Moopia

Daeron was missing, of course, he was. You don’t know what your father was thinking, allowing him to go off with Egg. Daeron would be fine; he always was. Though you were worried about Aegon and the trouble he was probably getting himself into at the moment.

The bumpy carriage ride made your stomach turn. You focused only on deep breaths so as not to throw up. Your lady-in-waiting tried to help by fanning you, but the only thing that you thought would help was finally getting out.

Your discomfort amused Aerion. You only wished you had something to throw at him or at his horse to knock the smirk off his face.

“I will strangle you in your sleep if you don’t stop talking.” You told him and closed the window curtain.

He didn’t acknowledge your words as he rode off ahead of you. Thankfully, your prayers are soon answered as the carriage stops and the door opens for you. The ground beneath your feet settles your stomach. The chatter of the traveling party fills your ears.

You take in the Ashford Castle unimpressed, and you find your brother to kick the back of his ankle, your lady-in-waiting following behind you, gathering your dress in her hands, trying to keep it clean.

Aerion sneers at a rather tall man. As you find him, you pretend to trip as you kick the back of his leg. He stares you down, both of you daring each other to say something else. Of all your siblings, only you and Rhae could put him in his place.

You watch his face, and all the words you're sure he wishes he could say are painted clearly on it. He glares at you as he walks away to find and bother Valarr.

You look at the tall man, “Don’t listen to him, his words are normally cruel,” and you leave him.

You found your brother in the sea of people, exactly where you expected him to be, talking to Valarr.

Valarr greeted you with a smile and a kiss to your cheek, “cousin.”

“Valarr.”

“Father asked for you,” Aerion told you with an annoying smirk on his face, before you could join their conversation.

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You wandered the halls of Ashford looking for whatever room your father was in. You found him with Bealor and the tall man from earlier. A hedge knight, you learned from the conversation they were having.

You passed him and stood beside your father, who slouched in his chair. You waited until they finished whatever they were talking about before greeting your father and uncle.

You waved to the hedge knight as he left, and watched his cheeks turn a rosy color.

“He's a fucking hedge knight.” Your father scuffed ed at you.

You nodded, acknowledging the fact, “but he's a tall, somewhat handsome hedge knight,” you countered.

“And you have a husband.”

That hadn’t stopped you and Valarr from finding comfort in one another, nor your husband Daeron from burying himself in whores. There were worse things than your eyes wandering over a hedge knight. He looked up at you, and you spoke first, “Aerion said you wanted to see me.”

“I did not.”

“Well, how unfortunate that I am here and not enjoying the festivities then.”

“Do you know where your husband would be?” Maekar asked.

A laugh slipped out of your lips before you could stop yourself. The answer was the same as it always was, some bar, “drinking, probably whoring, somewhere.”

Your father had thought that marrying you to one another would stop Daeron from his nightly activities, that you were meant to fix him, as if your poor brother could be fixed. You’d have to stop his dreams to do that. A few times, the two of you had shared a bed, and he told you about them. He had warned you about your own future a few times. You’d had a few dreams yourself, seen things that couldn’t be true, like a great black dragon burning down King's Landing, but the dragons were dead, which you told your husband each time he spoke of seeing them.

We are the blood of the dragon, though, he’d tell you each and every time, before he fell asleep on your chest. Which was the same thing Valarr told you at both of your weddings.

What good was dragon blood when they were all dead?

Maekar stood up and left the room, muttering about your brother’s being missing and how if they weren’t here by tomorrow, he’d find them himself.

Baelor looked at you still in his seat, “Are you feeling alright?”

You nodded your head, “Yes, why?”

“You look pale,” He told you. You always assumed that Baelor knew about Valarr and yourself; he always had a look in his eye when the two of you spoke to one another. You wondered if he worried about another Blackfyre rebellion, caused by his own son and niece. But if he did know, he never said anything.

“The ride was uncomfortable. I just need to rest.” You told him and curtsied before you left the room.

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You always liked watching tourneys and jousts, something about watching men knock each other off their horses filled you with delight. You liked watching Valarr and cheering for him; it was one of the only times you were allowed to claim him in public. Daeron could be good if he tried, but he rarely tried.

You sat beside Aerion, clapping for all the opponents. The laughing storm was as great as the rumors claimed. Your father had considered him for your husband, but something changed his mind. Maybe it was the laughing storms' own whoring, but what did that matter if Daeron did the same? He wouldn’t have been a bad husband, no worse than your brother was.

“I will fight for you, tomorrow, sister,” Aerion told you as he leaned back into his chair. You knew Aerion was jealous that Maekar had married you to Daeron instead of himself. Aerion had wanted a dragon bride and to have dragon children. The thought made you roll your eyes. That was the only thing you were grateful for in your marriage. Aerion would not be a good husband, not when he lived in delusion.

“You need not do that, brother.” You told him, “You must fight for Lady Ashford, it is her nameday, I wish for her to be named queen of love and beauty.”

“But she is not.”

You only glared at him, “Wait to fight for me on my name day.” It was easier not to fight with Aerion, even just for the fact that you did not wish for your father to give you a lecture. He was already in a bad mood because of Daeron and Egg being missing.

Aerion only turned back to the fighting in front of you. You watched as Valarr unhorsed the Hightower.

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You found Valarr in his tent after you sent his servant away and helped him out of his armor.

“I heard your husband is missing.”

“And I was told your wife is a day behind us.” You countered. You had always wondered why the gods had been cruel enough to make you have feelings for someone that you could never fully be with, except in stolen moments like this.

You tried not to think about his poor wife too much, because if you did, you would leave, you’d stop. Sometimes you wished your father had married you to the Baratheon because at least that way you’d have space between you and Valarr, stopping this.

He kissed you as you untied one side of his chest piece, “Lucky us.”

All those thoughts left you when he said that, because yes, you were lucky to have stolen moments. You smiled as his hands enveloped your hair and your arms wrapped around his neck.

You stopped the kiss, and he bit your lips to taste you again, greedily. “I’m worried.” You confessed to him on hand on his chest and as his own hand played with your hair.

“Your father will find your brother’s, I’m sure they are fine.”

You shook your head, “Not about that.”

He cupped your face and made you look up into his eyes, “Then about what?”

You had dreaded the idea, but you had seen it in a dream. Dearon had seen it as well, and his dreams came true

When consciousness finally returned, it did so reluctantly.

The first thing Baelor became aware of was sound. A steady electronic rhythm pulsed somewhere nearby, its measured cadence cutting through the darkness that still clung stubbornly to his mind. Beneath it lingered quieter noises—the soft hum of air conditioning, the distant squeak of wheels crossing polished floors, the muted murmur of voices beyond a closed door. The sounds reached him long before understanding did, drifting through the fog of unconsciousness until they gradually pulled him toward wakefulness.

For a long time, he remained suspended between sleep and awareness. Thought itself felt heavy, as though his mind were struggling through deep water. His body seemed impossibly distant. He registered discomfort before he registered anything else: stiffness in his limbs, pressure in his chest, soreness that appeared to exist everywhere at once. Even breathing required more effort than it should have. Slowly, relentlessly, the sensations drew him upward until remaining asleep was no longer possible.

His eyelids felt weighted when he finally forced them open.

Light flooded his vision. For several seconds the world remained frustratingly blurred. Shapes existed without definition, colors without edges. Gradually, however, his eyesight adjusted, and details began emerging from the haze.

The ceiling appeared first. Dark wooden beams crossed warm cream-colored panels fitted with recessed lighting that cast a soft golden glow throughout the room. It was not the sterile white ceiling he would have expected from a hospital.

His gaze drifted lower. An entire wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Morning sunlight poured through the glass, spilling across polished hardwood floors and illuminating the skyline beyond. Towering buildings stretched toward the horizon, their windows catching the pale gold of early morning. The view suggested considerable height, the sort reserved for penthouses and executive suites rather than ordinary hospital rooms.

The room itself looked less like a medical facility and more like a luxury hotel suite.

A sitting area occupied one corner, furnished with cream-colored sofas and armchairs arranged around a low wooden coffee table. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, filled with carefully selected volumes that looked more decorative than practical. Fresh flowers stood throughout the room in elegant arrangements, introducing subtle bursts of color against the neutral palette. A large television had been mounted opposite the bed, while an open doorway revealed what appeared to be a private office beyond—a proper office, complete with a desk, monitors, and filing cabinets.

The entire space had clearly been designed to disguise its true purpose.

Yet despite the luxury, signs of its function remained impossible to ignore. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered beneath the fragrance of flowers. Medical monitors stood beside his bed. An IV line disappeared beneath the sleeve of his hospital gown. Equipment occupied discreet positions throughout the room, concealed as carefully as possible without ceasing to be functional.

Hospital, indeed.

The realization settled heavily inside him. His brow furrowed as he searched for an explanation, only for movement near one of the cabinets to draw his attention away from the question.

Until that moment, he had not realized anyone else was present. A woman stood near a wardrobe, quietly organizing several pieces of clothing. Several overnight bags sat open on a nearby table. Folded sweaters had been arranged into neat stacks. Books rested beside charging cables, paperwork, notebooks, and an assortment of personal belongings that had clearly accumulated over time. She appeared to be returning a folded cardigan to one of the bags when she noticed his eyes were open.

Everything stopped.

The cardigan remained suspended in her hands.

For a second, she simply stared. Then all color drained from her face. The word escaped her like a breath. "You're awake!"

Baelor attempted to respond, but his throat felt impossibly dry. The effort produced nothing more than a rough sound.

The woman was moving before he could try again.

What struck him immediately was the efficiency of her actions. She crossed the room quickly but without panic, setting aside the cardigan before reaching the bedside. Her hand moved automatically toward the controls attached to the bed, raising him slightly. She retrieved a glass of water from the table beside him, guided the straw toward his mouth, and steadied him when a sharp flash of pain crossed his expression.

"Don't talk yet," she said quietly. Though her voice trembled, her movements did not. "I'll get the doctor."

A doctor.

Less than a minute later, the door opened, and several nurses entered, followed closely by a doctor carrying a tablet.

"When did he wake up?" one of the nurses asked. The question was directed toward the woman.

"About a minute ago."

The nurse nodded without hesitation, as though the answer came from a source she trusted completely. Another nurse glanced toward the far corner of the room and sighed. "You still haven't gone home? Or did you get here early?"

The woman offered only a tired smile.

Following the nurse's gaze, Baelor finally noticed what he had overlooked before.

The office area wasn't merely part of the room. It belonged to her.

An open laptop sat on the desk beside several neatly stacked folders. Handwritten notes covered a notebook lying open beside the keyboard. A charger snaked across the floor toward an outlet. Two empty coffee cups occupied one corner of the desk. A folded blanket had been draped over the back of a nearby chair.

Whoever this woman was, she had not been visiting occasionally. She had been living here.

The realization sharpened when he observed the nurses interacting with her. They did not speak to her with the politeness reserved for visitors. They spoke to her like someone they saw every day. Someone who belonged here almost as much as the staff themselves. 

Doctor Mallister eventually approached the bedside and introduced himself. His demeanor was calm and reassuring, the confidence of someone who had spent decades guiding patients through difficult situations. He began with simple questions. Baelor's name. His date of birth. Basic details that required little effort to answer.

The doctor appeared encouraged by the responses.

"What year is it?"

Baelor answered automatically.

The silence that followed immediately caught his attention. Doctor Mallister exchanged a glance with one of the nurses. Then he asked another question.

"Who is the current chairman of Targaryen Holdings?"

"My grandfather."

Again, silence.

This time, the doctor slowly lowered his tablet. Doctor Mallister studied him for a moment before asking the next question. "Baelor, what is the last thing you remember?"

The answer came immediately. "A board meeting one evening."

The doctor nodded. "Can you tell me about it?"

"My father was there."

Fragments of the memory surfaced with surprising clarity. Baelor could still picture the conference room, the polished table, the reports spread across its surface.

"We were discussing expansion plans."

The doctor's expression remained carefully neutral.

"And after that?"

Baelor frowned.

The answer should have existed.

A drive home. A phone call. Dinner. Something.

Anything.

Instead, he found himself staring into a blank space where memory ought to have been.

The harder he searched, the more obvious the absence became. "I don't know."

Silence settled briefly over the room.

Doctor Mallister did not immediately move on. Instead, he asked another question. Then another. Names. Dates. Events. People. Some seemed ordinary. Others felt increasingly strange. Baelor answered each one as best he could.

With every response, however, he became more aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere around him.

The nurses exchanged occasional glances. The woman near the windows had stopped pretending to organize paperwork.

Even Doctor Mallister's expression seemed to grow more serious with each passing minute.

