO NO! I WANT OOFY! NOW!"

"Oofy.. Oofy needs a bath, Silas, please?"

"NO!!!!"

"Silas."

"GO AWAY!"

"Seven give me strength - Silas Hightower, Oofy will return to you when he is washed and clean. And you will return to me when you are washed and clean - is that understood?"

"…"

"I said, is that understood?"

"…"

"Silas-"

"NO!"

Oofy, named for the noise dogs make (except the young boy could not quite pronounce the 'w' sound, and added an extra sound on the end for whatever reason children do such things) was young Silas Hightower's stuffed dog soft toy. A gift from his late grandfather before he had passed and left the burdens of responsibility upon his son.

Unfortunately, Oofy had suffered an incident that morning (been dragged through wed mud by Silas as the two of them played outside before breaking their morning fast) and had no choice but to be rushed into an emergency operation (desperately needed cleaning before Ormund Hightower lost his mind and soul). Similarly, his owner also required a deep clean. The stench of wet mud clung to the young boy! It did not help that he kept flinging his arms around as maids wrestled him into the tub - flicking chunks of mud around the room.

Ormund pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly in an attempt to remain calm. He instructed the maids to not find him until after noon had passed, and to take good care of the young boy until he returned. And so, despite the protests of his young son echoing behind him, Ormund left Hightower for his favourite place in the world.

Whenever he travelled through Oldtown, It always stuck out to him how different people were the further away he was from Hightower. It was almost as though people were less strange, the further he was from his seat. Though, part of that was probably the clothes too. He felt no need to don exquisite silks and velvets on days like these, and so it was much easier to get by. The less who recognised him, the better.

As he rode, he felt the stress ease from his shoulders first, and then his temples, his eyebrows and finally his jaw had fully unclenched by the time he approached the bakery. The sweet smell of baked goods wafted past him, and he sighed happily for the first time in what felt like forever. Outside, the flowers bloomed - their own scents layering perfectly in a way Ormund could only describe as his own heaven. The sun beamed down quite comfortably - not too hot nor too cold, and the perfect breeze blew through the blades of grass below. Dismounting from his horse and tying him to a post, he walked inside, expecting the usual.

"Ah, good morning! You are our first customer today, sire - what is it that you will take today?"

Erm… hang on… this was a problem, no?

That was not what the baker sounded like! For a start, the baker most certainly had a deepset voice - that of a man who had lived a long life. Sure, he did not have a raspy, rugged voice - but he did not have a voice that sung of honeyed flowers and sweetened fruits either! His eyes quickly moved in the direction of the voice, where you stood behind a counter, still setting out pastries. No, no - the baker was not a young woman with soft strays peeking out from her hair, flour dusted across her apron and a warm smile that was slowly turning into a concerned frown,

"…Sire?"

"You are not the baker."

"???"

"No. Where is he?"

"I presume that by the baker you refer to my uncle, yes?"

"I.. hope.. so..?"

"You hope so..?"

"How am I to know if he is your uncle or not? I have not seen you before!"

"Ohhh, you're the dedicated customer."

"The what?"

"My uncle mentioned you! He said you would likely come visit the most of everyone else. My uncle unfortunately has a small health issue - just his back is not quite working the same as it should - and because I have the time, my mother sent me to come and help!"

All of a sudden, he felt like an ass. A complete, total ass. He had not even tried to be kind, rushing straight to suspicion. He should have asked politely, calmly - but instead he threw unnecessary anger at you. Guilt struck his chest as he tasted it - akin to a bitter liquid poured down the throat. He smoothed down his tunic, walking closer with an apologetic smile on his face. Meanwhile, you grabbed a fistful of flour - you know, just in case.

As he got close, opening his mouth to speak…

"I would like t-????"

"Do not even dare to think of attacking me!"

"What???"

"Not a step further!"

"I-?"

"No!"

"I am not attacking yo- is this flour?"

"…"

"Well?"

"You are not attacking me. I see that now."

"And my secon- yes this is flour."

"In my defence, sire, I did not know that you would not attack me-"

"You did not know that I would attack you either!"

You pause, mouth dropping open and close until you sigh and nod. He did have a point, after all. A point, and flour all over his face. (His handsome, chiselled face that you really are trying so very hard to ignore. Had the Gods carved him themselves?) Embarassment begins to creep up your face, heat rising as you feel ashamed that you have somehow attacked the customer that might have just been your uncle's best one. Oh dear. Fear begins to fill your brain as you start to spiral. Your lip begins to tremble, and tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes as you think about your sweet uncle,

"I.. I am so very sorry sire, please do not hold it against my uncle! This bakery is all he has, and if you are the customer he speaks so kindly of, then you know that he needs you, right? And, and I truly did not mean to throw flour like that-"

"Shhh now, it is only flour."

Flour, that he would have to wash aggressively out of his tunic, of course.

"But-"

One raise of his eyebrows has you quickly shutting your mouth, unintentionally pouting at him. He cannot ignore how his heart jumps slightly, but he can quickly divert attention to the matter at hand. Pastries.

"So - I presume the usuals are all available.. hmm. Today feels like something more flower-y, I should think."

"Perhaps the Lavender and orange tart?"

"Lavender and orange?"

"Yes! It is not one of the usual pastries we sell, but it is something I have personally been working on - perhaps you would enjoy it?"

You raise a tray up for him to see - rectangular tarts, filled with a soft purple cream, orange curd and decorated with edible flowers. Truly a tempting little dessert - fresh and citrus-y and a completely different type of pastry from that which your uncle would usually keep for him. Any other day, and he would have refused. Any other person, and he would have shook his head - ever-stubborn in his choices. But he glances up from the tray, his own eyes finding yours - filled with a hope that he could not ignore. So, somehow, he finds himself nodding,

"And what would you recommend to go with this? Usually, I have a plain coffee when I come by, but then I also end up having something less interesting to eat with it."

"I have a lavender, chamomile and rose tea that I could brew for you?"

"Lavender, chamomile and rose.."

As he parrots back each flavour to you, he swears he can taste it across his tongue. You wait patiently, praying he says yes, and find yourself releasing an unintentionally held breath when he finally nods,

"Perfect! In that case, you should take a seat - I'll brew your tea and bring both tea and tart together for you."

He smiles before nodding, turning and finding a seat. Not by the window, because when he had last made that mistake, he found himself busy and riddled with more work on the one day he had chosen to take to himself. Instead, he picks a table that is not quite easy to see from outside, but not too far inside either. Unbeknownst to him, it happened to be the table you could see clearest from the kitchen behind.

Was it such a bad thing to admire your uncle's customers? Surely not, right? You had already cleaned the kitchen, baked the pastries of the day and prepared for tomorrow - what else were you supposed to do as you waited patiently for the tea to brew? You allowed yourself (somewhat shamelessly too~) and your eyes to settle across his form. How his shoulders dropped with every deep breath he took, how his hair fell in just the right places - soft curls that were neither overly messy nor overly polished. You took note of how he drummed his fingers across the table - not impatient, just passing time. And your brain registered how he appeared to be aged, at the very least he must be older that you.

Not that you particularly minded.

Soon enough, the tea finished brewing. You pour out a colour that can only be described as a mix between a soft purple and pink, placing the cup and teapot onto a tray beside the tart. He would not know that you picked the most perfect slice, but you would, and that was enough for you.

The door should have swung open with ease. Yet try as you might, you would not be able to open it without letting go of the tray in your hands. The first few times you tried to open the door alone - attempting to push it with your elbow without impacting the delicacies on the tray.

You could not open it alone.

Unfortunately for you, he had noticed. Fortunately for you, he comes to help you open the door. It appears luck is not quite on your side though, as you place the tray down and push the handle down, swinging it open at the same time that he pulls. As the door swings into him (and he narrowly avoids being hit in the face), you stumble forward - tripping over your feet.

This is it.

Your uncle's best customer will never come by again, and you will fall flat on your face. All in your first week in Oldtown. Oh Gods, the rumours - you can already imagine! The old women stood in circles - gathering as they whisper unkindly about you. And then you would never bake again, forced to live a life without your favourite thing to do! Oh, the horror!

However, you do not meet and greet the floor. But you are not suspended in air either. Two hands grasp you from underneath, strong arms holding you up from the ground. In the fall you have somehow spun - allowing yourself to make direct eye contact with your saviour. Tall, with soft brown hair, chest heaving as he looks down to you - lips slightly parted.

Not only had he come to help you open the door, he had also caught you as you fell. Into his arms.

"You know, this is the kind of thing bards sing of - a maiden, falling into my arms, hmm?"

His voice does not carry the type of mean tone that you had thought it would. Nay, it is still soft - carrying the type of teasing that does not make you feel uncomfortable or weird, but pushes a heat to crawl up and across your neck instead. It does not help that you find yourself almost face to face with his gorgeous, handsome, perfectly formed face, looking down in concern as he helps you to stand back up. His eyes look up and down - checking that you have not somehow hurt yourself - before smiling at you once more,

"Thank you, sire. If I may ask, what is your name?"

"Oh, it is no proble- hmm?"

"Your name, please?"

"My name..?"

"Well, I must know the name of the kind man who has saved me from falling so ungracefully, no?"

It is then that he realises - you have no idea who he is. By nature of his position, he should be somewhat angered, filled with a rage fuelled by how disrespectful this is. He should then make a big show of who he is, proving himself to all who witness him. But an excitement fills his heart. Perhaps he could finally have a normal connection with someone - not based on his name, title or who he was.

"Erm.. Ormund."

"Or..mund.."

Ah. The way you had tasted his name across your tongue almost had him weak - but he could not give in so easily. Not when he barely even knew you.

"Very well, Ormund! Thank you kindly, I'll bring your tray to your table now."

"Of course- ah, and your name, please?"

"My name?"

"Consider it a trade of sorts?"

You think it over, nodding as you give him your name. He repeats your name after you, a smile etching across his face, and you think you have not seen a sight that is sweeter. Ormund sits back down at his table, you bring the tray over and place down the teapot, cup and tart.

As you walk away to tend to the kitchen once more, his eyes follow after you, unable to tear themselves away from you.

The bakery is never really full - this much you knew. Your uncle had insisted upon you being prepared for days of barely any customers, days where you would end up donating extra food to those who were needy at time of closing instead of handing bundles to customer after customer.

Still, it was not quite as quiet as you had thought it would be.

One woman had come in with her dog - a small, elderly woman (Harriet, as you had learned) with a large dog that almost towered her (Daisy, who was in reality just a big sweetheart. She immediately found Ormund, kneeling for pets before investigating you.). She took a tart too (upon Ormund's own recommendation, actually), and you found the food your uncle kept for Daisy. Another came in with her husband (Lyon and Jemma, who both offered sweet smiles as they asked about your uncle. The two took their pastries with teas, sitting beside the window after greeting Ormund.).

In fact, you had busied yourself amongst customers that you did not realise Ormund had left until you chanced upon his table again. An empty tray, a pouch of gold (far more than he had owed you) and a little note just underneath the plate. Your eyebrows furrowed, fingers pinching at the note.

I must say - that tart was far better than I had ever expected!

I hope I will see you again soon.

Thank you,

O x

You read the note over twice, a small smile blooming across your face as you pocketed it for safekeeping, going about the remainder of your day. Outside, you see a figure that looks close enough to him - sat atop a horse, trotting away. He leaves with a heavy heart, unwanting to return to the chaos that naturally awaited him. Every step back home had him frowning more and more, as the lightness that just blossomed across his soul begins to slowly drain away. Hightower grows taller and taller as he rides closer, and he dreads to think of what mayhem would unfurl when he returns.

As he approaches Hightower, a servant rushes out to him, already filled with a panic that he knows he must deal with,

"Milord, the young Master Silas refuses to bathe still!"

"Still?"

"Indeed. I must apologise to you, Lord Hightower, but he has caused a ruckus once more."

Once more.

He sighs, dismounting and allowing another to return his horse to the stables as he follows the servant up to where his son remains. As Ormund opens the door, there he lies - in a puddle of mud as two servants cower in a corner. A small smile threatens to break out onto his face - how could a child of three cause so much terror?

"Silas."

"Papa. No."

Ah. The young boy's voice had worn out. Not ideal, of course, but a good sign - he was tired, and much more pliable to his father's words than he would have been a few hours ago. With a hand signal, Ormund dismisses everyone else (servants immediately scurry out of the room, dashing as far away as possible) before closing the door behind him.

"Where Papa go?"

"Well, I went to go check on our friend - Oofy."

From behind his back, he brings out the now clean Oofy (luckily for him, a servant had quickly passed it to him on his way up). The boy's eyes immediately lit up, hands opening and closing as he reached out towards it. Yet Ormund holds Oofy close to his ear - pretending to hear the toy speak. Silas watches (slightly dejected, poor thing) as Ormund holds conversation with… a soft toy.

If the other Lords had seen him like this…

"Oofy says he will not come closer until you are clean and dry - is that so, Oofy?"

"Do I have to?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

He sighs. Actually, genuinely sighs. As if he had just fought a war. This time, a wider smile spreads on Ormund's face as he kneels to his son's height - patting him on the head before scooping him into his arms. He truly is grateful that he does not care too much about the clothes he wears today, and briefly thinks back to the flour incident from earlier. A bath had recently been drawn, water still warm enough for a bath (likely one of many attempted baths for the young boy today), and the two of them sit in the tub together. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed little moments like this. Moments where Silas would look up at him with big eyes as Ormund cleaned him thoroughly, only to be met with a wave of splashing water hitting him in the face.

A thorough bath followed by three waterfights with duckies leads to a very tired child, snuggled up in a soft towel as Ormund carries him back to his solar. He brings two servants in to clean up the mess that still remained, tucks Oofy into his son's arms and finally gets started on the work he should have been doing today. The sun shines into the solar, casting a warm glow into the room.

Unfortunately, he cannot help but let his mind drift off to the pretty baker who fell in his arms mere hours ago.

Ahhh, wedding preparations. A time of excitement and nerves, as the chatter and hums of joy buzz around everyone. The Red Keep had not been so packed in quite some time - servants and maids rushing from one side to the other, dragging pots and pans filled with steaming soups and stews as noble lords and ladies fill the halls. The steam rises, of course, mixing with the stifling humidity that already packs itself into the walls of the Keep and the burning incense. Not a single corner felt free, nor did any moment bring you peace.

As previously promised, the tailor has returned to you. You have not even had the chance to finish breaking your fast (caught in the middle of a slice of buttered, toasted bread as he bursts through the doors with hefty suitcases. Two nervous boys follow behind, dragging more suitcases with them),

"My dear, we will find your dress - one way or another! Else I shall personally exile myself to Lys, never to be seen again!"

You have an inkling that he would not mind exiling himself to Lys.

Still, you lower your food and join him. Lucky for you, your ladies in waiting had been kind enough to join you in breaking your fast this morning. Perhaps it was out of pity - all knew that weddings were not easy for the bride nor the groom, and breaking fast alone on days of joy is never enjoyable. Perhaps they wished to curry your favour - you were to be a Princess, after all.

The tailor whisks out dress after dress. The softest of Dornish silks, Lyseni chiffons, strict and stiff starched tulles that somehow create the most beautiful of shapes despite their stubbornness. Lilac, crimson, the colour of the sun itself - you find yourself easily overwhelmed, unsure of what would be the correct choice. Every option seemed perfect, until he pulled out yet another dress. And then that option seemed perfect. It did not help that each lady sat around you had their own opinions and preferences, further muddying the already murky waters that only seemed to climb higher and higher around you as you drowned further and further.

How strange is it, that when you were just a young girl - playing in your father's solar as he worked - you had the clearest idea of exactly what dress you wanted. Exactly how your wedding would happen, each and every minute planned and penned to the smallest of details in your mind. Yet now - preparing for the very day you dreamt of for so very long - you struggle to even pick the colour you wish to wear.

Lucky for you then, the doors open. The gentle tinking of jewellery dangling across itself enters your ears as sweet sandalwood and a warm vanilla fills the room. The heat that had previously wrapped around you without you even realising begins to dissipate with the arrival of cooler, less uncomfortable air. You subconsciously breathe a sigh of relief and in walks the woman who is to be your mother in law. The Queen Mother herself, Myriah Martell. Seven above, she is a sweet sight to see! Donned in the classic Targaryen crimsons one would expect of such a queen, yet a fiery Dornish gold shimmers through the fabric wherever the Sun blesses it with its warmth. A light crown sits atop her hair, with strings of pearls dripping along strands, shimmering under the lights. Various jewels - primarily sweet, red rubies - adorn her body as she glides towards you, ethereal in her own right. Her own ladies in waiting trail behind her, joining yours as she joins you,

"Good morrow, my daughter to be! I hope you will not mind my joining you, for I imagined you may be somewhat.. overwhelmed with the decisions that lie here. The Gods know I was!"

"Your Grace!"

You want to jump up and grasp her, tug her into the warmest hug as you exclaim in joy - finally, someone has come to actually help! However, a part of your brain reminds you of the position you are in, and you respond with a meek nod as you turn back to the dresses that currently plague you. Myriah suppresses a chuckle, and her hands flow from fabric to fabric as she assesses each one. With each piece, she finds issue after issue - dismissing those she finds unfit for you. Where most may believe this to be too strict, you finally see some clarity peeking through the clouds that had masked your vision. For the first time since arriving in King's Landing, you had been welcomed. For the first time, the laughter and joy that surrounded you did not feel suffocating, nor did it feel binding. You felt unrestrained, unbound by a strange sense of duty. And somewhere - despite you not daring to think it lest it become untrue - you feel perhaps you may be able to make a home out of it all.

"-and how about this one here, sweetling? Do you like it? I think it would suit you well, you know.."

Your mind had drifted, of course, but the Queen's words brought you back. The tailor held up a layered dress - a silky white skirt as the bottom layer and then a red skirt that parted in the middle to show the white, topped with a flowy and light pink dress. The top dress was adorned with lacy flowers along the edges, and a loose silhouette brought in with a red corset. The sleeves did not reach the shoulders - but did flow freely around the arm until the wrist, where they are cinched in by red ribbons. Finally, along the bottom of the corset, red and pink flowers create a pretty belt - from which various vines fall across the skirts, with their own flowers.

To say that you were in awe was an understatement. Your lips parted as you lean in towards the dress - was it even real? How had you not seen it amongst the piles and piles of dresses?

And in that very moment, you saw her.

The younger, smaller version of you. Prancing about the fields, running away from her septas. More specifically though, you remember the night you had drawn your dream dress. Though it was nothing alike this one (given that you were a small child and you were just drawing shapes and colouring them messily until they somewhat resembled a dress), somewhere in your soul something clicked.

This was the one.

The dress.

It appears the Queen has seen it too, giggling as she nods and ushers you towards the dress. You are taken by your handmaidens to be fitted into the dress before you can even realise. When you walk back out from behind the wooden panels, the room goes entirely silent. The ladies in waiting (who had previously been lounging about, comfortably eating lemon cakes without a single care in the world) had now all whipped around to stare at you. Not the kind of staring that was entirely uncomfortable, mind you. More the kind of staring that one does when they see a piece of art they cannot rip themselves away from. That stare that softens ones gaze into pure admiration, as they forget everything that once filled their brain.

Even the tailor - who had not stayed silent once throughout this entire morning - sighed happily and clasped his hands together, wiping a tear from his eye,

"This, my dear, is the dress! No, I will not hear it - this is the only dress you can wear. It is made for you, and you alone! My Queen has saved me from exile!"

Self imposed exile, you mouth to her from behind his back.

She holds back a giggle, attempting to maintain her composure as she smiles and nods at him through his rambling. Unfortunately for her (and everyone else in the room), his ramblings do not end quickly, not until you clear your throat,

"My apologies, sire, but I believe it would be best if I change out of the dress now? So that it may be prepared for the day, of course!"

"Ah, how could I forget! Yes, yes - handmaidens! At once!"

He claps his hands together and the handmaidens whisk you away to redress you in your normal dress. Part of your heart drops at the idea of having to remove the dress - given how quickly you had fallen in love with it. Nonetheless, the excitement of wearing it again to such a special day is more than enough to convince you. As you wear your regular dress again (which now feels so very dull in comparison to what you had just tasted), you hear the lightest, softest sound behind you. The handmaidens step away, revealing a small, ginger ball of fur. He immediately finds you - head nuzzling against your leg as he purrs. Around his neck lies a small red and black collar with a piece of metal dangling from it. You kneel down - both to greet the little cat that has attached itself to you, and to acknowledge the name that must be on the metal. Lifting it to the light, you see that 'TIBERIUS' has been neatly engraved into the metal, with crude stars and hearts surrounding it (you can picture Daella running away with the collar, an aggrieved Aegon hot on her trail).

"So you must be sweet Tiberius, hmm? Well, I cannot see why my betrothed would ban you from the solar, given how sweet you seem.."