Eventually, the doctor lowered his tablet. Rather than continuing the assessment, he pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down. The gesture alone made Baelor uneasy.

"Baelor," he began carefully, "you were involved in a serious accident. You've been unconscious for six weeks."

Six weeks?

His last memory felt recent enough to touch. It certainly did not feel six weeks old. Yet despite the significance of the revelation, Baelor found himself distracted by something else.

Doctor Mallister wasn't finished. The concern visible on the man's face suggested the coma itself was not the primary issue.

"There is something else we need to discuss."

The room seemed quieter suddenly. The steady rhythm of the monitors felt louder.

"Based on your responses today, your memory appears to be anchored approximately twenty years in the past."

Baelor simply stared at him.

Twenty years?

The words made no sense. His mind rejected them immediately.

Twenty years?

That wasn't possible.

Doctor Mallister continued speaking, explaining observations, memory assessments, and neurological trauma, but the details blurred together before Baelor could fully process them.

His attention had shifted elsewhere. To the woman standing near the windows, perhaps. She had gone completely still.

One hand remained resting on the edge of the desk she had been using. The other hung motionless at her side. Her face revealed almost nothing, yet there was something in her posture that caught his attention immediately.

She looked as though she had been expecting bad news. As though she had already understood what the doctor was about to say before he said it.

The realization unsettled him for reasons he couldn't explain. The assessment continued for nearly another twenty minutes. Additional questions followed. More examinations. More observations. Eventually, Doctor Mallister seemed satisfied that further discussion would accomplish little for the moment. He rose from his chair.

"We can discuss everything further later."

His gaze shifted toward the woman.

"Mrs. Targaryen, may I speak with you outside for a moment?"

The title caught Baelor's attention instantly. Mrs. Targaryen?

Almost without thinking, Baelor's gaze drifted downward to his left hand. A simple wedding band rested there, the metal worn smooth from years of use. The sight of it felt strangely intimate. This wasn't a ring that had been purchased recently or worn out of obligation. It carried the subtle marks left behind by time itself, evidence of countless ordinary days spent on his finger. For several moments he stared at it before slowly lifting his head again.

His eyes found the woman standing near the windows.

His wife?

There was no flicker of recognition. No forgotten memory suddenly returning. She remained, in every practical sense, a stranger. He knew her name only because others had spoken it. He knew she was his wife only because the doctor had addressed her as Mrs. Targaryen. Yet somehow this stranger seems to occupy the most important role in his life.

The contradiction left him speechless.

Across the room, she met his gaze. Whatever she saw in his expression seemed to tell her everything she needed to know. She offered a small, composed nod before following Doctor Mallister toward the door without protest. Neither of them spoke as they left. A moment later the door closed softly behind them, leaving Baelor alone with a growing sense of unease he couldn't quite explain.

Outside, the conversation proved far less straightforward.

Doctor Mallister guided her toward a quiet consultation room a short distance down the corridor before explaining the situation as gently as possible. The extent of Baelor's memory loss remained unclear. The brain was unpredictable, particularly after severe trauma. Some patients recovered memories gradually over weeks or months. Others experienced only partial recovery. Some never regained what had been lost at all. There were therapies available, specialists who focused specifically on memory rehabilitation, treatment plans that could be explored once Baelor's condition stabilized further. Yet every possible path led back to the same unavoidable truth.

She listened because she knew she had to. She nodded when appropriate. She asked questions when necessary. Yet the doctor's voice seemed increasingly distant, as though it were coming from the far end of a long tunnel.

Because only one thought kept repeating itself inside her head.

Twenty years.

Twenty years ago, Baelor hadn't known her.

Twenty years ago, she had never attended that charity gala. They had never shared awkward conversations over stolen desserts in a hotel kitchen. They had never become friends. Never fallen in love. Never built a life together one year at a time.

Twenty years ago, she did not exist in his world.

Neither did their marriage.

Neither did their family.

Neither did their sons.

To him, everything that mattered most to her had simply disappeared.

By the time Doctor Mallister finished speaking, tears were already sliding silently down her cheeks. She hadn't even realized she was crying until she felt them reach her jaw. For six weeks she had prayed for this exact moment. She had sat through endless consultations, memorized medical terminology she never wanted to learn, signed forms she barely remembered reading, and spent countless nights sleeping in an armchair beside his bed. Every difficult day had been endured with a single goal in mind.

Wake up.

Just wake up.

She had convinced herself that nothing else mattered.

Now she realized she had never prepared for the possibility that he would wake up and not remember any of it. "He won't remember me?"

The words emerged quietly, broken by emotion she could no longer contain. Doctor Mallister remained silent for a moment, because there was no comforting answer available. There is no reassurance capable of undoing what had happened, even after years of practicing medicine.

She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, fighting unsuccessfully to maintain her composure.

"He won't remember our boys?"

Valarr was seventeen. Matarys was fifteen. For six weeks, they had visited whenever possible, balancing school, exams, and their own fear while waiting for their father to wake up. They had celebrated every small improvement. They had learned to read medical updates the way other teenagers read weather forecasts. Every day, they had asked the same question.

How is Dad?

And now, after all that waiting, the man they loved would look at them and see two strangers standing in a hospital room. The thought shattered something inside her. 

Doctor Mallister allowed her a few moments before speaking again. "We need to take this slowly."

She nodded, though she barely heard the words.

"You may call the family. I'll explain the situation to everyone personally. When the children visit, make sure nobody pressures him. No testing. No overwhelming him. No attempts to force memories. Let him adjust first. Right now, the most important thing is reducing stress and giving him time to orient himself."

Another nod followed automatically. She understood the instructions.

Whether she could emotionally process them was another matter entirely. Drawing a shaky breath, she wiped quickly at her eyes and reached for her phone. There was no time to fall apart. Too many people were waiting for news.

The first call was to his parents.

The second was to each of his siblings.

Every conversation began exactly the same way.

"He's awake."

Relief exploded through the line before she could say anything else. Questions followed almost instantly. Was he conscious? Was he speaking? Was he in pain? Was he recovering? The flood of emotion was so overwhelming that more than once she had to pull the phone slightly away from her ear.

For a few precious moments, every conversation followed the same pattern. The moment she said that Baelor was awake, emotion rushed through the other end of the call so strongly that she often had to pull the phone away from her ear. Questions came immediately afterward, tumbling over one another before she could answer any of them properly. 

Each time she reached that part of the conversation, the reaction changed. The relief vanished into stunned silence. She found herself repeating the same words over and over, each repetition making them feel no more believable than the last.

"He thinks it's twenty years ago."

"No, the doctors don't know whether the memories will come back."

"Yes, he remembers who he is."

"No, he doesn't remember..."

She never quite managed to finish that sentence without feeling her throat tighten.

He doesn't remember us.

By the time she ended the final call, the news had already begun spreading throughout the family. She returned to the suite feeling strangely detached from her own body. The room looked exactly as it had an hour earlier. Sunlight still poured through the enormous windows. The city still stretched beyond the glass. Medical equipment still hummed quietly beside Baelor's bed. Yet everything felt different now. The miracle they had all prayed for had arrived, but it had brought something none of them had anticipated.

The first visitors arrived less than an hour later.

His parents came together. She noticed them before they entered the suite itself. Through the partially open door, she caught sight of familiar figures moving quickly down the corridor. His mother reached the room first, abandoning any attempt at composure the moment she crossed the threshold. The older woman's eyes immediately found her.

"Oh, sweetheart … "

The words barely left her mouth before she closed the distance between them.

The embrace nearly shattered what little control she had managed to regain. For a moment, she found herself leaning into it, allowing someone else to carry a fraction of the weight she had been holding alone for weeks. His mother said nothing further. She simply held her tightly, one hand rubbing soothing circles against her back as tears gathered in her own eyes.

His father entered more slowly. At first glance, he appeared composed, every inch the chairman who had spent decades navigating crises without allowing emotion to interfere. His suit remained immaculate despite the obvious haste with which he had arrived. Yet the longer she looked at him, the easier it became to see the strain beneath the surface. His expression was controlled, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.

Doctor Mallister explained the situation again.

The older man listened without interruption, his attention fixed entirely on the doctor. When questions came, they were practical ones. He wanted details about neurological scans, treatment plans, recovery timelines, and specialist consultations. He approached the problem the same way he approached every crisis in life: by gathering information and identifying what could be done next.

His wife approached it differently, just like a mother would. The moment the explanation ended, she asked only one question. "Does he remember his family?"

Doctor Mallister hesitated.

The pause itself provided the answer. Tears immediately filled the older woman's eyes. She looked toward her daughter-in-law and visibly struggled to maintain her composure. Beside her, her husband lowered his gaze briefly. He said nothing, but for a moment his carefully maintained calm seemed to falter.

Eventually, his mother reached for her daughter-in-law's hand and squeezed it gently. There was nothing either of them could say that would make any of this easier.

A short while later, another arrival was announced. Maekar entered first, with Dyanna beside him. They had clearly come directly from wherever they had been when the call arrived. Maekar still wore the expression of a man who had spent the entire drive trying to process information that refused to make sense. Beside him, Dyanna's concern was far less guarded. The moment she saw her sister-in-law, she crossed the room and embraced her without hesitation.

Maekar remained quiet throughout most of the doctor's explanation.

He listened carefully, arms folded loosely across his chest, his attention fixed entirely on the doctor. Outwardly, he appeared composed. Inwardly, however, the news had clearly struck him harder than he wanted anyone to see. Twenty years was not a small gap. Twenty years ago, Baelor had been a different man. 

When the explanation finally concluded, Maekar's first concern was immediate. "Can he see visitors?"

Doctor Mallister listened patiently as Maekar asked his question, then folded his hands in front of him and assured the family that visitors would be allowed. The important thing, he explained, was moderation. Baelor was still recovering physically, and the discovery of the memory loss had placed him under considerable emotional strain. Familiar faces could be beneficial, but only if everyone understood that their presence was meant to support him rather than overwhelm him. Too many people at once, too many explanations, or too many emotional conversations could easily do more harm than good at this stage.

Maekar accepted the answer with a quiet nod. He had spent enough time around hospitals during the past six weeks to understand that recovery rarely followed a schedule anyone could control. Beside him, however, Dyanna looked visibly stricken. Her eyes immediately found Baelor's wife across the room before returning to the doctor.

"He doesn't remember the boys either?" she asked softly.

The question seemed to hang in the air.

Doctor Mallister's expression gentled, but he shook his head.

"No. I’m afraid not. Earlier, he stated that his grandfather is still the chairman of the company."

The sadness that crossed Dyanna's face deepened immediately. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she looked down at the floor. Like everyone else, she had spent weeks praying for Baelor to wake up. Now that he finally had, she found herself grieving a loss nobody had anticipated. The thought of Valarr and Matarys walking into that room only to discover that their father no longer remembered them was almost unbearable.

Before anyone could continue the discussion, the sound of approaching voices drifted down the corridor outside. Even through the thick hospital doors, the voices were unmistakable. Someone was clearly speaking too loudly. Someone else interrupted before the first person had finished. A brief laugh followed. Under normal circumstances, the noise would have been reassuring.

Today it felt different. Moments later, the doors opened, and Aerys, Alys, Rhaegel, and Aelinor appeared together. Judging by the fact that they had arrived simultaneously, they had clearly coordinated their schedules and come directly from wherever they had been when they received the news.

The confidence with which they had entered the corridor gave way to something much heavier as they took in the expressions around them. The reality of the situation settled over them immediately.

Aerys was the first to speak. His eyes moved from Doctor Mallister to Baelor's wife and then around the room before settling back on the doctor.

"Is he okay?"

"He is stable. He's awake, responsive, and communicating normally."

Visible relief washed across every face in the room. Though, it lasted only a moment.

Then the doctor began explaining the memory loss. As he spoke, the reactions varied dramatically.

Alys lifted both hands to her mouth, her eyes widening with every sentence. By the time the doctor finished describing the apparent twenty-year gap in Baelor's memory, she looked genuinely stunned.

Aelinor simply stared. She remained perfectly motionless throughout most of the explanation, watching the doctor with an expression that suggested she was still waiting for him to clarify that there had been some misunderstanding.

Rhaegel reacted differently. A quiet curse escaped him under his breath before he dragged a hand through his hair and looked away toward the windows. The movement was brief, but the frustration behind it was obvious.

Only Aerys remained completely still. His face gave away almost nothing. "Twenty years?" The disbelief in his voice echoed what everyone else was already thinking.

Doctor Mallister nodded once.

Then, the questions came from every direction at once.

Did Baelor remember any of them? Did he remember the accident? Did he know where he was? Did he understand how much time had passed? Would he recognize their parents? Would he recognize the state of the company? Could the memories come back? How often did something like this happen? Was there treatment? Therapy? Medication? Anything?