He responds in purrs. Well, you think he responds in purrs. For all you could know, he could be thinking anything! Most likely though, he seems to be enjoying the attention you give him - only encouraged further when you take him into your arms. He snuggles in closer - his small face peering up at you with the sweetest eyes you have ever seen (clearly his plan of Targaryen - or Targaryen aligned - domination is working! Perhaps Tiberius is secretly a Blackfyre agent - somebody tell Bloodraven to look into this..).

Wishing to be gone from the room you have been unintentionally confined to over the morning, you bid the Queen, her ladies in waiting and your own a sweet day before leaving with Tiberius in your arms. In search of what? Who knows! (Rest, respite and an inkling of peace should be nice, though.)

The very same morning on the other side of the Red Keep's personal apartments has been just as hectic - if not more. Maekar had also been tied down by another tailor (funnily enough, he was your tailor's twin brother! The two had long ran a joint business as the Targaryen's personal tailors, and what better event than a royal wedding to bring out the very best?) - forced to sit through the tailor parading various clothes as he wished he was anywhere but here. Unlike you, he did not have any ladies in waiting to offer their help - nor did he wish to allow any fool of a lord come and offer their opinions. Even thinking of it made his face twist into a grimace.

Instead, he had his eldest brother, two nephews and his brood of children to 'help'.

Three short hours had passed, yet Maekar had already found himself entirely exasperated with the circumstances he had been forced into. Aegon and Daella had taken to exploring the tailor's suitcase (which he repeatedly shut again, only for the two children to go back to it. Again.), and Daeron was already three cups into the day - raising his head to point at a piece he liked before falling back into drunken stupor. Both Valarr and Baelor attempted to make things easier by guiding the tailor's direction a little more, but they instead found themselves wrangling Aegon and Daella. Rhae had somehow clambered atop Maekar's head, where she sat quite comfortable - globs of drool dangling precariously from her mouth. Thankfully, Matarys had taken to sitting with his cousin Aemon in the corner.

Which only left the most dangerous of the bunch - Aerion. Aerion Targaryen, who fancied himself a dragon, and took to irritating his father at every chance he could see. Aerion had seated himself far enough away from Maekar to not be swatted at, yet occasionally would throw walnut shells at the tailor.

The first one, he had not apologised for, but he did claim to be an accident. Fine, Maekar could allow an accident. The second one felt targeted, but Maekar needed to pick some kind of clothing for the day. The third one was his last and final straw - causing the older man to quickly stand up (grabbing Rhae so she would not fall, of course) and practically growl at the room around him,

"Choose whatever fucking clothes you want! I could care less! Aegon and Daella, stop fucking about! And Aerion - if you fucking throw one more walnut shell I will have you locked up for the next three weeks!"

"But, my Prince you must-"

"Just see that it matches or some bullshit like that - I do not care!"

"Maekar-"

"No! No, no, Baelor - I cannot do this a moment longer!"

With that, he storms out of the room (Rhae babbling happily in his arms) with a scowl on his face. To everyone around him, this is just the norm. The usual grumpy Maekar, quick to anger and action. But what they do not see is the added level of fear that fills his heart. When he finds a secluded corridor (or, what seems to be a secluded corridor), he finally stops, bouncing Rhae in his arms as he talks to her,

"What do I do? I have never felt so conflicted.. Not even with your mother, you know."

When she only hums, he continues,

"Should I bring her more oranges?"

Rhae smacks his chest in response. Maekar thinks then that perhaps it is a little insane, to be confiding in his daughter who could barely even talk. He sighs, shaking his head as he walks through the corridor - eyes (somewhat stupidly) closed.

Luck truly has found you, that you have been able to find a long and quiet corridor! It only took about ten minutes of being lost and not having the guts to ask someone the way back to your chambers. Yet you only have a brief moment to enjoy the peace as Tiberius jumps from your arms, rushing into the empty corridor. You lift the sides of your dress, chasing after him - it would not be good to lose your husband to be's son's pet cat!

On the other side of the corridor, Maekar has stopped and knelt down (Rhae had pointed at a flower on the floor and aggressively tugged at his shirt until he knelt to allow her to investigate. She has decided it is merely a flower, nothing worth fretting over this time). He goes to pick his daughter up again, only for her to rush forwards towards a blurry orange object - which was also rushing towards her. Naturally, he runs after his daughter, only to-

SMACK!!!

You hit a tall, warm wall of- wait, warm?

Hang on..

You stumble backwards, practically tripping over your dress as something- no, someone leans forward - grabbing you by the waist and holding you there. Your brain registers nothing - only that a man has grabbed you, and that you are betrothed, and this is so very wrong!

"My Lord, I am betrothed-"

"Yes, I am aware, given that it is I to whom you are betrothed."

"Huh?"

"Look up, my Lady."

"…"

Finally, you realise that for the second time this week, you have tripped and fallen into your husband to be's arms. You want nothing more than for the floor to swallow you up whole, for the walls of the Red Keep to absorb your soul into them, to allow you to become just another ghost in the halls - haunting everything that came in your way for centuries to come. You would be known as the Lady of the Corridor, who had been absorbed into the halls of the Red Keep after suffering intense embarrassment in front of her husband to be.

"Will you look up, or not?"

You look up. Whilst you had tripped into his arms yet again, and you had felt the same - if not more - embarrassment as last time, this time was different. This time, he did not wear an expression of utter irritation, nor did he immediately pull you to your feet and hurl unkind words at you. No, this time was another thing entirely. Unlike last time, his hands did not feel as though they burnt along your skin. His hands felt so much softer this time - as if they were holding something he did not know how to hold. Something he did not know how to handle. You let your eyes find his properly - no longer staring past his face so as to avoid looking him in the eyes itself - and find a softness you do not recognise.

His eyes search yours, and yours search his. For permission, for denial, for love. Both your breathing and his begin to even out together - longer breaths taken as both your lips and his part. His eyes flick down to your lips - soft and gentle, and he briefly imagines pushing you against the wall and kissing you.

But it would not be correct, nor would it be proper.

And so, with a slightly heavier heart than what he would enjoy, Maekar lifts you up. Carefully, this time - returning you to your full height as he steps back to give you space. You cannot deny how you wished the moment to last just a little longer, just to be in his arms, to have him looking at you - not like an obligation, but perhaps something more - just a moment more. But a sharp cry of a babe echoes down the corridor, and the two of you look at each other before racing down towards the source of the noise,

"I did not mean to bump into you, my Prince-"

"Were you hoping to bump into another?"

"No, Seven above- are you making fun of me?"

He does not respond, but the corner of his mouth twitches slightly as the two of you find Rhae - entirely spread out on the floor, save for one arm clinging onto poor Tiberius. The cat had no choice, it seems, but to be cuddled by the youngest princess. Both of you look down - amused at the sight.

"He is a sweet cat, you know."

"Of course I know."

"Then how come Aegon says he is banned?"

"He makes a mess."

"…so do the children, no?"

"I guess?"

"So…"

"So…?"

"Well?"

"…I suppose I can allow Tiberius more privileges."

You smile in response, and he thinks his heart stops. His heart must have stopped, he must have died and this must be whatever Heaven must feel like. Seven above - he could not imagine a sweeter thing save for what your laugh must feel like. Would it sound like sweet angels singing praises and hymns? Woul-

His thoughts are interrupted by a pair of footsteps come chasing down the corridor towards him,

"What are you doing this time?"

"Father! They have picked your clothes, finally, and you must return and try them o- Greetings, my Lady- TIBERIUUUUUUUUUUS! MY SWEET SON HAS RETURNED!"

You do not have the chance to greet Aegon back,

"Your son?"

"Yes, Father. My sweet son."

He speaks solemnly, with an aged wisdom no child could have. Maekar wishes he could somehow impart that wisdom upon Aerion - but the Gods can only be so kind,

"I am not claiming Tiberius as my first grandso-"

"Grandcat."

"I- what?"

"Grandcat, Father."

"You cannot be serious."

"Quite the contrary - I have never been so serious in my life!"

Tiberius has now wiggled out of sweet Rhae's grasp (who has luckily found your leg and is slowly climbing up it, somehow) and found Aegon. You have never heard a cat sigh in relief, but if you were to attach an emotion to the noise he makes upon reaching Aegon's arms, it would probably be something akin to relief. Peace, perhaps,

"Alright, just take Tiberius - tell them I will be there in a moment."

"Fine…"

Aegon slumps his shoulders, dragging his feet (and his cat) back to the overpacked, uncomfortably warm solar that he had just about escaped. Maekar looks back at you with a thin smile, reaching out towards Rhae - who only looks at him with indignation, as if he had offended her,

"Perhaps I could spend the day with her? I have finished picking my dress for the wedding, and my remaining duties can be done with Rhae beside me..?"

"But-"

Maekar cannot bring himself to say that his youngest daughter may just be the only one that keeps him sane enough to handle everything around him.

"She will be fine - unless you would rather I not?"

He thinks it over. Really, properly thinks it over. On the one hand, he no longer will have his saving grace to manage the stresses of the day. He will not be able to vent his frustrations as she responds in tongues no one would ever understand. But on the other hand, it would not be such a bad idea - you would get used to one child (instead of the whole gaggle overwhelming you at once), and Rhae would become more used to you..

"Fine, you may take her. But keep an eye on her - she is prone to wandering."

"Good luck, my Prince!"

"Good da- good luck?"

You only laugh in response, already walking away to ask someone the way to your chambers. He thinks the sound is sweeter than anything he has ever heard in his life, and that he should ensure he hears it every day. Every hour, if he can. You will never have a frown on your face, nor will you ever be sad, and you most definitely would not suffer in his care-

Oh dear.

He was well and truly fucked.

here is my fully tabbed affc and adwd (1) (i have to buy adwd 2 bc last time i borrowed it):

As Maekar walked back to his chambers, with a very sleepy child in his arms, he could not ignore the slowing of time around him. The way things suddenly felt less stressed, and more normal. Out of nowhere, the draft that usually swept around the corridors - brushing past cold ankles - now felt more prominent than ever. The corridors felt quieter, less busy than ever. Even the usual sound of children that would often fill the space felt empty.

The guards stood outside his chambers - as always, ever vigilant of his safety. He never really greeted them, but tonight he looked at them. Really, genuinely looked at them, before pushing the doors open. Inside, the fire kept warm, but the walls remained cold. The curtains swung low - the night's breeze waffling through them. Paintings on the wall that he had not thought of in many, many years, and old books that lay wide open on his desk - why did it all feel so important now? He approached the long mirror - the one he had long since avoided looking at - and finally took in his appearance. By the Gods, he had aged. Tonight, more than ever, he seemed lost. He was not Maekar "The Anvil" Targaryen tonight - no, he was a confused and unsure man.

He knows he should take Rhae to the nursery, leave her with the house help instead. It is not his concern, how she sleeps. But there is something in how she slumbers - arms splayed around him, and a face filled with a peace he long ached for. So tonight, he allows himself to rock his daughter to sleep.

The night is long, and perhaps a little unkind too, given how thunder rumbles and the wrath of the Seven fills the lands below. It feels almost as though the turmoil outside reflects upon the turmoil within his heart. But he does not have long to think about it - not when the doors to his chambers creak open. He opens one eye, moving his head upwards to see who it is that dares to trespass upon his room,

"Who the fuck-"

"I cannot sleep, Father."

"…very well, Daeron. Do not expect me to cuddle you."

"I would not dare!"

He grunts in response, shifting over to give his son room. Despite his colder words, he does not push his eldest away when he unintentionally moves closer in his sleep. The rain only gets louder and louder - rumbling through the walls now - as his door opens again. In walk two different footstep patterns, and Maekar groans, rolling his eyes,

"You have to be fucking joking."

"The rain is loud, and Aegon and I-"

"Could not sleep? Fine."

Both Aegon and Daella slot themselves on either side of Maekar - who now sits up in bed with a pillow behind him for support. Daella falls asleep quickly, but Aegon struggles more - sniffling as he tentatively places a hand on Maekar's arm. Maekar frowns briefly, before pulling the boy closer, having remembered his fear of storms. Not one soul speaks, yet the fire's warmth spreads across the chambers, finally warming the walls around them. Somewhere through the night, both Aerion and Aemon find their ways inside.

By the time the rays of the sun begin to peek in through the curtains, seven souls sleep soundly in the bed - light snores rumbling from Maekar as his children lay clambered around him. A warm glow lays across them, the sun coating them in the softest blanket as Maekar begins to awaken. His neck aches and hurts (a consequence of sleeping whilst sat up, of course), but he cannot feel particularly mad. Not when he looks around him.

He thinks back to the night before, and the image of you with Rhae in your arms. A strange feeling crosses his chest again - the very same as the one that filled him when you walked away from him. A strange emptiness, that he does not understand. It is uncomfortable, to say the least. How he is surrounded by all his children, yet feels weirdly empty - he cannot fathom what it is that has caused this. All he does know is that somewhere along the line, he owes it to you to at least apologise.

Little does he know that he has no time to do so, not with the wedding creeping closer with every passing day.

The night was cold and grim, as you wrapped blankets around yourself in an attempt to keep some kind of warmth around you. Your tears had long since dried and you felt a numbness that you swore ached whenever you remembered him. Why would it ache like that? You knew that marriages were often loveless, or that people fell in love after marriage. After all - marriage was a duty first and foremost. And you were only here to fulfill that duty. Duty to your father, to your husband to be and his children, and a duty to the people, of course.

But none of the handmaidens, none of the old women - nobody prepared you for the way your heart tugged and tore itself apart. How it kept you up all night, through the painfully loud storm and the billowing winds threatening the walls around you. You did not understand what it was that had plagued you. Why did your heart beat like that around him?

When the morning came by, and the maids came to prepare you for the day, you had already been wide awake (much to their surprise). Just like the day before, you were bathed and dressed, covered in perfumed oils and jewels as you made your way to breakfast - on time, this morning.

In fact, you walk in to see Maekar wrangling three separate children - Aegon on one arm, Daella on the other, Rhae tugging on his hair as he tries to maintain control. Without saying a single word, you tug Aegon and Daella away - never stopping to look at your soon to be husband's face as you bring the children to their seats at the table. Rhae climbs down from Maekar's head, settling in his arms as he watches you, unable to tear his eyes away.

Had you done your hair differently? Was it the jewels you wore? Something had changed, and he could not pin down exactly what it was that it had been - and it was beginning to drive him wild. Baelor appeared out of nowhere (Maekar had been so lost in watching you that he had not realised his elder brother approaching him, not until his hand rested upon his shoulder),

"Fuck me, Baelor - announce yourself!"

"I did."

"No, you did not."

"Thrice, brother. Twice further away - I waved and then I said your name. The third time was just a moment ago."

"You lie."

"I lie? My, my, you wound me!"

"You did not announce yourself, and I did not see you!"

"Or perhaps you were lost in a sea of yearning that-"

"I do not yearn."

"Really?"

"Really."

"…"

"I do not yearn, Baelor. I am not a man of yearning!" (a lie, obviously.)

A knowing smile graced Baelor's face as he locked eyes with his youngest nephew, who already had a mischevious glint in his eyes as he looked between Maekar and you. Baelor looked back towards Maekar (and Rhae took the moment to reach for her uncle, who was more than glad to take her), a look on his face that no one else could quite understand.

Confusion.

"I see. You are plagued, brother."

"Plagued?"

"Plagued!"

"By what?"

Baelor does not respond, laughing as he walks back with Rhae, leaving a grumbling Maekar to find his seat at the table. Somewhat similarly to yesterday, you still feel out of place - even with both Daella and Aegon talking your ear off as you work through the food in front of you. But unlike yesterday, when you look up at Maekar, there is not a look of annoyance in his eyes.

It is then that - for the first time since you had bloomed into a woman - your eyes soften upon a man. Granted, it was the man that you were to marry (which eases your nerves ever so slightly). You had not considered him outside of the duty and obligation you had owed, and there was something about him that suddenly lurched out towards you. His face, which you had not thought about before, looked less like an unapproachable, stern and angry man - and more like.. well.. a man. A regular, normal man. One that made something bloom across your chest. His lips parted as the two of you held each other's gaze - and Seven forgive you, but you could not stop your brain from conjuring the scenario of his lips slotting against yours. How they would fit perfectly, and his breath would fan across your face. How his arms would wrap around you, or his hands would splay themselves over your waist - tugging you closer to him as he-

"-and then we all woke up in a pile on Father's bed!"

"Hmm? Oh, yes - because of the storm?"

"Yes! Is.. is everything alright?"

How do you tell a child who had been busy rambling about how his elder brother almost crushed him by accident in the morning that you had just spent the last five minute imagining his father's lips against yours? You nodded, forcing a smile onto your face as you broke eye contact.

When you looked away, Maekar shifted his gaze too - suddenly finding the meat on his plate all too interesting. Ah, the various streaks of colour that danced through the plate truly were an incredible feat. Very much worthy of his attention, of course.

In the background, Daeron's eyes found Baelor's - both shaking their heads and whispering silent prayers. Baelor decides he will take matters into his own hands, one way or another,

"My Lady - I believe you have not had the chance to see the gardens yet, have you?"

You do not realise at first that he is addressing you, not until Daella pokes your arm, leading to you looking up with wide eyes and processing the words he had said,

"Oh, erm.. not quite, no!"

"And I hear the preparations for the wedding begin soon. Perhaps it would do both yourself and my brother some good to visit them today, after we are finished breaking fast."

It was not a question, both of you had realised. A command, disguised under the carefully woven diplomatic softness that Baelor had long practiced. Neither of you could say no, and you both found yourselves nodding as you returned to your meals,

"Excellent! And I think today, I shall take young Rhae with me - give the soon to be couple some time alone."

Half an hour of rustling through your chambers to prepare for whatever a walk through the gardens could entail (and attempting to find a pair of shoes that would not make your feet ache whilst walking through the gardens) later, you hear a knock at your door. The maids finish getting you ready as you find your voice, stumbling slightly over your words,

"C-come in!"

The door swings open, and strong footsteps only make it four paces in before faltering slightly. Maids rush out of the chambers, and Maekar's mouth drops for perhaps the third annoying time today as the light shines upon your face. There is something that has changed here, something about how the light casts a glow upon you - or is that just the way you are? Either way, he pauses before announcing himself by clearing his throat. You look away from trying to tie the final strings on your dress (and failing, horribly. Who in their right mind places strings so far behind, and how would they expect someone to reach around to them?), and look towards him - dropping the strings,

"Ah, Your Gra-"

"Maekar."

"Hmm?"

"My name. You should call me by it, considering we are to be wedded."

Oh. Right. Yes. That made sense, now that you think about it. It would be a bit awkward if you continued to call him 'Your Grace', or 'My Prince' everywhere you went. And so, you do not even see the olive branch he extends towards you,

"Very well, Maekar. You will have to forgive me, I have a few strings to lace before we can go."

"Take your time, I am in no rush."

"Thank you."

The air between the two of you was still thick with a tension neither of you could lessen. It was not angry, nor was it something you could ever say you recognised. You could feel his eyes on you as you returned to the source of your mild anguish as you recall that you had, in fact, dropped the strings,

"Seven above!"

"My Lady??"

"I dropped the damned strings - forgive me, I will have to start again with this stupid thing. Who puts the strings so far back? How irritating!"

His eyebrows rise up, and his mouth moves into what is no longer a look of annoyance, but perhaps something a little more tolerable as he watches you try (and struggle, only to fail entirely) to lace yourself up. You do not realise that he moves closer, not until you let out a noise of frustration and feel two hands move you around by your waist, and then begin to tug at the strings. At first you almost gasp, only to look up in the mirror, where he is stood behind you. Hands that were much more used to the handling of a mace or the wrangling of unruly children were now gently lacing up your gown. Your heart quickens, and you pray that he does not hear nor feel it, lest it betray you. Though it would be frowned upon, you allow yourself the mild sin of committing his touch to your memory - especially when it brushes past your back, and how his hands had felt around your waist.

Neither of you speak, and the only sounds between you are that of the breathing you try to stabilise and his own slower breathing. His eyes flick up to find yours in the mirror in front of you, eyebrows crossed over in concentration,

"Is that okay or do you need it tighter?"

"Could you tie it a little tighter please?"

He nods and loosens the strings to tie them again. If he is irritated by your request, he does not show it - tying the strings tighter this time. When he looks up again, you nod in approval and his hands move back to his side. Neither you nor him address the slight emptiness that fills both of your hearts when he moves back,

"Shall we? The gardens are not far, but the weather may not be so kind for long."