Doctor Mallister answered each question patiently, drawing upon the same calm professionalism that had carried the family through the past six weeks. Unfortunately, his answers contained far fewer certainties than anyone wanted. Every explanation seemed to lead back to the same frustrating reality: nobody could predict what would happen next.

As the discussion continued, a strange atmosphere gradually settled over the room.

The relief remained undeniable. Profound relief.

For six weeks they had lived with uncertainty hanging over every day. Every phone call from the hospital had carried the possibility of devastating news. Every update from the doctors had been analyzed and reanalyzed. Every small improvement had become a reason for cautious hope.

Relationships he had spent years building no longer existed in his memory. Milestones that had once shaped his life were gone. Birthdays, anniversaries, family holidays, arguments, celebrations, achievements, disappointments, victories, failures—the countless ordinary moments that accumulated over twenty years and slowly became a life had been erased.

Everyone else still carried those memories.

Baelor did not.

The realization weighed heavily on every person present. Eventually Doctor Mallister raised a hand, bringing the discussion to a halt before another wave of questions could begin.

"When you see him," he said carefully, looking around the group, "remember what I've already told Mrs. Targaryen."

Every eye turned toward him.

"Don't test him. Don't try to force memories. Don't overwhelm him."

His gaze moved deliberately from one family member to the next, ensuring that each person understood the importance of what he was saying.

"If he asks questions, answer them honestly. If he wants information, provide it. Let him decide what he's ready for and what he isn't. Right now, our priority is helping him feel safe, supported, and oriented. The more pressure he feels, the more difficult this adjustment will become."

The family exchanged glances.

Under ordinary circumstances, a room filled with Targaryens would have produced at least three competing opinions and a lengthy argument within minutes.

This time nobody objected. The situation was too fragile for pride and too serious for stubbornness.

One by one, they nodded their understanding.

Baelor was awake, everything else could wait. For now, simply having him back felt like enough.

And so, as the first shock gradually settled into a new reality, the days that followed began to establish a strange and uncertain rhythm of their own.

Every morning began the same way. Baelor would wake beneath crisp white sheets and spend a few moments staring at the unfamiliar ceiling overhead while reality slowly reassembled itself around him. The floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated one side of the suite would already be glowing with early sunlight, illuminating the city skyline beyond. The luxury of the room remained startling even after several days. Nothing about it resembled the hospitals he remembered. The polished hardwood floors, the carefully curated artwork, the sitting area arranged with expensive furniture, and the private office tucked beyond the main room all combined to create an illusion of normalcy. Only the medical equipment surrounding his bed prevented him from forgetting where he was.

Yet no matter how beautiful the room appeared, the confusion remained.

Every day brought new reminders that the world had continued moving without him. Conversations frequently referenced events he couldn't remember. Relationships had evolved. People had aged. Entire lives had unfolded beyond the reach of his memory. Sometimes the realization struck unexpectedly, leaving him momentarily disoriented. Other times it arrived in quieter ways, such as watching his father interact with his siblings or listening to family stories that seemed to belong to someone else's life.

Despite it all, however, Baelor remained remarkably patient.

Frustration visited him often, particularly during physical therapy sessions or moments when missing memories became impossible to ignore, but it never seemed to linger for long. There was an inherent gentleness to him that even the accident had failed to erase. Whenever someone explained something he had forgotten, he listened attentively. When people accidentally referenced memories he no longer possessed, he apologized for not remembering rather than becoming irritated by the reminder. More often than not, curiosity eventually overcame frustration.

He wanted to understand.

If he could not remember the missing years, then perhaps he could learn about them. And increasingly, he found himself trying to learn about the woman who was apparently his wife. At first, his curiosity stemmed largely from observation.

She was impossible not to notice.

The suite bore evidence of her presence everywhere. Over the course of several days, Baelor gradually realized that she had not merely been staying in the room—she had effectively moved into it. The corner near the windows had transformed into a functioning workspace. A sleek laptop sat permanently on the desk alongside neatly organized folders, legal documents, company reports, notebooks filled with handwritten notes, and an ever-changing collection of coffee cups. A cardigan was almost always draped across the back of one chair. Chargers occupied several outlets. A blanket remained folded on the sofa, suggesting she occasionally slept there despite the availability of far more comfortable accommodations elsewhere.

The arrangement fascinated him because it contradicted the image he had unconsciously formed of her.

From the outside, she seemed composed.  The room revealed how much effort composure likely required.

Doctors visited several times a day, and Baelor quickly noticed that many of them addressed updates to her first. Treatment adjustments, medication schedules, rehabilitation plans, specialist consultations—she seemed to know everything. She carried a notebook with her almost constantly, recording details with meticulous precision. Entire pages were devoted to medications alone. Dates, dosages, instructions, side effects, follow-up appointments. The organization bordered on astonishing.

What impressed him even more was that she never appeared overwhelmed by any of it.

When nurses entered the room, they greeted her with the familiarity reserved for someone they saw every day. Family members routinely checked plans with her before arranging visits. His parents often asked her opinion regarding practical matters. Even employees from the family company occasionally appeared carrying documents that required her review or approval.

Everyone trusted her.

The pattern repeated so consistently that Baelor eventually stopped viewing it as a coincidence.

She occupied an important position in the family. Not simply because she was married to him. Because people genuinely relied on her. The realization made him increasingly curious.

One afternoon, after a particularly exhausting physical therapy session, he found her seated near the windows reviewing a thick folder while participating in a video conference through an earpiece. Sunlight streamed through the glass behind her, illuminating the city skyline and casting a warm glow across the room. Her attention remained fixed on whatever discussion was taking place on her laptop, yet she still somehow noticed when he shifted uncomfortably in bed.

Without interrupting the meeting, she reached for the water glass beside him and handed it over.

Only after he had taken a drink did she return her full attention to the screen. The movement was so automatic that it startled him. She hadn't even needed to think about it. The meeting concluded several minutes later. Once she closed the laptop, she immediately reached for another document.

Baelor watched her for a moment before speaking. "You work a lot."

She looked up, appearing mildly surprised by the observation. A small smile touched her lips. "Sometimes."

The answer made him laugh softly. "That's not a convincing lie."

Her smile widened slightly. For a moment, she seemed younger somehow. "You caught me."

The conversation should have ended there. Instead, Baelor found himself continuing. "What do you actually do?"

That question earned a genuine pause. She set the document aside before answering.

The explanation that followed lasted considerably longer than he expected. She described her role within the family company within Public Relations, ongoing projects, responsibilities, departments she supervised, and decisions she regularly handled. Within the gaps of her tasks, she also vaguely explains the past events that Baelor had missed. The more she spoke, the more impressed he became.

By the end, he was staring. "That's a ridiculous amount of work. For PR, you are certainly busy."

A quiet laugh escaped her. "Some weeks are worse than others."

"And you've been doing all of that while living in a hospital room?"

Her expression softened. "I've had help."

The answer felt suspiciously incomplete.

Baelor suspected she had carried far more responsibility than she admitted. That realization lingered long after the conversation ended. As the days passed, he found himself seeking out opportunities to talk to her.

Not because he felt obligated. Because he genuinely wanted to.

She never volunteered information about their marriage. Never tried to convince him of feelings he couldn't remember. If anything, she would simply try to slip in more information about the global events, just to paint a clearer picture of the world Baelor missed. She never placed expectations on him. In many ways, she treated him with the same patience one might offer a stranger recovering from a serious injury.

The restraint only made him more curious. One evening, after most visitors had gone home and the room had settled into some quietness, he found her seated in the armchair near the windows. The city beyond the glass glittered beneath the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the skyline like stars.

She was reading through paperwork when he finally spoke.

"Can I ask you something?" 

She immediately set the folder aside. "Of course."

Baelor hesitated for a few seconds. Not because he feared the answer, but because he wasn't entirely certain how to phrase the question.

"How … when did we meet?"

For a moment, she didn't answer. Her hand paused over one of the tea tins. 

Then a smile appeared. If anything, it seemed unexpectedly fond.

"You really want to know?" A soft laugh escaped her. "It was a Targaryen Foundation charity gala."

Baelor groaned immediately. "Oh, no."

She laughed again. "What?"

"My favorite time of the year. It was awful."

"I spent most of the evening trying to leave."

That caught his attention. "You were invited to a charity gala and spent the evening trying to escape it?"

"I wasn't invited. My manager was, and I was working."

The kettle clicked softly behind her. She poured hot water into two cups before continuing.

"Our department had been helping organize part of the event for weeks. I'd spent three straight days dealing with seating charts, donor requests, last-minute sponsorship changes, and people who apparently believed the world would end if their names weren't printed in exactly the right font size."

Baelor laughed.

She carried one of the mugs toward him before settling into the armchair beside the bed. "By the time the event actually started, I was already in a bad mood."

"You were in a bad mood the first time you met me?"

"I was in a terrible mood before I met you."

He looked genuinely delighted by that.

She shook her head, smiling into her tea. "I'd spent the entire evening listening to people talk about themselves. Every conversation sounded exactly the same. Everyone was trying to impress everyone else."

"And then I arrived?"

"No, prince charming, you were already there." The smile in her eyes deepened. "The problem was that nobody could find you."

Baelor blinked. "What do you mean nobody could find me?"

"I mean, your father was looking for you. Your grandfather was looking for you."

His expression immediately became more concerned.

She took a sip of tea before continuing. "Three board members were looking for you. Two donors were looking for you. Somebody from the press wanted a quote."

"And where was I?"

The smile she had been trying to suppress finally escaped. "In the kitchen."

Baelor stared. "The kitchen?"

Baelor's disbelief was immediate. He shifted slightly against the raised hospital bed, the movement prompting a faint wince before he reached down to readjust the blanket over his lap. His wife, meanwhile, sat comfortably in the armchair beside him, one leg tucked beneath her as she cradled her tea between both hands. The steam curled lazily upward, catching the warm glow from the floor lamp positioned nearby.

"The kitchen. With Maekar."

His eyebrows climbed higher.

"I don't believe you."

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. She lowered her gaze briefly to her cup, clearly revisiting the memory in her mind before looking back up at him.

"I found you standing beside a dessert cart with a pastry chef asking if you two can keep ‘just a few’ for yourselves."

For several seconds, he simply stared at her. Then he laughed. The sound filled the room unexpectedly, rich and genuine and completely unrestrained. It was the first time in days she had heard him laugh quite like that. His head tipped back slightly against the pillows as amusement overtook him.

"This story is getting less and less flattering."

"It wasn't supposed to be flattering."

"I thought wives were meant to make their husbands look good."

"Not when they're caught hiding from their own charity gala."

The smile refused to leave his face. He could see it. Not remember it. That distinction still felt strange.

He couldn't recall the evening itself. He couldn't picture specific details. Yet the version of himself she described felt familiar in an entirely different way. He could almost imagine the scene unfolding before him: a crowded ballroom full of politicians, executives, and donors, while he and his younger brother disappeared into the kitchen to negotiate custody of stolen desserts.

"And you just walked up to me?"

She shifted slightly deeper into the armchair, turning sideways so she faced him more fully. One hand rested around her mug while the other absently smoothed a crease from her trousers.

"I walked up to the kitchen because I was trying to find somewhere quieter."

The memory seemed to draw her further in as she spoke.

"The ballroom was unbearable. The speeches hadn't even started yet, and I already wanted to go home."

Baelor laughed softly. "And instead you found me and my brother trying to pocket some cakes?"

"You immediately offered me one."

"I did?"

"You told the chef that a stranger’s vote could count as double, because ‘she is not influenced by anything but your masterpiece on its own’."

She was smiling openly now.

The amusement in her eyes made it obvious she had replayed this memory many times over the years.

"You were very serious about it."

Baelor rubbed a hand over his face, groaning quietly through a smile. "That actually sounds like something I'd say."

"It sounded very convincing at the time."

"Please tell me the chef didn't believe me."

"He absolutely did not."

The two of them laughed together. The sound lingered warmly within the suite before fading back into the quiet hum of the evening.

"Maekar left after the chef gave up and let you two keep some in a box. But we ended up talking for almost an hour."

As she spoke, Baelor found himself watching her more than listening to the details. There was something captivating about seeing her like this. For days, he had known her primarily as the woman managing medication schedules, speaking with doctors, balancing work calls, and making certain he followed every instruction given to him.

"About what?"

"Everything." She gave a small shrug before taking another sip of tea. "Work. Books. Travel. Family." The smile returned before she even continued. "You spent twenty minutes complaining about a board member who kept trying to introduce you to eligible women."