You lace your arm into his as he leads you out of the chambers and towards the gardens. Both of your footsteps are measured - his, so that he does not end up tugging you towards the gardens by accident with his usual long strides, and yours, so that you are able to steady your nerves with every step. As the two of you step out into the brighter sunlight, Maekar stiffens for a moment. You look up at him, and see him wince,

"…"

"…"

"I regrettably have not been out in the sunlight in a while."

"Ah, I see."

Nonetheless, he still takes you around the gardens. There is still little conversation between you both as your eyes drink in the sights around you. The warmth of the sun, the reddish tint of the walls. The birds as they flew past you - settling on branches of orange trees. This time, it is you who pauses and Maekar who searches your face for explanation. He realises that your eyes have settled upon the orange trees, biting your lip as if you were holding yourself back. He (somewhat regrettably) lets go of your arm, twists an orange off and almost hands it to you - only to remember something his brother had said a few nights before,

"I heard once, that it is an honour to peel an orange for someone."

"Where the fuck did you hear that? Old hags chattering about?"

"Not quite, brother. You should try it sometime."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

He did not understand Baelor's words at the time, but perhaps his not-so-spoken apology would be more.. apologetic, if he peeled an orange for you? Even as he thought this, his thoughts groaned and grumbled - until he looked at you. The way your eyes glimmered with the slightest tinge of hope - but you would not let it spread across your face, for fear that he would not do such a thing for you.

Unbeknownst to either of you, a very invested crowd had been watching you, from their safety up upon a balcony. Baelor and his wife had given his own children and Maekar's incredibly strict instructions to not be found, but to watch quietly. So when Maekar began to peel the orange and hand you segments as you continued to walk through the gardens, a collective sigh of relief rushed through the Red Keep. Specifically, Baelor finally felt his stress ease slightly at the sight, and prayed that it would only continue to lessen.

Each segment was sweeter than the last, and though neither of you spoke much, it seemed as though things were finally beginning to settle between you. He even - and this was shocking both to yourself and him - walked you back to your chambers! Upon reaching them, it appeared as though he had something to say. Both of you stood there, waiting for him to speak (even the guards stepped back slightly). But as he opened his mouth, the tailor finally arrived,

"Ah, we must turn you into a princess! Come, come, my Lady!"

Before you knew it, you had been whisked away into your chambers - leaving Maekar outside with his hand outstretched and mouth agape, words still forming on his tongue. He stood there for a minute (a full, long, unhurried minute) as the guards shuffled back into their positions, awkwardly. For a moment, all three of them (the two guards and Maekar, of course) looked between each other, before the usual grump returned to him and he spun on his heel, striding away,

"That was close."

"You're tellin' me, mate!"

"He has changed though, don't you think?"

"You speak as though you are particularly close with the Prince."

"No, of course not.."

Inside, you are immediately presented with the finest silks from the world. Pinks and greens and reds and blues - every colour you can imagine, with every embellishment possible. The tailor has you try on dress after dress as your ladies-in-waiting compliment each and every one - all as they sit comfortably eating lemon cakes. You are… overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and slightly dizzy after the fifteenth dress.

How many dresses could you even get through in one day?

On the other side of the Red Keep, Maekar grumbled. He sat in a chair - opposite his brother, who was supposed to be reviewing the accounts. Instead, he found himself busy with his brother's grumbling. His brother, whom he loved dearly, but wished that at this current moment, would let him finish the work that lay in front of him,

"-and then the fucking tailor fucking took her away!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes! All I did was peel a fucking orange and take her on a fucking walk like a child! I did not even get a fucking chance to-"

"Hang on, brother - these accounts are getting-"

"-and now we will both be too fucking busy-"

"Seven help me."

"-and I will not have the fucking chance to-"

"Perhaps we could divert some spending across here.."

"…"

"Oh! You have stopped!"

"…"

"Ah, the sound of peac-"

"I will not see her until the wedding. She will think me an aloof fucking idiot until the wedding."

"Fuck me."

"Baelor??"

"Seven above, Maekar! You sound like some green boy, twiddling about like a fool!"

"I do not twiddle!"

"You are twiddling. Right now."

"What the fuck even is twiddling?"

"Fidgeting nervously-"

"I am not fidgeting nervously!"

One wonders what the walnut shell in his hands - entirely disintegrated as it lies powdered in his hands from his 'non nervous fidgeting' - has to say about that. Maekar scoffs and rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair as Baelor watches on - amused. And as if she knew it was a strange moment to turn up, Rhae suddenly clambered up Baelor's leg, then his torso and finally rested - perched up on his shoulder as she grabbed onto his head. The older man made no move to remove her as Maekar sat in disbelief,

"Why does she do that??"

"She is your daughter."

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"Well… you were not so different as a babe.."

"How dare you! You take that back!"

"I will not! You were just as mischevious and impertinent! You used to climb onto Father's head, you know."

Maekar only groaned, facepalming in response as Baelor and Rhae both laughed,

"You cannot be serious."

"Oh but I am. Deathly serious, brother. Now, if you will allow me to attend to the accounts?"

"Very well, attend to your fucking accounts. I'm taking Rhae - she has been inside far too long."

Baelor only smiles in response as Maekar yoinks the babbling child back into his arms. For the second time today, he walks through the gardens - only with his youngest daughter this time. Who makes for a much better listener than his brother,

"I hate tailors. I hate tailors and their stupidity."

Rhae only looks up at her father in curiosity.

"They always turn up at the worst times!"

She smacks his chest, as if to disagree, and Maekar stops - looking down in disbelief as she giggles,

"Where did you learn that? You do not smack me- Ouch, Rhae! That is enough!"

She responds with a third smack. Maekar groans again, grabbing at an orange and sitting down in the grass with his youngest - quite unlike what most around him would expect of him. She crawls around on the grass, grabbing fistfuls of it and almost raising it to her mouth, only for him to tug it out of her hands and replace it with segments of oranges. That seems to tame her as he continues to complain,

"She makes me feel strange, Rhae. I do not understand it - I never felt this strongly with your mother."

Rhae babbles, and Maekar lets his head roll back onto the tree trunk behind him,

"I know. I still have not apologised to her. But the wedding is so near, and we will both be busy now - I will not get a moment with her alone."

She tuts disappointingly, poking her father's leg. He gives her more pieces of orange as she settles in his lap now. The sun is much less warm, more of a soft orange glow across the setting sky. Red streaks paint the clouds above as the evening begins to settle in. And yet, Maekar Targaryen continues to complain to his young daughter - who's only words right now are:

"Bah Bah!" - reserved for Maekar alone.

"Dae! Awon! Mon! Dah! Ag!" - her siblings. Naturally.

"Mau mau!" - Tiberius. You try teaching a babbling babe to say 'Tiberius'!

"Chichipatti!" - exclaimed loudly, usually at stray hairs. Typically these were left behind by Tiberius, Aegon's pet cat.

As the wind begins to chill, and the leaves start to scatter across the grounds, Maekar finally lifts the two of them up - making their ways back inside. He pauses, however, to look up to where the balcony of your chambers would be. Oh, how fate looks kindly upon him sometimes! You stand in the balcony - eyes closed as the wind brushes through the gown you wear. He lets his gaze soften on you - ignoring how Rhae tugs on him - and licks his lips as you finally seem to be relaxed. That is, until one of your ladies-in-waiting opens the curtains and tugs you back inside, exclaiming something about more dresses.

And so as Maekar lowers his sleeping daughter into her crib, before returning to his own chambers, you find yourself exhausted after spending the whole afternoon and evening trying dress after dress. You have long lost count of how many dresses you have tried on - knowing only that the number is maddeningly high. Luck befalls you, as the tailor finally gathers his materials and vows to return tomorrow with newer, more fashionable clothing. Your ladies-in-waiting bid you good night too, and you waste no time in quickly dressing for bed.

But sleep does not find you quickly.

Not when you close your eyes, only to see the image of Maekar's hands around your waist - touching you, teasing you. You shoot up in bed, eyes wide open as you cannot stop thinking of how close he was to you, how you could feel his breath fanning over the back of your neck as he focused on the strings of your dress. As you lay back in bed, your fingers slowly raise your shift up - just above your already perked up breasts. The cool draft does little to soothe them, and they only ache more as your fingers lightly pinch and twist them.

You try to not imagine Maekar - hovering above you, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead as he presses his lips to your shoulder, voice rumbling through you. Yet your body betrays you, fingers dancing across your body as you find the source of your ache. Your pearl, throbbing and practically begging for your attention as you drag your slick from your wet folds over it. You start slow, with small circles as you hold back your whines and gasps.

But the thought of him pushes through in your mind again. This time, your mind conjures an image of him, with you, both sat in front of the mirror. Instead of your own fingers, it is his that pleasure you as you arch into his touch. He would groan into your neck, soft kisses pressed along your skin as he brought you closer and closer to your peak. You would turn your face towards his - foreheads pressed together as you both would struggle with your breathing. His free arm would snake around you, under your legs as he held you up - and you would feel his thick, long cock pressing up against you from behind as yo-

It does not take long to reach your peak, but you are far too embarrassed to call for anyone to help you clean. Lucky for you though, it does not stain your bedclothes, nor your sheets. After you wipe yourself down, you lie in bed again, attempting sleep once more. But a new thought - one that you had not been able to consider before - enters your mind. One that may just make sense of the insanity you have been suffering through…

On the other side of the Red Keep, Maekar struggles quite similarly. With his painfully hard cock in one hand, he curses himself as he strokes faster and faster, trying so very hard not to think about how perfect you looked up on the balcony today. How your hair fell just right around your face, or how the dress hugged you in a way that could only send blood rushing to his cock. He tried to cast such thoughts aside - but the idea of you lying beside him as you would press kisses to him, whispering softly as your hand would replace his has him entirely ruined. When he releases, something clicks in his brain. Something that he still did not understand, but came slightly closer to it.

A shame, that the two people who are so maddeningly in love with one another, cannot see their feelings - nor each other - for what they are.

maekar throughout this chapter, at various points:

The morning light peeked in through the curtains, casting a soft red glow across the chambers. Your chambers, though you had not quite gotten used to the idea of that. Thinking of your chambers only reminded you of home. Or rather, what was your home. Ah, yes. You would have to get used to this first, and then Summerhall. So much change in so little time already made your head hurt, and you had only just opened your bleary eyes - still getting used to the early rays of the sunlight outside. By your estimate, it was neither too early nor too late to awaken. Your father would likely already be awake, settling into the temporary solar as he busied himself with some matter or the other. You could not imagine anyone else was awake so earl-

KNOCK, KNOCK!!

"My Lady, may we come in?"

"Oh! Erm, yes, I suppose so..?"

You had not expected visitors, not this early! You raise the sheets up to your chin as four maids walk in -trays in their hands. As you tilt your head to one side, you make a sound of confusion, to which one of the maids (presumably the head chambermaid) clears her throat,

"You will bathe and dress this morning, yes? That is what we are here for, my Lady."

Well of course you would bathe and dress! But surely.. surely..

"Surely it is too early in the morning, no?"

"Ah, perhaps you are unused to the weather here. Though it appears awfully early outside, most of the household has awakened already."

"Already?"

"Yes, my Lady. Will you take lavender, sandalwood or rose in your bath today?"

"I suppose I should rise too then. Sandalwood sounds perfect to me."

"Wonderful choice, my Lady."

A part of you guessed sandalwood might be more appealing to your husband to be - though for all you know, he could absolutely despise sandalwood, and despise you too. You shake the thought out of your head, allowing the maids to take you towards your bath - where hot water has already been poured in. The steam is refreshing, and your muscles only relax more as you are lowered into the bath. An oil - presumably sandalwood, given both your choice and the sweet almond-like scent that rises from it - is poured into the water, and then rubbed over you.

One maid attends to your hair, another to each arm and a third to your legs as you allow your eyes to close once more. The steam rises to your face, creating a warm, fuzzy feeling that you quite enjoy as you bask in a comfortable morning.

Mornings before used to be filled with stress - you being rushed about as you and your chambermaid ran about the chambers trying to prepare yourself for the day. It seemed as though mornings here were much more different, much more comfortable. A small part of you feels hopeful - perhaps this is a good sign, perhaps this will all work out after all.

However, all good things must come to an end - even an incredibly comfortable, soothing bath. And so, you are helped back out and dried down. Oils are once again applied to your skin - more concentrated this time - and your hair is carefully dried down. Soon enough, you are dressed and sent off for breakfast with your new family. As you walk into the hall, everyone turns towards you, and the sudden realisation that you are very much late - to breakfast, no less - has you feeling awfully embarassed. Nonetheless, you find your seat, taking it and trying your very best to blend in, as if nothing had ever happened.

Extremely unfortunately for you, it appears your husband to be is not so keen on letting it go,

"You are late."

"I had not realised how long it would take to get ready in the morning, Your Grace."

"Then awaken yourself earlier - that is no excuse!"

"I understand, but-"

"Just - try to be here on time from now on."

You could not speak. Not when tears almost threatened to spill out - over being late at breakfast, of all things! You took in a shaky breath, nodding at Maekar as you slowly cut your eggs, wishing to become invisible at that very moment.

Next to Maekar, Baelor had witnessed everything, and took to elbowing his youngest brother. In response, Maekar scowled at him - and almost yelled too, were it not for Baelor subtly gesturing in your direction. With a frown on his face, he finally looked at you. Your head had remained lowered, but you could not hide the tears that had collected on your lashes. Maekar felt something in his heart - something uncomfortable. Something ugly, twisting and turning as he grimaced, swallowing back his pride. On the one hand, asking you if all was well could easily result in a great deal of unnecessary bullshit - all of which he did not wish to handle. On the other hand, it did not feel right, the way you had shrunk immediately.

Instead of doing what he feels he should have done, he says nothing - going back to his breakfast. Beside him, Baelor sighs - unable to do anything - and you do not say a word for the remainder fo your meal. Whilst it is unbearably long for both yourself and Maekar, it appears to rush swimmingly for everyone else - and you are whisked away into a solar soon enough.

Apparently, the children were all too eager to meet you.

Okay, not all of them.

Aerion could care less either way, much more interested in the training grounds than his father's soon to be wife. And though sweet Rhae probably would have cared, she was much too young to understand what was happening around her - allowing herself to be dragged by her other siblings. Finally, Daeron was… well, no one knew where Daeron was this morning, leaving you with four children. Four, excitable children. No, that is not quite right either, is it? For Aemon was more than content to sit with his books than to rush around causing mayhem.

Daella and Aegon tugged at you, pulling you between them. Daella - as any good princess would - wanted to play princess tea parties with you (in which she would hopefully convince you to convince Aegon to join in too). Aegon did not wish to play princess tea parties. No, instead he wanted you to meet his pet cat - Tiberius.

Rhae could not care less, babbling in her own little language as she clung to you - easily making your heart swoon at her sweet little antics.

"No, come play with meeee! We have tea, and cakes, and princesses!"

"But Tiberius wants to meet you!"

"Well, Father banned Tiberius from the solar anyway, silly!"

"Shhhhhh!"

"Princesses!"

"Tiberius!"

"Tea and cake!"

"A cat! A really cute cat!"

You were unable to tame the unruly beasts that tugged at your gown, and to make matters worse, the door swung open! In walked a somewhat irritated Maekar (though you began to suspect that he was almost always somewhat irritated. You could not blame him, as you remained struggling between the children that probably caused much of his irritation). The children almost falter their attempts at the sight of their father, only to lock eyes with one another again and begin tugging once more. You are… utterly helpless, unfortunately.

"What in the name of the Seven is happening here? Aegon, your pet cat better not be in here - so help me Gods!"

Maekar walks towards you with a stern look in his face, and you pray you have not done anything wrong. However, he directs his attention to the two children - now growling at each other,

"Stop that! I have not raised you to grow- Daella?! That is quite enough, both of you, let her go!"

And let go they do.

Immediately.

Which, you had not expected - at all. You lose your footing immediately, and trip over something just behind your feet - a toy, perhaps? Somewhat instinctively, you clutched Rhae closer. If you were about to fall, at the very least the child in your arms should be safe, no? You never fall all the way though - and instead, one strong arm finds itself under your back. You should not think such things, but your mind immediately fixates on just how perfectly toned the arm feels. Its hand wraps itself at your waist, tugging you up to the owner. It is then that you realise who must have stopped your fall, and embarassment creeps into your skin (for the second time today, mind you),

"My Pri-"

"Give me Rhae. You should not have held her. Aegon, Daella - apologise for your actions and leave. Aemon…"

Aemon raises his head, eyes wide as he finally takes in the situation around him,

"…go read in the library. Leave me, all of you!"

His words strike you most, and you do not waste time in collecting yourself and rushing out of the solars - intent upon returning to your chambers as soon as possible. When you leave, the children did not - much more attuned to their father than you were yet,

"It was not her fault, Father."

"…"

"Aegon tells the truth, Father. We should not have done what we did, it was our fault!"

"…"

Both Aegon and Daella share a look. Something that neither can explain, but both understand all too well as they approach their father. Even Aemon lowers his book, making his way to where Maekar has now seated himself - upon an old chair (which he mentally notes as being far too uncomfortable for anyone to sit on). Maekar finally relaxes his face (and smooths his fingers over his eyebrows in an attempt to release the tension locked up within them. It works, temporarily) and the children all look up at him, expectant,

"You are all right - it was not her fault. What were you both thinking? What if I had not been here, and she had fell?"

"Rhae would have been fine, Father, you saw how she-"

"Rhae would have been fine, yes, but she would not. She would have hit her head on the desk! I understand you are all excited, but you must be more careful!"

Under his breath, Aegon mutters something that Maekar does not quite catch - causing his eyebrows to furrow once more. Daella does hear it though, and lightly smacks her brother on the back of his head,

"Aegon!"

"Do I lie?"

Maekar shakes his head, shushing the two immediately before focusing on Aegon,

"What was it you said?"

"Promise you will not be mad, Father."

"I cannot promise that."

"Fine. I said that you should be more careful."

"More careful? I have all six of you to handle, and you think you know more than I do now?"

"No, I only meant that-"

"Pick your words wisely, Aegon."

Daella huffs. Maekar huffs back. Daella pulls a face, and Maekar frowns - unsure of what it is his daughter is doing. Sweet, young Rhae giggles as she watches her sister and father in a strange standoff,

"What Aegon is trying to say, Father, is that perhaps you were a little careless with your new wife!"

"I was not!"

"You were mean!"

"I caught her! I stopped her from being hurt - what more do you want of me?"

"She left the room crying.. and she almost cried earlier today too!"

"…you saw that??"

"Yes! Clear as day, Father."

He groans - his head rolling back as Aegon and Daella tut in disappointment. Rhae takes her usual glee from the situation, and Aemon returns once more to his book. But Maekar.. Maekar feels a pang of guilt stab through his heart, and then wrap itself around - choking and strangling him until his throat feels as though it will close up. He should have asked you if you were well, if you were okay. You had almost fallen - and could have badly injured yourself - and instead of caring, he pushed you away. He had acted like a complete and utter fool, when he knew better. He stands up abruptly (still carrying Rhae with him) and leaves the solar. Both Aegon and Daella wink at each other, before winking at Aemon (who just nods. Very, very slowly.). Somewhere in the vast halls of the Red Keep, Baelor finally releases a sigh he did not know he had been holding back.

You held yourself pretty well, all the way up to your chambers. Smiled where you needed to, greeted those who required greetings and all in all, there was no reason for anyone to suspect a thing. Right before you entered your chambers, you instructed the guards to not allow a single soul past your door, unless an emergency arises, so that you may 'complete your sleep'. But as soon as you enter your chambers, tears begin streaming down your face - like the Sevens' own sadness, a never ending flow as you try your very best not to sob out loud. Regrettably, it was a difficult task, given how you could not stop crying - nor could you stop your brain from replaying the sight of Maekar's face when he helped you up.

The way he had not even stopped to check on you. You expected he would be more concerned for Rhae, given that she was so young and such a fall could have been terrifying for her - and that you could understand. But to push you away? As if you were not about to become his wife?

Even if neither him nor you had chosen this arrangement, you were both stuck in it. And surely it was the least he could have done - ensured that you were okay?

Unfortunately, your brain likes to spiral quickly. You find yourself making links between this morning and the incident that had only occurred mere moments ago, drawing connections that any rational mind would not and you come to an awfully dangerous conclusion - your husband to be must despise you.

Unbeknownst to you, Maekar had stormed out of his solar (Rhae still babbling away in his arms, drooling over his clothes as he brushed past every single person in the corridor), intent upon correcting his mistakes, and ensuring you were in good shape after all that had happened. The idea of you crying because of his own foolishness did not sit well with him, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the weird feeling in his chest (and no, it definitely was not Rhae, who had now taken to chewing on her father's clothing).

When he approached your chambers, the guards held their hands out to him as he pulled a face of indignation,

"What is the meaning of this?"

"The Lady has requested none disturb her sleep. She did not sleep well last night."