Baelor nearly choked. The expression that crossed his face was so immediate and horrified that she burst into laughter. "I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I'd just met you."

"Exactly." She laughed softly, lowering her cup onto the side table before it could spill. "But it was also the first honest conversation I'd had all evening."

The warmth gradually settled back into silence.

Outside, the city glowed beneath the night sky. The reflections of distant skyscrapers shimmered across the floor-to-ceiling windows while traffic moved like streams of light far below. Inside the suite, the atmosphere felt insulated from the rest of the world. The only sounds were the occasional beep from a monitor and the low hum of the air conditioning drifting through hidden vents.

Baelor found himself watching her. Watching the way her eyes softened whenever she reached a memory she particularly loved. Watching the small smile that appeared before certain stories. Watching the way affection seemed woven through every recollection, without her ever intentionally placing it there.

She wasn't trying to convince him that they had been happy. She didn't need to. It was obvious, even for him.

"So what happened after that?" he asked.

She glanced up. "After the gala?"

He nodded. For the first time, something almost shy crossed her expression. The smile that followed was smaller than the others. "We became friends."

The answer surprised him. For a relationship that had apparently led to marriage and children, he had expected some dramatic story. A whirlwind romance. Some grand gesture.

Instead, she said it with complete certainty.

Friends?

"Just friends?"

"For a while."

He shifted slightly higher against the pillows, and before he could even reach for them, she leaned forward automatically, adjusting one of the cushions behind his shoulders. The gesture was so instinctive that neither of them seemed to notice it until afterward.

"How long is a while?"

The smile widened. "Long enough for everyone around us to become irritated."

Baelor laughed. "Oh, we were those people?"

"You were definitely one of those people."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning everybody knew you liked me except you."

His eyebrows rose immediately.

"That's harsh."

"It's true!"

"I find that difficult to believe."

The look she gave him was so thoroughly unimpressed that Baelor immediately suspected he had lost whatever argument he had been attempting to make.

"Baelor," she said, setting her teacup down on the side table with deliberate care, "you invited me to lunch three times in one week and somehow convinced yourself it was networking simply because I worked at a PR firm."

For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then his entire expression collapsed. The devastation was so genuine, so immediate, that she couldn't help laughing.

The sound filled the room, so warm and familiar, and Baelor found himself smiling despite himself. He leaned back against the pillows, shaking his head as though he had just received deeply disappointing news about a man he happened to share a name with.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

His gaze drifted upward toward the ceiling. The movement was so dramatic that it almost seemed rehearsed. One hand lifted slightly from the blanket, palm upward, as though he were appealing directly to some higher power for assistance.

He closed his eyes briefly.

"I thought I'd have a better game. I can't defend that."

For several moments, he remained staring upward, apparently trying to come to terms with the fact that a previous version of himself had apparently spent weeks courting a woman while somehow convincing himself it was a professional networking exercise.

"And you still married me?"

The question slipped out before he could stop it. The humor lingered for only a moment before the conversation naturally quieted. Neither of them immediately looked away. The words themselves had been lighthearted, but the meaning beneath them was not.

The room seemed suddenly smaller, wrapped in the soft golden glow of the lamps that illuminated the suite. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city shimmered beneath the night sky, thousands of lights scattered across the darkness like distant stars. Somewhere in the background, a monitor continued its steady rhythm, while the faint hum of the air conditioning blended into the silence that settled between them.

Baelor found himself watching her.

Really watching her.

Not as his caretaker, and not as the woman who seemed to know every medication schedule, every doctor's instruction, every detail of his recovery, either. But perhaps as the woman he believed he fell in love with.

The title still felt strange in his mind. Every time he thought it, it carried the same sense of disbelief.

His wife? The woman sitting across from him. The woman who had spent six weeks sleeping in hospital chairs. The woman who somehow managed to balance conference calls, company responsibilities, and his recovery without ever appearing resentful. The woman who had spent the past hour telling him stories about a version of himself he could no longer remember.

For a brief moment, the years she carried and he had lost seemed to settle quietly into the space between them.

Eventually, she smiled a smile that was filled with affection that seemed far older than the conversation they were having.

"Of course I did."

Baelor felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. Not memory. He knew what memory felt like now—the constant frustration of reaching for something that should have been there and finding only emptiness.

This wasn't that. 

The feeling arrived quietly, without warning, as he sat there looking at her beneath the warm light of the hospital suite. Her tea sat forgotten on the side table beside her chair. Several folders remained stacked near her laptop, abandoned halfway through whatever work she had been doing earlier. Beyond the windows, reflections of the city lights shimmered faintly against the glass behind her.

Baelor realized he still couldn't remember any of it.

He couldn't remember meeting her at a charity gala. He couldn't remember becoming her friend. He couldn't remember falling in love with her. He couldn't remember proposing. He couldn't remember standing beside her at their wedding. He couldn't remember the first apartment they had shared, the birth of their sons, family holidays, anniversaries, arguments, reconciliations, or any of the thousands of moments that had apparently built the life they now shared.

All of it remained beyond his reach.

And yet, as he watched her sitting there across the room, smiling at him with a tenderness that felt entirely unforced, he found himself wishing he could remember. Not because people expected him to. Not because he felt pressured to recover what was missing. Not even because he wanted answers. He wanted those memories because they belonged to her.

Because every story she told seemed to reveal another reason why the man he had once been had chosen her.

And, increasingly, why she had chosen him in return. For the first time since waking up, Baelor realized that wasn't quite the same thing as wanting his memories back. It was something far more personal than that.

The boys arrived on the third day shortly after lunch time on a weekend, entering the suite with the careful composure of people who had spent the entire journey rehearsing how they intended to behave. Their mother had spoken to them beforehand, and although Baelor hadn't been present for the conversation, he suspected he could have repeated it almost word for word. Doctor Mallister had given the same instructions to everyone who came through the doors  of his hospital room. No testing. No pressure. No attempts to jog his memory through old stories or photographs. Simply spend time with him. Allow him to adjust. Allow him to find his footing in a world that suddenly seemed to contain two decades he could no longer access.

The older boy entered first.

Baelor's attention settled on him immediately, and for a moment, he found himself staring with such concentration that he almost forgot to greet him. His mother had shown him photographs over the past several days when he asked, and his wife had pointed out faces and names often enough that he knew who the teenager was supposed to be, but photographs had not prepared him for the reality of standing in the same room as him. The resemblance was startling. Not merely a collection of similar features, but something deeper and more instinctive. It felt unnervingly like looking at a reflection distorted by time. Valarr had inherited his height, his build, his eyes, and the same strong lines of his face. Even the way he stood carried echoes of habits Baelor recognized in himself. If someone had shown him a photograph and claimed it was an image of himself at seventeen, he might have believed it.

Only one feature broke the illusion: a striking streak of white ran through the dark hair at Valarr's temple, beginning near his forehead and disappearing into the rest of his hair. The contrast drew the eye immediately. It wasn't the pale coloring of age but the distinctive silver-white that occasionally appeared among Targaryens from birth, a trait that had become something of a family trademark over generations. Rather than looking unusual, it somehow suited him perfectly.

Without realizing it, Baelor continued staring.

Valarr noticed almost immediately. The teenager's hand rose automatically to his hair before he gave him a suspicious look that suggested he had experienced this reaction from strangers his entire life.

"What?"

The question carried enough wariness that Baelor couldn't help smiling.

"I was just looking at your hair."

The younger boy was already grinning as he dropped into one of the armchairs near the bed. Unlike his older brother, Matarys seemed incapable of concealing his emotions for more than a few seconds at a time. Everything appeared openly on his face before he could think to hide it. Nervousness, amusement, curiosity, relief—each feeling flickered across his expression with complete transparency.

"He spends twenty minutes fixing it every morning."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I literally don't."

Their argument continued with the rhythm of brothers who had repeated variations of the same conversation hundreds of times before. Baelor found himself listening with growing amusement as Valarr attempted to defend himself while Matarys cheerfully undermined every argument he made. The exchange was familiar in a way that felt strangely comforting. There was no self-consciousness behind it. No careful effort to perform normality for his benefit. They were simply being themselves.

Eventually, Valarr gave up entirely and sank into the chair nearest the window.

Nobody mentioned memory loss. Nobody asked what he remembered or whether certain names sounded familiar. Nobody attempted to fill the missing years with endless explanations. Instead, they spoke about school, friends, football, upcoming exams, teachers they disliked, and countless ordinary details that might have sounded insignificant under different circumstances. Yet as Baelor listened, he found himself increasingly fascinated by all of it. These weren't merely stories. They were glimpses into the lives of two people who, according to everyone around him, were among the most important people in his world.

What struck him most was how different the brothers were despite their similarities. Valarr possessed a steadiness that reminded him strongly of the way his father carried himself. He seemed inclined to think before speaking, often pausing to choose his words carefully before contributing to the conversation. Matarys, meanwhile, appeared incapable of remaining still for longer than thirty seconds. He talked with his hands, interrupted himself midway through stories, jumped between topics with remarkable speed, and possessed energy that seemed to fill every available corner of the room.

Together, they were unexpectedly easy company.

The longer they stayed, the more Baelor found himself relaxing. He asked questions and they answered them. Occasionally, one brother corrected the other. Occasionally, both disagreed entirely about what had happened during a particular event. Their mother intervened only when absolutely necessary, usually from her desk near the windows, where she continued balancing hospital life and work.

At one point, while the boys argued over a football match, neither could seem to remember the same way, Baelor found his attention drifting toward Valarr again.

The resemblance remained difficult to ignore, because he looked so much like him.

There were moments when Valarr laughed or turned his head a certain way that felt almost like catching sight of himself unexpectedly in a mirror. The experience was profoundly strange. This wasn't a younger brother or a cousin. This was his son. A seventeen-year-old young man who had somehow grown up while existing entirely beyond the reach of his memory.

The realization should have felt painful. Instead, what he mostly felt was curiosity.

Curiosity about who Valarr had become.

Curiosity about Matarys.

Curiosity about the countless years he could not remember sharing with them.

By the time they eventually stood to leave, the room felt noticeably quieter than it had only a few hours earlier. His wife accompanied them into the corridor, promising to call later that evening, while Baelor remained where he was, listening to the muffled sounds of their voices through the partially open door.

Baelor had not intended to eavesdrop.

The conversation simply carried through the partially open door.

Visiting hours had ended nearly twenty minutes earlier. Valarr and Matarys had lingered until the nurses began making polite suggestions about letting their father rest, and eventually all three of them had stepped out into the hallway. Baelor had assumed they were saying their goodbyes before heading home for the evening. He had settled back against his pillows with a book resting open in his lap, more interested in the comfort of holding it than actually reading it. The room was quiet apart from the distant hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of the monitors nearby.

Then he heard his wife's voice. The same voice he had heard soothing nurses who looked exhausted after long shifts, reassuring anxious family members, and calmly explaining medical instructions back to him when he inevitably forgot some detail. Somehow, however, it always sounded slightly different when she spoke to their sons.

"I'm serious," she was saying. "Just spend time with him. That's all you need to do."

A dramatic sigh immediately followed.

"Mom," Matarys groaned, drawing out the word with the particular exasperation only teenagers seemed capable of producing. "We've been doing that."

"I know."

"You've told us this every day."

"Because it's important."

Another sigh followed, this one noticeably more restrained.

"We know not to test him," Valarr said.

"I'm just reminding you."

"You remind us every time."

For a moment, there was silence. Baelor could practically picture the expression on his wife's face despite not being able to see her. Whatever look she was giving them seemed to communicate enough on its own because a second later Matarys laughed.

"See? That's the face."

"What face?" she asked.

"The face."

"There is no face."

"There is absolutely a face!" Valarr said.

Baelor found himself smiling before he realized it.

The conversation continued, accompanied by the faint sound of shifting footsteps. He imagined them standing outside the suite near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Valarr was probably leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets. Matarys was almost certainly moving around while he talked. Their mother was likely standing between them with her arms crossed, attempting to maintain authority over two boys who clearly had years of experience ignoring her lectures.

A few moments later, Valarr spoke again. "Are you coming home tonight?"

The question was followed by a brief pause. Baelor lowered the book slightly.

"I don't think so," his wife replied.

"Mom..." The disappointment in Valarr's voice was immediate.

"Tomorrow’s Sunday," Matarys added.

"I know."

"You've been here all week."

"I know."

The silence that followed felt longer this time. Baelor found himself listening more carefully than he intended. Tomorrow's Sunday.

Over the past few days, he had learned enough to understand that Sundays carried significance in their family. Various relatives had mentioned weekly lunches, gatherings at his parents' house, and new traditions that everyone seemed to know by heart except him.

"Grandma said she'd make breakfast tomorrow," Valarr said quietly.