"Well fuck that, and fuck this. Let me through!"

"Many apologies, your Grace, but-"

"You would stop me speaking with my future wife?"

"At her own orders, yes."

"Fuck me!"

He let out a very slow exhale, pinching his nose as he turned away. For a moment, all was silent as he thought of what to do. If they would not let him through, he would have no choice but to walk away. But as he does walk away, he hears your choked sobs squeeze out of the wall - as if the sound could sense that he was there, as if it knew exactly who to find. The sound buries itself in his brain - despite him wanting it to leave immediately - and he tries one last time, turning around,

"She is not happy, and I must speak with her."

"We are under strict orders-"

"Fuck your orders!"

Maekar almost attempts to push past the guards himself (and all three of them know very well that it would not be difficult for him to push past into the chambers), only for Rhae to begin crying. Soft, small sniffles quickly become loud wails and sobs as he rushes the youngest princess away, with a heart heavier than stone. Inside, you heard very little past your own crying, but the sound of the young child's crying has you rushing out of your chambers. Without even thinking, you run down the corridors - right up to a bewildered Maekar,

"What are yo-???"

You do not answer him - instead, you take her into your arms, bouncing her and patting her until her crying eases. He does not say anything, letting you take control of the situation as he takes in your appearance. Tears stain your cheeks, and you face seems somewhat drained, yet you did not hesitate in rushing forwards for a child you barely even knew. When she has fully settled, you return Rhae to his arms and walk back to your chambers as he just watches in bewilderment, with only one word on his lips,

"Why?"

this how i sleep btw:

Prince Maekar 'The Anvil' Targaryen was well known to the realm. Prince of Summerhall, fourth son of King Daeron II and a strong army commander serving in two of the Blackfyre Rebellions, Maekar Targaryen was incredibly well known to all across the realm. And alongside being such a well decorated Prince, our Prince was also well known for an incredibly impatient temper. A harsh man - quick to judgement and quicker to condemnation. Was it a result of his time as a commander, or the youngest of four Princes? None would truly know, but all would beware his wrath nonetheless.

Today of all days, he had been summoned to meet with the small council, to discuss a matter of great importance to the realm. Two years had already passed since the sorrowful passing of his late wife, Lady Dyanna Dayne (who had already provided more than enough in Maekar's eyes), and both the King and his council were in agreement that Prince Maekar was in need of a new wife.

Maekar, however, did not agree.

"What the fuck do you mean, marry me off? Am I some fucking prize cow, to be married to whoever at your insistence?"

"Maekar-"

"No! This is entirely absurd, Baelor!"

The King raised a fist, looking sternly between his two sons as he commanded a silence from them. Both sons fell silent - immediately feeling as though they were young children, being chastised once more - and the King spoke,

"We must secure the realm's future, and your children are in dire need of a mother-"

"I am mother and father enough for my children, Father-"

(This particular comment almost has the Master of Laws snickering, only to be served a particularly nasty glare from Maekar and a stern one from Baelor. He responded by shrinking in his seat and lowering his head.)

"-and we must strengthen our ties across the Realm, Son."

Ties across the Realm. Ties his fucking foot, Maekar thought, as he grumbled and pulled a face. He exhaled sharply, eyebrows crossing over into the shape that they often spent most of their time in. Baelor sighed, and the King let out a noise of exasperation,

"Ties across the realm?"

"Indeed."

"You are the King. Surely you could just tell them to bend to your will or some fucking shit."

"No."

"At least tell me who is in mind?"

"A Stark girl has been considered, but she is less suitable to you. The other options is a Tully girl - of Riverrun, from the Riverlands-"

"I know who the fucking Tullys are. I have no choice, do I?"

"It is for the-"

"For the fucking realm, yes. I am very well aware of that, Father."

With that, he spins on his heel and storms out of the council room, with his older brother Baelor following behind him, sending apologies to all his younger brother had bumped into on his way out,

"Brother-"

"Married. He wants for me to be married again. This is fucking absurd! And to a fucking Tully girl, with whom I'll have absolutely nothing in common and I am expected to smile and wave like a pretty damsel meeting her fucking knight fucking shinging in bright fucking white armour?"

"Well.."

Baelor briefly considered saying 'If the boot fits..' but he could already hear the headache that his brother would have responded with, and promptly chose against it. Probably for the best, to be entirely honest. Instead, he puts a hand on his shoulder, waiting for his brother to turn around. He almost does not, and Baelor finds himself almost pushing his brother to face him,

"Listen, I understand this agreement is not to your liking. But you cannot disagree with the fact that the children need a mother in their lives. It is not good enough for them, that you are divided between them and the realm."

"…"

"Besides, six children for one person is too much - even with the added royal help. Would you at the very least, do me the favour of meeting her? Seeing how things go?"

"And then I will have to marry her, won't I."

"Probably."

"I am in no position to deny, either. Brother, you truly are bothersome."

"Nevermind none of that, I hear Aerion has challenged Daeron to another duel!"

"AGAIN?"

Away in Riverrun, you were stood in front of your own father in his solar, sat at his desk filled with letters and melted candles - arms crossed over as you pout, shaking your head as you find yourself struggling with your own predicament,

"A Targaryen? You wish for me to marry a Targaryen? Father, do you really mean for me to-"

"Marry a Targaryen? Yes, yes I do, sweet daughter."

"But-"

"You will marry Prince Maekar, and I will not hear another word about it - is that understood? You are long past your years of wishing upon stars for a knight to whisk you away, so I implore you - daughter - do not drag my name through the mud. You will do what is required of you, and that is that!"

Tears pool in your eyes, blurring your vision as you sniffle quietly. Your father sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to handle the sight as he makes his way around the desk towards you - pulling you into his arms as you cry onto his shoulder. His heart breaks, thinking back to when you would rush around him, and he would make you flower crowns - oh, the sweet innocence of youth! A hand pats your back as the other rests atop your head, in attempt to soothe your concerns.

Yet, Westerosi culture dictated that you must be married soon. For it was not socially acceptable for a young woman to be unmarried so long. Add to that the fact that it was a match that most would beg for, and you really had no choice but to nod.

At the very least, for your father's sake,

"Good, good. We shall leave on the morrow, for King's Landing."

"Already?"

"Indeed. Your items have already been packed and set aside for you, so I would take this day to finish whatever final things you wish to do."

But there was so much you wished to do. Feel the cool air drift up from the rivers outside, rush through the gardens with your maidens and imagination once more. Make silly little daisy chains, and lay in the fields as sun gleamed through the leaves above. And to think that you would quickly have to leave that all behind to marry a man you knew nought of - aside from his temper. Your shoulders sink as your father ushers you out of the room, and your feet drag you back to your own chambers, where you slump onto your bed. Tears flow more quickly now - easily staining the pillow beneath your face. Outside, muffled sobs echo past your doors, but inside, all your emotions tumble out. Before you know it, exhaustion takes over, sending you off to a sleep you desperately needed.

Back in King's Landing, Maekar paces. Back and forth, back and forth. Completely ignoring his gaggle of children, waiting patiently as their father paces, placing bets on how long it would take before he finally absolutely lost it (of course, Rhae was too young to bet - being a babbling babe of only two - and Aemon refused to join on principle, leaving a glimmering Daeron, a pouty Aerion, a mischevious Daella and an easily excitable Aegon).

So much had happened today, that he had no choice but to make a list:

The Tully Girl - enough said.

Aerion challenging Daeron to yet another duel (after Maekar had explicitly told him under no circumstances is he to challenge his older brother to a duel, especially not after the last time, when Daeron returned practically battered).

Daella convinced Aegon that he could fly. Gods bless Aemon, for if he were not there, the poor boy may have actually attempted to fly.

Rhae. Would. Not. Stop. Crying.

Aerion (Serial Maekar Offender) threw a pillow at his older brother, who ducked. Instead, the corner of the pillow - which was stupidly pointy - struck Maekar in his eye. The two boys immediately began pointing fingers, leading to Maekar shushing the two of them.

Maekar now stood with a very watery eye, anger flaring out of his soul as he tried his very best to not start yelling at his children.

And so, Maekar paces in his solar, a hand over his pained eye - attempting to ignore the water that pools in his eye. Despite his childrens' protests, he refuses to see a maester - "It was just a fucking pillow, Aemon." - but he cannot ignore that it stings so very bad.

After the fourth time pacing, Aerion pulls a face - handing two silver to Daeron, Daella and Aegon, and whispering,

"I cannot fucking believe he has not lost it yet!"

The other three merely shush him, pushing him aside. Maekar pauses his pacing to glare at his children, before returning to it. The remaining three players stay sharp and determined, as Aemon sits with Rhae and Aerion slumps into a chair, bored out of his mind.

The sixth pacing has Daeron out, tossing two silver to Daella and Aegon as he shakes his head and joins Aemon and Rhae. Rhae, for one, seems incredibly joyful at the appearance of her oldest brother, who takes her into his arms and plays with her - finally allowing Aemon to return to his book. Aerion has now taken to crushing walnuts and chewing very loudly, which might just skew the game.

The eighth pacing is where Maekar almost loses his mind. A flash of hope sparks in Daella's eyes, and Aegon has to plant his feet where he is to hold himself back as even more lines crease across Maekar's face. However, to Daella's disappointment, Maekar stays strong - and Daella hands over all her money, and the extra two silver to Aegon.

Now, between the siblings, there was always a secret extra stipulation to fulfill. You could only win the money, if the number you guessed was correct. Which meant that for Aegon to win his twenty silver pieces, Maekar must lose his mind on the ninth pacing. For a moment, he fears it will not happen. His father has already come close to breaking on the eighth pacing, and it is unlikely he will break immediately on the next one, right? Surely he would not. All children leaned forwards just a little bit, as they watched their father, eager to see Aegon return the silver back when Maekar inevitably would not lose his mind on the nint-

"AERION. STOP FUCKING CHEWING SO LOUDLY."

Ah.

It appears the children had forgotten their father's hatred for loud chewing. Aerion's eyes widen, an innocent look on his face as he chews slowly now, looking left and right before pointing at himself. Maekar massages his temples, shaking his head as he continues,

"It is incredibly irritating, and grinding. Stop that immediately."

"But-"

"NO. That is enough. And Daella, stop trying to convince Aegon that he can do stupid things - he cannot fly, NO ONE CAN FLY."

"He has not tried yet, Fathe-"

"AND HE WILL NOT TRY. Humans, cannot fly."