His wife laughed softly. "Your grandmother says that every Sunday."

"Yeah, but she asked if you'd be there."

"If Grandma wants to take over for a few hours, maybe."

"A few hours?" Valarr repeated.

"A few hours."

"That's not the same as coming home."

"You're staying because you don't want Dad to be alone."

Baelor stared down at the unopened book in his hands. Outside, his wife didn't answer immediately. When she finally did, her voice was much softer than before.

"He wakes up confused sometimes."

Neither boy interrupted.

"He doesn't always know where he is straight away. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and needs a few minutes to orient himself."

The explanation was delivered matter-of-factly, but Baelor felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest.

"I know there are nurses here," she continued. "I know the doctors are here. I know he'll be fine."

A brief pause followed. "But?" Matarys prompted.

"But I don't want him waking up alone."

The silence afterward seemed to settle warmly through the hallway.

It wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like understanding.

Eventually, Valarr spoke. "Grandma can stay tomorrow."

His wife's immediate response carried equal parts affection and disbelief. "Valarr—"

"No, seriously. She'll love it."

"Your grandmother has her own life."

"Mom, it's Grandma. It’s Dad’s mom."

The certainty in his voice earned an immediate laugh from Matarys. "He's right. I will bet my lunch money on an immediate ‘yes’."

"Fine."

The reluctant surrender was greeted with immediate celebration. "There we go." "Progress."

"You two are unbelievable!"

"We get it from Dad. You always say that!"

The response came so quickly that all three of them burst into laughter. The sound drifted through the doorway and into the room, warm and effortless. It was not the polite laughter of people trying to make the best of a difficult situation. It was the easy laughter of a family who knew one another completely.

Baelor sat quietly and listened. He couldn't seem to stop.

When the conversation finally moved farther down the corridor and the voices faded from hearing, he remained where he was, staring toward the darkened windows overlooking the city below.

He couldn't remember any of this.

He couldn't remember Sunday breakfasts.

He couldn't remember family traditions.

He couldn't remember teaching Valarr how to drive, helping Matarys with school projects, or sharing ordinary evenings with his wife.

He couldn't remember any of the thousands of moments that had apparently filled the last twenty years of his life.

Yet every day seemed to offer another glimpse into the life he had built.

You wiped your hands on your apron and followed her through the dim corridors. The torches burned low, their flames trembling in the draught. Your heart began to pound, though you could not say why. You were a servant, nothing more. Servants were called for many things.

But when you stepped into the hall, you realised this was not one of those things.

Your Lord and Lady stood side by side before the hearth. Their daughter sat behind them, hunched and pale in her chair, her fine gown dishevelled as though she had been crying for hours. You froze where you stood, clutching your hands before you.

“My lady,” you said quietly, bowing your head.

“Come closer,” she ordered.

You obeyed, each step echoing across the cold stone floor.

When you stopped before them, your Lady studied you with sharp, restless eyes. Her husband’s jaw was clenched tight, as if every word he had to say might shatter him.

“You have been in our service for many years,” the Lady began. “You are quiet, loyal, and no one outside this household knows your face well.”

You hesitated.

“Yes, my lady. I have always tried to serve faithfully.”

Her gaze drifted to her daughter, whose eyes filled with tears.

“You must swear what we discuss here will never leave this room.”

Your stomach turned.

“I swear it.”

The Lord cleared his throat, his voice rough.

“Our daughter has been promised to Prince Aemond Targaryen, the second son of the King. The betrothal was arranged months ago, and word of her journey to King’s Landing has already reached the court.”

Your eyes flickered to the young woman in the chair. Her hands were clasped tightly over her stomach.

“She… she cannot go,” the Lady said in a low, trembling voice. “She carries the child of another man. A knight in our service. If the Crown learns of this, we will be ruined.”

The words struck you like a blow.

“My lady, what will you do?”

The Lord’s expression hardened.

“We will send you in her place.”

You blinked, certain you had misheard.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” the Lady said sharply. “You are of similar build, and with the right clothes, the right manner, few would question it. You will go to King’s Landing as our daughter, marry Prince Aemond, and secure our house’s future.”

Your mouth went dry.

“But I am not noble. I have no titles, no learning, no-”

Her voice cut through yours.

“You will learn. You will speak only when spoken to, walk as you have seen her walk, and keep your eyes lowered. They need not know the truth.”

You shook your head in disbelief.

“My lady, please, they will see it at once. I cannot deceive the King, the Queen, the Prince-”

The Lord’s voice thundered across the hall.

“You will do as you are told!”

The sound silenced everything. The rain, the fire, even your breath. You stood frozen as he stepped closer, his anger twisting his features.

“If you refuse, your family will pay the price. Your father works my land, does he not? Your mother tends my orchards? Think carefully before you speak again.”

Your heart dropped. You thought of your parents, their small home by the river, the way your mother smiled whenever you returned with flowers from the meadow. They would not survive without this house’s favour.

Tears welled in your eyes, but you forced your voice steady.

“I understand, my lord.”

The Lady’s tone softened, though her face did not.

“You will be cared for. We will provide gowns, jewellery, and a new name. You are to call yourself by our daughter’s name in every breath you take. If anyone suspects you, deny it. Smile and lie, for all our sakes.”

You turned to the young woman who sat weeping beside the hearth. She could not even meet your gaze.

“My lady,” you whispered, “is this truly what you wish?”

Her sobs grew louder.

“I cannot marry him,” she cried. “He is a dragon, and I am already ruined. Please, forgive me.”

Forgive her. That was all she said, as if forgiveness could make you something you were not.

---

The next morning came quickly.

They bathed you in scented water, combed your hair, and draped you in silks that felt foreign on your skin.

Jewels were fastened around your neck, and rings slid onto your trembling fingers. You looked into the mirror and did not recognise yourself.

The Lady’s maid pressed a folded letter into your hand.

“For the Queen,” she said. “You will give it to her upon your arrival.”

You stepped outside to the waiting carriage. The air was cold, and the ground glistened with dew. The Lady and Lord watched as you climbed in, their faces unreadable.

“Remember who you are now,” the Lady said softly. “You are our daughter. You were born to wed a prince.”

The door shut before you could reply. The horses lurched forward, and the manor faded behind the mist and rain. You sat alone, the letter heavy in your lap, your heart hollow.

The road to King’s Landing took four days.

You passed villages and rivers, hills and distant keeps. The closer you came to the capital, the more uneasy you felt.

The Red Keep rose high above the city like a crown of bloodstone, sharp and proud against the pale sky.

When the gates opened, you stepped into a world that was not your own.

Gold cloaks lined the courtyard, their armour gleaming. Ladies in silk whispered from behind fans. You could feel their eyes on you, measuring, judging.

Inside, the Queen herself awaited you.

Alicent Hightower, poised and elegant, with eyes that seemed to see everything. You knelt before her, offering the letter with trembling hands.

“My lady,” she said gently, breaking the seal. “Rise, please. You are welcome in the Red Keep.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you murmured.

Her smile was small but kind.

“You must be weary from your travels. The King wishes to bless your union soon, though he is frail and resting tonight. You will meet the royal family at dinner tomorrow.”

You curtsied again, heart pounding.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

A servant led you to your chambers, larger than any space you had ever seen.

The walls were draped in red, the bed carved with dragons, and the windows opened to the sea.

You stood there, trying to steady your breathing.

When you finally looked out the window, your gaze fell upon the training yard below. A group of knights sparred with wooden swords, the clatter of steel echoing faintly through the courtyard. Among them stood a man with long silver hair, his movements precise and powerful. When he turned, you caught the gleam of an eyepatch beneath the sun.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Even from afar, you could sense the chill that surrounded him.

His stance was proud, his expression unreadable, but there was something captivating about the way he moved, controlled, graceful, as if every strike were a piece of music only he could hear.

You did not know why your chest felt tight as you watched him.

Perhaps it was fear, perhaps awe.

Or perhaps, deep down, it was the first stirring of something far more dangerous.

That night, as you lay in the vast bed that did not feel like yours, you thought of home, the rain, the wildflowers, and your mother’s soft humming by the fire.

Now all of it felt distant, as though you had left not only the Riverlands but the person you once were.

Tomorrow you would dine with dragons.

Tomorrow, your lie would begin.

Morning came with the sound of gulls outside your window and the slow chime of bells from somewhere deep within the Keep.

You woke in a bed far too soft, with sunlight spilling through the curtains like molten gold. For a long moment, you forgot where you were. Then the memories rushed back, the rain-soaked manor, the carriage ride, the letter pressed into your trembling hands.

You were no longer yourself. You were a noblewoman promised to a dragon.

A soft knock came at the door. When you opened it, a young maid curtsied deeply.

“The Queen requests your presence for the midday meal, my lady,” she said, avoiding your gaze. “She asked that you join the royal family in the gardens.”

Your throat tightened.

“The gardens?”

“Yes, my lady. Prince Aemond will escort you.”

“Prince Aemond?”

She nodded, her tone respectful but curious.

“He asked for you himself.”

You could not remember how you dressed, only that your hands would not stop shaking.

When you caught your reflection, you hardly recognised the woman staring back, she looked too composed, too fine. But your eyes, uncertain and afraid, stayed your own.

When you walked to the courtyard, he was waiting.

Prince Aemond Targaryen stood under a stone archway, the morning light falling across his pale hair.

His posture was flawless, his hands clasped behind his back. The eyepatch gleamed black against his skin, sharp and stark, yet it did not mar his beauty. If anything, it made him seem carved from something ancient and unyielding.

He inclined his head when he saw you.

“My lady.”

“Your Grace,” you replied, your voice soft, unsure.

“Shall we?”

He offered his arm.

You hesitated only a second before taking it. His sleeve brushed yours, and though he wore gloves, you could still feel the strength beneath his stillness.

The gardens stretched wide and green beneath the castle walls. Roses climbed over trellises, jasmine spilled down marble columns, and the air was rich with the scent of lavender and warm earth.

You felt a strange sense of comfort here, among the flowers, you could almost forget the deceit woven around your every breath.

“You favour the gardens,” Aemond said as you walked along the gravel path.

“I do,” you admitted, glancing at a bed of peonies. “They remind me of home.”

“Your home in the Riverlands?”

You stiffened slightly. You had rehearsed this lie, but the words still caught.

“Yes, my prince. My mother kept a garden by the river. It was… smaller than this, but very dear to her.”

Aemond looked at you sidelong, his expression unreadable.

“Few of noble birth tend to their own gardens.”

You smiled faintly.

“Then perhaps I am simply unusual.”

His mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement.

“Unusual, perhaps. But not unpleasant.”

You felt warmth creep into your cheeks and turned quickly to the roses beside you. Their petals were the colour of blood, heavy with dew. You reached out to touch one, your fingers brushing the silk of the bloom.

“They are Targaryen roses,” you said softly, eager to fill the silence. “They only grow within the walls of the Red Keep. Their roots do not take in foreign soil.”

Aemond’s brow lifted slightly.

“You know much about flowers.”

You smiled, still facing the rose.

“I love them. They speak in colours and scent. They tell stories without words.”

He said nothing for a long moment, and you dared to look at him. He was watching you, his one visible eye steady, bright as amethyst in the sunlight.

“What story does this one tell?” he asked.

You hesitated, glancing back at the crimson petals.

“That it is proud and unyielding, but lonely. It grows where others cannot reach it.”

Something flickered across his face, surprise, perhaps even pain. Then it was gone. He looked away.

“You see much,” he said quietly. “More than most.”

You wanted to ask what he meant, but you sensed the walls closing around him again, and so you said nothing.

The Queen joined you later for the midday meal laid out beneath the shade of an oak tree. The table gleamed with silver dishes, though you could barely eat for the nerves coiling in your stomach.

Aegon arrived first, already half drunk, his grin wide and teasing.

“So this is the famed bride of my brother,” he said, dropping into a chair. “He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your arrival. You must have bewitched him.”

Aemond’s voice was calm but cold.

“Mind your tongue.”

Aegon only laughed.

“See? He even defends you. Perhaps you’ll tame the dragon after all.”

You flushed deeply, unsure where to look.

The Queen gave her eldest son a sharp glance, and he fell silent with a sigh.

Helaena was next, smiling dreamily as she sat beside you. Her eyes, pale and distant, flickered between the flowers arranged on the table.

“You smell like the meadows,” she said suddenly. “Do you like butterflies? They are better companions than men.”

You smiled softly.

“I like them very much.”

“I thought so,” she replied with a nod, and began tracing circles on the tablecloth.

The Queen gave you a kind, if weary, smile.

“I trust the journey was not too difficult?”

“It was long, Your Grace,” you said honestly, “but the welcome has been… generous.”

Aemond glanced at you from across the table. His expression softened just slightly, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if the lie might be bearable.

After the meal, Aemond offered to walk you back to your chambers. The corridors were quiet as your steps echoed through the stone halls.

“You endured my brother well,” he said after a moment.

You smiled faintly.

“He means no harm, I think.”

“He means only harm. But he is harmless regardless.”

That earned a small laugh from you before you could stop it. His head tilted slightly, as though surprised by the sound.

“You laugh easily,” he said.

“Not always,” you admitted, lowering your gaze. “But sometimes, it is all one can do.”

He stopped before your door, looking down at you with a gaze that made your heart twist.

“You are not what I expected.”

You looked up at him.

“And what did you expect, my prince?”

He studied you in silence for a moment.

“Someone vain, perhaps. Proud. Like all the others. But you are not like them.”

You felt his words settle deep in your chest, too heavy and too tender at once.

“Rest well, my lady,” he said finally, stepping back.

“Good night, my prince.”

When the door closed behind you, you leaned against it, breath unsteady. The scent of roses still lingered on your hands, and for the first time since you arrived at the Red Keep, the fear in your chest eased just a little.

You did not know it then, but that morning walk among the flowers had changed everything.

The days after your walk in the garden unfolded like a dream you feared would end too soon.

The memory of the prince’s voice lingered in your head, low and even, with words that revealed more than he meant to. You had seen something then and it had stayed with you.

The Keep’s servants now looked at you differently. Some bowed a little lower, some whispered a little more. You did not dare ask what they said, though you caught your name paired with Aemond’s often enough to know that your quiet existence was no longer unseen.

One morning, as you sat at the window of your chamber, the light spilling through the lattice in soft gold, a knock sounded on the door. When you opened it, Aemond stood there.

He was dressed in dark riding leathers, his hair pulled back neatly, his eye cool and clear.

“I am told you have not yet seen Vhagar,” he said. “That will not do. Come with me.”

You blinked, startled by his sudden presence, and nodded.

“Of course, my prince.”

He frowned slightly.

“Do not call me that when we are alone. Aemond will do.”

You followed him through the Red Keep, the corridors dim and cool. Servants bowed as you passed, their gazes curious.

The weight of his silence filled the air, though now it felt less distant, more thoughtful. When you reached the outer gates, the air was bright and sharp with the scent of sea and stone.

He led you down the slope beyond the walls, where the cliffs opened toward the dragonpit.

The sound of wings, distant and thunderous, rumbled in the air before you even saw her.

And then there she was.

Vhagar.

A creature of ancient majesty, her wings folded like mountains, her scales gleaming dull bronze in the light. She exhaled a breath that rippled the ground, her single eye, old and knowing, turning to her rider.

“She is older than the Conquest itself,” Aemond said quietly beside you. “Some say she remembers Valyria. She has outlived every rider but me.”

You could only stare, your heart beating fast.

“She is beautiful,” you whispered.

He looked at you then.

“Most say she is terrifying.”

You smiled faintly.

“Perhaps beauty and terror are not so different.”

Aemond’s lips curved, a shadow of amusement.

“You speak like someone born of dragon blood.”

You shook your head.

“I have no such fire in my veins. I am only a woman who sees wonder where others see fear.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind carried the scent of ash and salt, Vhagar’s breath a deep rhythm in the distance. Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, not with the sharpness he wore before, but with a kind of careful curiosity, as though you were another secret of the world he wished to study.

“You are not like the women of court,” he said after a pause. “They flatter and chatter, but you... You listen. Even when there is silence.”

“Silence often tells the truth that words cannot.”

Aemond turned his face to the sea, his expression unreadable.

“There is truth in that.” He took a step closer, his voice quieter. “Do you fear me?”

The question caught you off guard. You looked up and met his gaze, the pale light glinting off his sapphire eye.

“I do not,” you said softly. “Should I?”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of surprise.

“Most do. Even those who claim to love me.”

“Then they have never looked properly,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You are not cruel, Aemond. Only guarded.”

He inhaled, slow and steady, and for a heartbeat, you thought he might reach for you. But he did not. His hand fell to his side instead, his control returning like a tide.

“Come,” he said at last. “The light fades quickly here.”

You followed him back up the slope. The silence was no longer heavy, only filled with something unspoken, like a thread drawn between you both. When you reached the Keep again, he paused at the door.

“You said once that you liked the scent of lilacs,” he said. “They do not grow in King’s Landing, but I will have them brought for you.”

You blinked, caught between surprise and gratitude.

“That is not necessary.”

“I did not ask if it was,” he replied, though his tone was softer than his words. “Good night.”

And with that, he was gone.

That night, you lay awake, replaying his voice in your head, his nearness, the heat that had crept beneath your skin when he looked at you. Somewhere beyond the window, a dragon roared in the dark, and you wondered if your heart had begun to burn like theirs.

The lilacs arrived three days later.

You found them waiting in a silver vase on your writing table, their petals a pale, trembling violet that filled your chamber with scent.

You had not expected him to remember his promise, nor to keep it so soon. But there they were, fragrant and delicate, their colour a small rebellion against the Red Keep’s cold stone.

Aemond had not spoken to you since that morning by the dragon pit.

You thought perhaps he regretted the attention he had shown, that he had turned his mind elsewhere. Yet the lilacs told another story.

That evening, as you were pressing one of the blossoms between parchment pages, there was a knock upon your door.

You turned quickly, startled, and found him standing there again, the prince, without armour or cloak, dressed plainly in dark velvet.

“I thought you might like to walk,” he said.

There was no demand in his tone, only a quiet certainty that you would agree. You nodded, smoothing your gown.

“Of course.”

The corridors were mostly empty. Aemond’s stride was unhurried tonight, his hands clasped behind his back. You walked side by side through the torch-lit halls, down to the lower gardens where the air was cooler and the lanterns glowed like captured stars.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt different now, not distant, but shared.

He was the first to break it.

“You seem at peace among growing things,” he said. “Why?”

You smiled faintly.

“Because they ask for so little, yet give so much. They need only light, water, and time. People, on the other hand, are never content with simple things.”

He glanced down at you.

“You speak as if you have known much discontent.”

“I have known enough,” you said quietly. “But I find peace in small tasks. Cooking, tending to flowers... they are things that do not lie.”

Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, and his voice softened.

“Honesty is rare in this place. Perhaps that is why I find myself... drawn to it.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks.

“You surprise me, Aemond.”

He gave a low, thoughtful hum.

“You are not the first to say so, though not always kindly.”

You walked on, and he guided you toward a small stone bench half-hidden beneath ivy. When you sat, you realised he was watching the night sky rather than you. The moonlight caught on the sharp lines of his face, turning his silver hair to white flame.

After a long pause, he spoke again.

“Do you ever wonder what people see when they look at you?”

You turned your head slightly.

“I suppose they see a woman who does not belong here.”

His mouth twitched.

“Perhaps. Yet I see a woman who looks at the world as if she could forgive it.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond.

“And what do people see when they look at you?”

He was silent for a moment.

“A monster, perhaps. A prince to fear rather than love. The boy who lost an eye and gained a dragon.”

You swallowed, your heart tightening.

“Do you think yourself a monster?”

His jaw flexed.

“Sometimes. It is easier than thinking myself a man.”

Before you could stop yourself, you reached out, your fingers brushing the side of his face. He flinched, not from pain, but surprise. The rough line of the scar beneath his eye was warm under your touch.

“You are not a monster,” you said softly. “You are only what life has made you.”

His breath caught. For a moment, he did not move.

Then, very slowly, he turned his face into your palm, the gesture so fragile it almost undid you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“You should not touch me so. It gives me thoughts I should not have.”

Your heart stuttered.

“And what thoughts are those?”

His eye lifted to meet yours, bright and searching.

“Ones that would make the gods frown.”

You withdrew your hand gently, afraid that any further boldness would shatter the moment. The air felt charged, heavy with something neither of you dared name.

After a time, Aemond rose.

“You should rest,” he said quietly. “It grows late.”

You nodded, unable to find words.

As he turned to leave, he paused.

“Keep the lilacs near your window,” he said. “Their scent suits you.”

When he was gone, you sat a long while on the bench, the moonlight silvering the petals that had fallen into your lap. You could still feel the warmth of his skin against your fingertips.

You were certain, then, that something within both of you had changed, quietly, like the first bloom of spring underneath the snow.

The Red Keep had a way of making even the smallest whisper feel like a shout.

Every footstep echoed, every glance seemed to carry scrutiny. You had grown used to it in a way, walking the corridors as the Lady’s daughter, answering questions with careful poise, smiling when required. Yet the longer you remained, the heavier the weight of deceit pressed against your chest.

It began quietly, almost imperceptibly. A servant in the kitchens paused a little too long as you passed, a flicker of recognition in her eyes before she turned away.

A page boy lingered near the stables, watching you with curiosity too sharp for innocence. And Aegon, the eldest prince, asked questions that pricked like needles, probing not only your mind but your past.

But none of these unsettled you as much as Aemond.

He had begun to watch you differently now. His glances lingered, sharp and precise, as though he were attempting to see beneath the careful facade you had been forced to construct. He did not accuse or confront, not yet. But every time your eyes met, you felt his scrutiny as a weight on your chest.

It was late one afternoon when the moment came. You were in the solar, arranging lilacs in the silver vase he had sent, the scent of the flowers filling the room. Aemond appeared in the doorway without knocking, silent as a shadow.

“You are meticulous,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of tension. “And careful with your hands. You take care as if everything depended upon it.”

You froze, startled by the intensity of his gaze.

“I… I like things to be ordered,” you said softly. “It makes the world easier to manage.”

He stepped closer, and for the first time, you noticed the subtle stiffness in his stance.

“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if you are always so careful, or if there is something you hide.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I… I do not understand, my prince.”

His eye narrowed slightly.

“Do not lie to me.”

You swallowed, your hands gripping the vase until the flowers trembled. “I have never lied to you.”

“Have you not?” His tone sharpened, though his eyes flickered with something softer beneath the suspicion. “You arrived as another, yet you are not her. You speak of your childhood, your home… yet it does not match what I have been told.”

Your heart pounded, and you realised there was no way to avoid this confrontation. The lie had lasted long enough. The warmth between you both, the slow bloom of trust and affection, hung precariously in the balance.

You took a deep breath, setting the vase aside.

“It is true,” you said quietly. “I am not your promised bride.”

Aemond’s violet eye widened slightly, then darkened with anger.

“Then who are you?”

You stepped forward, your hands open as though offering peace.

“I am a servant of the family you were promised. Their daughter… she cannot marry you. She is with child, and she loves another. I had no choice.”

His jaw flexed, tension radiating from his shoulders.

“You deceived the Crown. You deceived me. Do you know the danger you have brought upon yourself?”

“I know,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear threading through it. “I meant no harm. I only did as I was told. My name is…” You paused, then spoke it softly, the truth finally free. “…and I care for you more than I ever imagined I could. From the moment we walked in the gardens, from the day I saw Vhagar, I…”

He flinched, as if your words were a weapon.

“You speak of love,” he said, his tone harsh, almost incredulous. “Do you think that will absolve you?”

You stepped closer, despite the chill that had settled between you.

“I cannot take it back. I cannot undo what has been done. But you must know… I never meant to deceive you for my own gain. My heart is yours, whether you believe it or not.”

For a moment, he did not move.

The silence stretched long enough for your courage to falter, for fear to creep back in. You feared he would turn, leave, and let the weight of your lie be your end.

Then, suddenly, he left the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. You were left alone with the lilacs, their scent bittersweet, and your chest heaving with a mixture of relief and dread.

You did not sleep that night.

Every creak of the Keep made you flinch. Every shadow seemed to harbour judgement. You imagined the worst, that the prince would never forgive you, that the Queen would learn, that your life would crumble entirely.

Yet when morning came, the world had not ended.

The corridors were quiet, the servants unaware of the storm that had passed in your chamber. And when you made your way to the training yard, you saw him there, sword in hand, striking with precision and fury that made your heart ache in ways you could not name.

He paused when he saw you. His chest rose and fell, his expression unreadable.

You felt small, exposed, yet compelled to approach.

“My prince,” you said softly. “I… I would beg your forgiveness. I will leave, if you wish, and never return. I only wanted-”

“Do not,” he interrupted, the word sharp but not cruel. His sword lowered slowly, the tension in his shoulders giving way just enough for you to see the struggle beneath. “Do not speak of leaving. You have no choice, and… neither do I.”

He stepped closer, and for the first time, you saw the storm behind his eye. Not rage, not suspicion, but something darker, possessive, fierce, and undeniable.