"But we used to-"

"Yes, when our ancestors had dragons. Look around, Daella. Do we have dragons? Would I be here, if we had dragons? Probably not. I would probably be on my fucking dragon, far away from this nonse- Aerion, I will not tell you again. Stop. Chewing. So. Loudly."

"I am just eating, Father."

"Close your fucking mouth when you eat then! Is it so difficult?"

"Yes."

He knew not to say in response, and only scowled at his second son, groaning. Daeron pulled Aemon a little closer, and Aegon took the moment to move slightly closer to his siblings - lest he be the next to receive his father's temper. Instead, Maekar turns and lets out a noise of frustration - hands pushing into the wood of the desk in front of him, grounding him somewhat. For what feels like an eternity (but is in fact, only two brief minutes) the room is silent. The corridors outside appear to be silent. No sound, but that of birds outside the window is to be heard. And then-

CRUNCH

"AERION!"

"I am hungry!"

"Everyone is hungry, Aerion. Some of us are in pain too, you know."

"It was a pillow."

"A pillow, with a sharp corner for some bizarre fucking reason!"

"…"

"I have had it - do not approach me for the next two hours, unless one of you is dying!"

Aemon rose, rushing to his father's side and tugging on his clothes. Maekar looked down at the small child - book in one hand and the corner of his shirt in the other,

"Yes, Aemon?"

"Where will you go?"

"My chambers. You may find me there if some situation arises."

The young boy nodded solemnly, returning to his book as Maekar left the solar. Yet despite wanting peace, he knows better than all that he will inevitably be interrupted by one of the children doing something or the other. Still, he makes his way back to his chambers, lying in the bed and staring up at the canopy that had felt so empty all these years. Soon, it would not be just him in this bed.

The thought worried him more than it should have.

Would his bride be young? Gods, please no. The embarassment of being likened to one of those old men who took a young bride - no, no, he could not do that. What if she hated children? That would not do him any good, given that he had six of them. What if she hated him? Well, he surmised, she probably did. She probably despised him. It would not shock him to hear that. He twiddled his thumbs, lying awake - boots still attached to his feet, hanging off the edge of the bed as he could not be bothered to remove them. Part of him wished to skip dinner entirely, to remain wallowing in his own sorrows and pities. But that would not do, nor would it be proper of a Prince. Plus, the thought of his children running amok without him to stop them was more than enough to bring him back to reality.

Still, a short nap would not be so bad, would it?

You had slept through dinner. It was not intentional, nor was it an act of protest. Your own father knew as much, given that he had come to check in on you after dinner - only to find you fast asleep, snoring quietly on the pillows. A small smile found his face as he pulled the duvet around you, kissing your forehead and leaving your chambers. He could only hope his sweet daughter would remain as peaceful in the hellhole that was King's Landing.

Unfortunately, you awoke in the dead of night - the hour of the wolf, no less. Your brain felt incredibly foggy and hazy, and for all you knew you could have slept through the last three days. Yet you knew your father would not allow that, given the proposal that had been-

Ah!

The proposal!

You remember now the fate you are damned to - to become Maekar Targaryen's wife. Tears begin collecting at your eyes again as you lower your head to the pillow once more. How could you marry a man you had never met? Sure, it was common amongst most, but you had hoped it would not happen to you…

A small part of you considered running away. If you sold all of your jewellery, surely you could make it as far as Essos, no? Live a new life, under a new identity. But the image of your father - alone and in a state of distress as he finds the news of you running away - flashing through your mind is more than enough to stop you from doing so. And so, you lie there, praying to the Seven. Praying that your future husband is not so unkind, and maybe his temper is justified. Perhaps you will find a way to temper his.. temper? Hopefully he will not be so easily angered as the rumours say.

The morning arrives sooner than you would have thought, and you are bundled into your dresses before you can even collect your thoughts, perfumed oils adorning your skin as various jewels sparkle in the morning's warm light. You enter the carriage first, your father after, and the two of you set off on the journey that would ultimately decide your fate.

The journey is long, and irritatingly slow. You feel each and every bump in the unkempt road, through the various layers you don't particularly enjoy being so wrapped up in. Each rocky bump has you grimacing just a little more, and what's worse is the fact that you cannot sleep! Whenever you are slightly close to falling asleep, your eyes rip open at yet - yes, you guessed it - another hump.

Still, there was a certain beauty in the world throughout your journey, and perhaps it was slightly childish of you to do so, but you could not help the glimmer of hope that surrounded your heart.

The day of your arrival had finally come by. Maekar had been pestered enough today, a characteristically irritated scowl upon his face. He had been bathed, scrubbed, oiled (to which he protested heavily. Something about, "If she cannot handle my natural self, should she even be married to me?". No one knew what to respond with to that one) and then clothed. That too, in uncomfortable clothes that clung to his skin in a way he absolutely despised, forcing him to try to pull it away from his neck at every given opportunity.

That was not even the worst part of it all.

The barber attempted to shave him (key word - attempted). He merely swatted his hands about, like an angry horse as his children watched on, unable to hold back their giggles. When the barber had been done cutting the ends of his hair, he brushed him away, only to look at the man that remained in the mirror.

He saw not a groom to be, but a man filled with an anger that perhaps his new bride did not deserve. He tried - he really did - to loosen his eyebrows, unclench his jaw, and make a face that seemed somewhat friendly, only for Aerion to throw a walnut shell at Aemon. And so, Maekar was once again in a state of anger.

Still, he stood now, at the gates of the Red Keep - his children finally somewhat well behaved (or as well behaved as they were capable of being) and beside his whole family. He had initially attempted to hide behind one of his brothers, only for Baelor to have him pushed forward (to which Maekar had muttered under his breath, "Like a fucking prize cow". King Daeron did not approve of this comment.).

Finally though, the carriage arrived. Inside, you sat with your father, covered in the very best garments that could have been put together, just for you. You could not deny it - despite all the fear that filled your heart, you did look like a bride. Seeing yourself briefly in the reflection of a mirror did bring a smile to your face, and your father moved to sit beside you - mere moments before the doors to the carriage were to open. He took your hands in his, raised them to his forehead and let a single tear drop onto them before pulling you in for what felt like the most important hug of your life,

"You will do well - he will be good to you, I am sure of it. I am proud of you, my sweet daughter. Do not give him too much trouble now, yes?"

You nod, though you cannot quite promise to do as he asks.

The doors to the carriage open, and your father exits first. And for a moment, Maekar thinks this is some kind of stupid practical joke being played on him. He almost scowls, except one of the knights offers his arm to help you down from the carriage.

By the Gods, were you a sight to witness. Maekar could not help but let his lips part, only to briefly wet them as he watched you closely. The most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on, and here he was. Almost scowling, with his petulant children giggling behind him. He almost turns to chastise them, but he sees you lift your head slightly. The two of you making eye contact is agreeably more important that Aegon and Daella teasing each other.

As the two of you stare at each other, and your fathers (and Baelor) make their greetings, neither you nor he say anything. You allow yourself to be led inside, and Maekar continues to silently observe you. All the way until Baelor nudges him,

"You are staring, brother."

"Am not."

"I disagree!"

"Then disagree - what is it to me."

"Now, now - you promised to give it a go. Approach her, talk with her. She is sure to be nervous, and a word from her husband to be will surely ease her soul..?"

"…"

"…for me?"

"…fine."

Maekar hides a grimace, pushing himself off the chair in which he sat and approaching you. He points to the seat next to you - somewhat awkwardly - and you shrug - equally as awkwardly,

"So."

"Your Grace."

"Erm.. yes."

"King's Landing seems lovely."

"Oh.. erm.. thank you, I suppose..?"

He had half a mind to yell, 'No! Gods, no! King's Landing is horrible, and stuffy, and horrendously overpacked - I hate this fucking place!', but a quick glance over to Baelor stops him. On the other hand, your heart only sinks further and further. Were you really about to marry someone so aloof?

"How was your journey?"

Long. Miserable. Bumpy. Those were your three options - which would you pick? Long woudl make you seem as though you were some spoilt child, unused to long journeys. Miserable would make you seem ungrateful - which of course, was less than ideal. Bumpy… was accurate, you suppose.

"Bumpy."

"Oh."

"I mean, it is to be expected, no?"

"Sure."

Ah. It seems you may have offended him. You let out a small sigh, unsure of where to take the conversation next. Perhaps you should ask about the children? Though, remembering the scowl that he quickly pushed away when you had left the carriage, perhaps that was not such a good idea. As you struggle with where to take the stiff conversation between you, he sits there, thinking.

Were the roads really that bumpy?

Baelor's eyes were almost popping out of their sockets, watching his brother uncomfortably work through conversation with you. He has half a mind to send the two of you far away from the Hall right now, and pray that being alone without prying eyes would somehow create some kind of conversation between you. Unfortunately, that is not for him to decide, and he remains staring in horror as you both just… go quiet.

Later that night, you all have dinner together. Naturally, you are somewhat overwhelmed by the number of people, and the amount of noise. At the upper end of the table, everyone sits deep in conversation as they eat. On the lower end of the table, Aerion throws morsels of food at his siblings and cousins. Smack in the middle of the table are you and Maekar, sat opposite each other.

Maekar promised his brother that he would not yell at the children tonight. He also made Aerion promise not to cause any problems at the table tonight. One of those promises has already been broken, yet he cannot break his own promise.

He stands from his seat, walking over to Aerion and whispering into his ear,

"If you do not fucking stop this stupidity right this moment, I swear I will lock you in your chambers for the next three days. Is that understood?"

The boy immediately lowers his spoon, and Maekar returns to his seat and his food. Yet dinner is still strange between the two of you, given that neither of you have yet found common ground to work with. So far, all you have seen of him is that he is grumpy, aloof and irritable - and incredibly awkward. All he has seen of you is that you are spoilt, strange and cause him a deal of irritation, just like he had predicted.

Baelor's eyes once again flick between the two of you, worry stirring in his mind.

Was this agreement even a good idea?

chapters:

ᯓ★ Chapter One: "Am I some fucking prize cow, to be married to whoever at your insistence?" ᯓ★ Chapter Two: "I had not realised how long it would take to get ready in the morning, Your Grace." ᯓ★ Chapter Three: "I do not yearn, Baelor. I am not a man of yearning!" (a lie, obviously.) ᯓ★ Chapter Four: "Should I bring her more oranges?"

chapters:

ᯓ★ Chapter One: "You know, this is the kind of thing bards sing of - a maiden, falling into my arms, hmm?" ᯓ★ Chapter 2: "Sorry about that, I was trying a new reci- Oh! It's you! And who is this?"