“You are mine,” he said quietly, yet with force enough to make your heart skip. “And I will not let you go.”

Before you could speak, he closed the space between you, his lips pressing against yours.

It was harsh, demanding, yet tempered with the care he had shown in small ways before. You felt yourself yield, trembling, caught in the weight of his claim, the fire in his touch, and the quiet warmth that had grown between you both.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“We will face this,” he murmured, voice low and unsteady. “Together.”

And for the first time, the fear of the lie, the uncertainty of your place in his world, seemed bearable.

Sleep did not come that night, only the restless turning of thoughts that refused to still.

You laid under the soft linen sheets, staring at the ceiling while the faint sound of waves carried through the open window.

Every word he had spoken repeated in your mind, You are mine, and I will not let you go.

The taste of his kiss still lingered, a mixture of heat and fear, and you could not decide which part of it unsettled you more. He had left without another word after that, his expression unreadable, his steps heavy with something you could not name.

You rose with the dawn, hoping that the day would offer clarity, but instead, the Keep felt colder than before. The servants seemed quieter, the air heavier.

You could not shake the feeling that everything hung by a thread, your life, your secret, his mercy.

You found yourself in the gardens once again, where the lilacs had begun to fade. The petals trembled in the breeze, falling to the ground like the last remnants of a lie too heavy to bear. You touched one, your fingers tracing its fragile edge.

When you turned, Aemond was standing behind you.

You startled, your heart leaping to your throat. He wore his dark tunic, the one embroidered with subtle silver dragons. His sword belt hung at his hip, though his hand rested loosely on it.

“You should not walk alone,” he said. His voice was calm, but it carried an undertone of tension, as though he were restraining something.

You inclined your head slightly.

“I did not think you would come.”

“I considered not doing so,” he replied, stepping closer until you could see the faint bruise along his jaw, the mark of recent training. “Yet I found no peace without you in sight.”

You drew a breath, unsure how to meet his gaze.

“You should not have to see me again. You should tell the Queen the truth and-”

“I will not,” he interrupted sharply. “If you think I would hand you over to my mother’s judgment, you do not understand me at all.”

You hesitated.

“Then why have you come?”

He was silent for a long moment, the breeze shifting his hair, the sunlight catching the gleam of his sapphire.

“Because I do not know what to do with what I feel.”

You looked up at him, heart hammering.

“And what do you feel, my prince?”

He exhaled slowly, his voice low and rough.

“Anger, because you deceived me. Confusion, because I cannot hate you for it. And something far worse, because I know I could not bear to lose you, no matter the truth.”

You took a tentative step closer.

“You think it weakness.”

“It is weakness,” he said, though his tone had softened. “But one I would rather live with than the emptiness that came before.”

The confession was quiet, raw, and it stole your breath. You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing his sleeve, the warmth of him grounding you in the moment.

“I never wanted to deceive you,” you said softly. “I was told I had no choice. I thought I would come here, play the part, and fade into the background. I did not think you would ever notice me, let alone care.”

He turned his head toward you, his eye sharp but no longer cold.

“And yet you caught me unawares. No courtly woman could have done that.”

You gave a small, broken laugh.

“Because I do not know how to be one.”

“Perhaps that is why you are honest,” he murmured.

Silence fell again, but this time it was tender. The space between you was alive with everything unspoken, fear, longing, the ache of uncertainty that had become something more than either of you had intended.

“I will protect you,” he said suddenly, his hand lifting to touch your chin, tilting your face toward his. “Whatever the cost. But I will have your truth from now on. No more pretence.”

“You have it,” you whispered. “All of it.”

His gaze searched yours for a long time before he spoke again.

“Then say it,” he said quietly. “Say what you feel.”

You hesitated, your pulse racing. Then you breathed the words that had burned in you for weeks.

“I love you, Aemond. I love you, though I should not, though I do not deserve to. I love you still.”

He inhaled sharply, as though struck by the force of it. His hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until his forehead rested against yours.

“You should not,” he whispered. “But you do.”

You closed your eyes.

“And you?”

He was silent for a heartbeat, and then his lips brushed yours, softer this time, deliberate and certain. When he drew back, his voice was quiet but steady.

“I do.”

The words settled between you like a vow.

That evening, the Keep seemed quieter than usual. You ate alone, as you often did, but your heart was no longer burdened by fear. The lie was gone. What remained was fragile, uncertain, but real, a truth born of fire and forgiveness.

You sat by the window until the stars appeared, watching the flicker of the training yard torches below. Aemond would be there, you knew, working his blade against the dark.

You touched the lilac petals on your table and smiled faintly, knowing that from this moment onward, whatever the world said, you would not face it alone.

The Keep had begun to change around you. Where before every glance and whispered word had carried the weight of suspicion, now it carried a different tension, one of curiosity, some awe, and, you suspected, a little fear.

Aemond’s presence had become inescapable, whether in the training yard, the gardens, or the long halls of the Red Keep. And the way he looked at you, lingering and deliberate, left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he considered you his.

You discovered the extent of that claim one afternoon when he appeared at your chambers unannounced. You were arranging herbs in a copper bowl, the scent of rosemary and thyme heavy in the warm air.

“You should not be alone here,” he said quietly, stepping inside. His eyes caught yours, sharp and intense, and the air seemed to thrum with his presence.

“I am careful,” you replied, trying to sound calm, though your pulse had quickened.

“Not careful enough,” he said, closing the door behind him. His hand rested briefly on the edge of the table, near yours, and the heat of him made your fingers tremble. “You belong to me now. I will not have harm come to you.”

You looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his voice.

“I am yours?”

“Yes,” he said simply, firmly, his one eye burning with emotion. “Do you doubt it?”

“I…” Your words faltered. You had feared this declaration, yet now that it came, it made your chest ache with something sweet and terrifying. “No,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, closing the gap between you. The faintest brush of his fingers against yours made your heart stutter.

“You will be mine in every sense,” he said softly, “and the world will have to accept it.”

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself.

“I… I do not know what that means.”

“It means that I will guard you,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “I will fight anyone who dares to challenge you, and I will claim you before all the world. You will not walk this Keep as a shadow. You will walk as my equal, my companion, my-”

He faltered, his words choking slightly.

His hands hovered near yours, uncertain, though the tension in his body made it clear he was close to losing control.

“Your wife,” you breathed, almost before you had thought it.

His head lifted sharply, eyes widening, and then he laughed softly, a low, astonished sound.

“Yes,” he said, the word carrying a weight and promise that made your knees weak. “You will be my wife.”

Your lips curved in a smile, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the full warmth of hope.

“Then I am yours,” you said, steady despite the tremor in your heart. “As you are mine.”

He drew you into an embrace then, strong and possessive, but careful enough not to hurt you. You could feel the power beneath him, the fire of his Targaryen blood, yet it was tempered by tenderness.

His cheek pressed to yours, and his breath whispered against your ear.

“I will never let you go.”

The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation, both subtle and public.

Aemond began to appear at your side more openly, and though he spoke little, his hand brushed yours in the halls, and his eyes lingered on you in ways that left the courtiers murmuring.

Aegon, ever curious, asked pointed questions at meals, testing both your composure and your knowledge of courtly customs. You answered cautiously, aware of Aemond’s watchful gaze.

Helaena, with her strange, ethereal smiles, observed quietly.

“You are his,” she whispered once as you passed, eyes wide. “And he is yours.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your heart full.

One evening, as the sun dipped low over the Red Keep, Aemond led you to the outer balcony. The wind tugged at your gown, and the scent of the sea mixed with the roses below. He turned to you, his hand brushing yours, fingers intertwining.

“You are mine,” he said again, softer this time, yet with the same fiery certainty. “And I will not allow anyone to take you from me, not the court, not my family, not the world.”

You looked up at him, your chest tight with emotion.

“Then I will stand with you,” you said. “Whatever comes.”

His lips pressed to yours then, slow and sure, a kiss that promised protection, love, and ownership all at once. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“My dragon,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, “my heart, my wife.”

And for the first time, you believed it.

The court might whisper, the Queen might question, and the danger might always linger, but in that moment, Aemond Targaryen had chosen you, fiercely, irrevocably, and without hesitation.

The slow burn of your love, nurtured in gardens and libraries and stolen moments, was now a flame the world could no longer ignore.

The Red Keep was alive with whispers.

Servants paused mid-step to glance your way, noblewomen peered from behind fans, and even the guards seemed to notice the small shifts in the air. Yet through it all, you walked beside Aemond as though nothing had changed, the warmth of his hand resting lightly on your back.

He had chosen to make your presence known, subtle yet impossible to ignore. No longer did you move in shadows; no longer were you merely the substitute bride.

Now you were his. And the knowledge, heavy and sweet, filled your chest with a mixture of pride and fear.

The Queen watched you closely at dinner, her gaze sharp yet unreadable. She did not speak of your deception, nor of the girl you had replaced. Perhaps she knew that Aemond would not suffer interference.

Perhaps she simply wished to see what you were, tested under the eyes of court.

Aegon, as ever, was curious and talkative, leaning across the table to study you.

“You seem unafraid of the court,” he remarked, a smile teasing his lips. “I thought most would falter before my brother.”

You inclined your head, careful to meet his gaze evenly.

“Fear is wasted upon the inevitable,” you said softly, your voice carrying more confidence than you felt.

Aemond’s hand brushed yours under the table, and the simple contact sent warmth rippling through your fingers. He did not smile, only met your eye with a single raised brow that made your heart stutter.

After the meal, Aemond led you to the library, your sanctuary among the towering shelves and the scent of old parchment. He moved beside you as you traced your fingers over the spines of books, a hand occasionally brushing yours in passing, deliberate and possessive.

“You read too much,” he said quietly, almost a growl, though his tone carried a soft edge. “You study people and flowers and words, yet never the one who claims you.”

You looked up at him, startled.

“And what should I study?”

“Me,” he said simply, his voice low, intense. “All of me. You will need to know me completely, as I will know you.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“I am trying.”

“Trying is not enough,” he said, stepping closer. The heat of him brushed against your arm, and the library seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of you. “I will take what is mine, and I will claim it fully.”

You inhaled sharply, heart hammering, the tension between fear and longing nearly unbearable.

“And if the court disagrees?”

He smiled faintly, darkly.

“They will have to bow, or they will learn the cost of denying me.”

Later, as you walked the gardens, he paused beside a trellis of jasmine, brushing your hair back so that the scent enveloped your senses.

“Do you know,” he murmured, “that I have never allowed anyone this close?”

You shook your head.

“I could not guess.”

“Not because I could not,” he said, his eye softening, “but because I did not trust anyone enough. Yet you… you have drawn me out. And I am afraid that if I lose you, I will not survive it.”

Your fingers found his hand, gripping it lightly.

“You will not lose me. I am yours, Aemond. Even in the face of the world, I am yours.”

His lips met yours then, long and certain, the kiss claiming what had already been promised. When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Then we will face it together,” he said, his voice rough with unspoken emotion.

As the days passed, your bond deepened. You were no longer hidden, no longer quiet.

Aemond’s presence was fierce, protective, and constant. He walked beside you through the halls, ensured the guards watched closely, and allowed no hand to brush yours without his permission.

Possessive, yes, but gentle in ways that left your heart aching for more.

And through it all, the lilacs by your window reminded you of how far you had come from a frightened servant to a woman claimed by fire and shadow, loved fiercely by the dragon prince who would soon make you his bride.

For the first time, the thought of your wedding did not terrify you.

It promised not just love, but belonging, and the certainty that Aemond Targaryen would not let the world take you from him.

The Red Keep buzzed with a tension you had never known. The marriage between you and Aemond was no longer a secret, and the court’s whispers followed you like shadows.

Noblewomen watched with narrowed eyes, some curious, some jealous, while lords murmured speculation about the future of the Targaryen line. You had expected fear or disdain, but most offered only cautious courtesy, as if testing how far the dragon prince would go to claim you.

Aemond did not hesitate.

His presence was constant, a shadow at your side, and his hand brushed yours at every opportunity. The subtle claims he made, in gestures, glances, and touches, left no room for doubt: you were his.

One afternoon, he appeared in your chambers without announcement, his expression unreadable.

You had been arranging the roses from the gardens, their petals spilling like blood over the marble table.

“You are far too calm,” he said, his voice low and even, though the heat behind it made you shiver. “Do you understand what this court will demand?”

“I do,” you replied, trying to steady your voice. “But I am not afraid. I have you.”

His eye softened, the edge of anger and possessiveness blending with something warmer.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I will not allow them to test you. Not now, not ever.”

He stepped closer, the scent of jasmine clinging to his cloak. His hand found yours, fingers entwining.

“I will not share you,” he said quietly, pressing a thumb to the back of your hand. “And no one will question that without consequence.”

“I would not have it any other way,” you whispered.

He leaned down then, brushing his lips lightly against yours. The kiss was deliberate, possessive, yet tender, a promise sealed in softness and fire. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Together,” he said. “Always.”

The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation. Robes were fitted, jewels selected, and invitations sent across the kingdom. You moved through it all with quiet dignity, the court’s eyes upon you, yet you felt no fear. Aemond’s presence was a shield, his hand always brushing yours, a constant reassurance that you were not alone.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the distant hills, he took you to a private balcony overlooking the gardens. Lanterns flickered in the wind, casting shadows that danced across the stone.

“Do you see this?” he asked, his voice soft. “The world is waiting for us to take our place, yet all of this-” he gestured at the Keep, at the distant city beyond the walls “It means nothing if we do not stand together.”

You leaned into him, fingers brushing the edge of his cloak.

“I stand with you,” you whispered. “Whatever comes.”

His hands rested on your waist, steady and firm.

“And I with you,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Whatever storms may come, whatever whispers the court spreads, we face it as one.”

The moon rose over the gardens, silvering the petals of the roses at your feet. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his chest against yours, the strength of his hold, and the fire that had grown between you both. In that moment, you knew nothing in the world could take him from you, and nothing in the world could take you from him.

The court might watch, and the world might whisper, but Aemond Targaryen had made his choice, and it was clear, unyielding, and irrevocable.

You were his.

And in the quiet of that stolen evening, with the wind carrying the scent of jasmine and roses, you realised that nothing had ever felt more like home.

The Red Keep was alight with preparation. Lanterns hung along the corridors, tapestries were brushed and polished, and the scent of roses and lilacs filled every chamber. The court buzzed with anticipation, nobles moving about in a careful choreography, yet all their whispers seemed to fade whenever Aemond appeared at your side.

You had grown accustomed to the constant presence of the dragon prince, to the subtle touches and lingering glances that left your heart thrumming.

And now, as the day of your wedding approached, the air between you was thick with excitement, anxiety, and a quiet certainty that had grown stronger with every passing moment.

That morning, he came to your chambers before breakfast, as was his habit. You were seated by the window, arranging fresh lilacs in a silver vase, their scent mingling with the morning air.

“You are calm,” he said softly, stepping close, his hand brushing yours. “Too calm for a bride.”

“I have you,” you said quietly, looking up at him. “I am not afraid.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Then let them whisper. Let the world watch. Today, you are mine, and I am yours.”

The ceremony was set in the Great Hall, where sunlight poured through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the tapestries of dragons and ancient kings.

The court gathered, all eyes upon you as you entered, your gown flowing like a river of silver and violet, the lilacs from your chamber woven into your hair.

Aemond awaited you at the dais, his armour polished to a faint gleam, his single eye sharp and bright, but there was a softness in his expression reserved only for you. As you approached, his hand reached for yours, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between you.

“You are breathtaking,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“And you are terrifying,” you replied with a small laugh, though your heart fluttered wildly.

He leaned down slightly, resting his forehead against yours before the ceremony began.

“Soon, all of this will be ours,” he whispered. “You and I, no one to separate us.”

The vows were spoken softly, your words clear and true, his promises fierce and unwavering. When he took your hands in his, there was no pretence, no hesitation, only the certainty that had grown between you over countless stolen moments, quiet conversations, and shared silences in the gardens.

“I, Aemond Targaryen, take you to be my wife,” he said, his voice low but carrying across the hall. “To claim you, to guard you, to love you, and to be faithful, until the end of our days.”

“I, [Your Name], take you,” you replied, “to stand by your side, to love you, and to be yours, in all ways, forever.”

When he pressed his lips to yours, the applause of the court faded to nothing. There was only the warmth of his hands on your back, the fire of his gaze, and the quiet certainty that you belonged to each other fully, completely.

Afterwards, in the privacy of your chambers, Aemond pulled you close, his lips brushing yours again in a softer, more tender kiss.

“We have survived the whispers,” he murmured. “And now, nothing can touch us.”

You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

“We are together,” you whispered. “Finally.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice low and possessive, yet full of warmth. “Together, always.”

The lilacs on your table were still fresh, their scent mingling with roses and candle smoke, a quiet reminder of how far you had come. From a frightened servant of a scheming family to the wife of a dragon prince, you had found your place, and it was here, in his arms, in the fire of his love, in the life you would share together.

And as the sun set over King’s Landing, casting gold across the Red Keep, you knew that this was only the beginning.

Your love would endure all things, and Aemond Targaryen would be yours, wholly, for all the days to come.

The Red Keep had grown still. Torches flickered in the corridors, casting long, soft shadows across the stone walls. The court had retired, leaving only the hush of night and the faint scent of lilacs lingering in the air.

You stood at the window of your chamber, the moonlight spilling across your gown. The lilacs you had brought from your rooms earlier were now scattered across the table and in small vases, their fragrance mingling with the warmth of the room.

Aemond entered quietly, his eyes scanning the space before settling on you. He removed his cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and stepped closer. There was no armour now, no demands, only the raw intensity of him, the man you had come to love, fierce and protective, yet tender in ways no one else had ever seen.

“You are here,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “And I may finally breathe.”

You turned to him, a smile soft and quiet on your lips.

“I am here,” you whispered. “And I am yours.”

He reached for you, his hands gentle as they lifted your face to his. His thumb brushed along your cheek, and then his lips found yours, slow, deliberate, claiming you again in a way that left no doubt. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the fire of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“Together,” he said, his voice rough yet warm, “in every sense. Always.”

You nodded, resting your hands against his chest.

“Always,” you echoed, your heart swelling with love, relief, and the quiet joy of belonging.

He led you to the bed, where the moonlight pooled like silver silk over the covers.

There was no hurry, no need for words. He held you close, one arm around your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face. The scent of lilacs filled the room, mingling with the warmth of his skin and the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths.

“You are mine,” he murmured, possessive yet gentle, his lips brushing against your temple. “And I will guard you. Always.”

“And you are mine,” you whispered back, your fingers threading through his hair, your heart steady in the fire of his claim. “And I will follow you wherever you go.”

They were not grand declarations, no words of court or crown. They were simple, intimate, and real, a promise of love forged in fire and shadow, in gardens and libraries, in stolen moments and whispered confessions.

The night stretched around you, quiet except for the steady rhythm of two hearts, fierce and intertwined.

And as you rested against him, the lilacs blooming by the window, the warmth of his arms around you, you knew that this was only the beginning, a life of love, devotion, and slow-burning passion with Aemond Targaryen.

For in him, you had found not only a prince, but a home.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

“you would call treason upon your own son?” you huff, finding the situation more humorous than it should be as you cradled the chubby babe to your breast. he was too preoccupied latching onto you and puckering for milk, oblivious to the mock disdain his father was currently displaying towards him. ridiculous, truly, but you never were one to call out aerion’s dramatics outward, instead sitting back and watching keenly as your husband fussed and snapped his teeth in search of your attention, hoping to garner it.

away from his own son. even now, having the heir he most ardently wanted, healthy and nursing from your breast in contempt, aerion still was not entirely pleased. still wanting to possess and monopolize every bit of it.

“i would,” he responded, lip curled lightly, even as he made his way towards the plush bed, where you and the babe were lounging, surrounded by pelts, pillows, and blankets. it was aerion’s order, for his wife and son would not want for nothing and receive every bit of comfort there is, at any hour of the day. “it is the greatest offense to steal one’s wife,” aerion continued, a frown now marring his handsome features as he slid under the blanket, molding himself to your back from shoulders to ankles, hooking his around yours. “more so a prince’s of the realm. a dragon’s.”

you had half a mind to contain the laughter that was bubbling in your throat at your husband’s words. he would rather take a spear to the heart than openly admit to missing you, to inquire you offer your consideration and affection to him, too. so, instead, he would find every which way to demand it, one more nonsensical than the other. it was confusing in the early stages of your betrothal, with all the fussing and squabbling, but over time, it slowly bloomed into unadulterated fondness, making your heart flutter.

your husband had always been a greedy man, wanting nothing else than to hoard everything he deemed worthy of him, like a dragon with its shiny treasures. most endearing, truly, but you would never relay that little thought to him, for you know aerion would show his teeth at any diminishing praise from you.

“he is not stealing anything,” came your soft protest, your lips twitching with amusement as you felt aerion’s arm curl around your waist, holding you tightly pressed against his chest, fingers spreading to encompass as much of your belly as possible, just to feel and paw at the clothed skin. “you know babes need all the care and vigilance from their mothers,” you lilted, before adding pointedly, leaning back against him. “and fathers.”

he scoffed, the puff of air brushing against your nape, where your husband was currently nuzzling, face tucked against your skin as he mumbled. “he needs too much,” aerion protested, the fingers on your belly pressing in, kneading at the pudgy skin, similar to a cat kneading. “he takes too much from you,” your husband continued, words slightly muffled by his incessant nosing against your neck, breathing you in, the smell of warm milk and motherhood drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

you didn’t respond, only huffing, your attention drawn to the peaceful babe in your arms, as one of his little hands patted at your breast, fingers curling onto the skin as he nursed. your expression melted, heart soaring with so much love and affection for the bundle nestled at your chest. you and aerion’s bundle. the most important thing in the world to both of you.

“even now, his greed knows no bounds, wife,” aerion complained again, chin hooking onto your shoulder, cheek pressing against yours as he watched the way his son suckled at your breast, content and unburdened, the corners of his little mouth smeared with milk as he cooed softly the more he nursed. “he’s been feeding for what feels like forever,” he pressed on, brows furrowing, making you stifle a soft snort of laughter, which only made your husband scowl. “and you seem to find my predicament highly amusing.”

of course you did. having your husband close to pouting over not receiving enough attention from you was prime entertainment when one was so swamped by the intricacies of motherhood.

“maybe just a little bit, my love,” you spoke, turning your face until your nose bumped against his cheek, wanting his gaze on you, urging him to meet your eyes. “but he needs it,” the words only make his frown deepen as he peers at you, lip curling in distaste. “how is he to grow into a strong dragon if he doesn’t feed, hm?” you wonder, but it’s all placating, wanting to coax out your husband’s agreement by using his own pride against him.

since before the babe was even born, all you heard was your husband proclaiming that his son was to be the strongest dragon. an exemplary targaryen. the one who would mount the world and bring renown to the family name anew.

and now he dared to complain when you were aiding his dreams to come true? feeding and nurturing his son to your breast as many times as the babe fussed, even in the dead of night, bone—tired with exhaustion.

he only sneered lightly, leaning in to brush your noses together, eyes half lidded with intent as he watched you. the frown between his brows eased just a bit when he saw your gaze being trained on him steadily, no longer on the babe. “he’s being a greedy little dragon, then,” your husband mumbled, not ceasing his nosing, pressing closer so his lips brushed against your cheek. “seizing all your attention and love for himself, while i am left bereft without my sweet wife's tending.”

your breath hitched from his words, and even more so when his tongue flicked out to taste the corner of your mouth, needy and insistent, pupils blown wide, eclipsing the purple of his eyes. he only looked at you like that when he wanted to have you, which was more often than a proper lady would want to admit. but you never minded. you loved being wanted by aerion. it felt exhilarating to be caught under the sheer intensity of his gaze; a predator prowling his next prey, a dragon circling his mate before giving into ancient instincts.

“you are being dramatic to a fault,” you accuse, breath thinning into soft puffs as your husband’s lips trail towards your jaw, peppering the curve with wet, lingering kisses, willing to make you falter. “we sleep in the same bed every night, and have supper—”

“and it is not enough,” he interrupts, pressing one last kiss to your soft chin before nudging your noses together anew, lips brushing as he spoke, tone low. “i haven’t bathed with you in moons, wife,” your husband reminds you, eyes sharpening in reprimand, as if you have committed a grave sin and must now repent. “haven’t had you cheer me on when i joust at tourneys, bestowing your favor upon me so i can come back victorious.”

he spoke truth, and you knew how much aerion cherished those moments, even if never said out loud. his eyes always sought out yours when he jousted, preening under your watchful gaze, pea-cocking only for you, especially when he won. the baths you missed as well. having the whole bath-chambers to yourselves while you washed each other, letting your hands linger and steam warm up your skin when ultimately your husband became too impatient not to have you against the tub, slick bodies moving languidly until you both came, tongues tangled and nails biting into each other’s skin.

aerion missed you.

the thought made you smile against his mouth, a secretive, fond thing, humming as you leaned to peck his lips, pleased to see him chasing your mouth when you drew back. “you know it was hard for me to move much, my love,” you whispered, lips touching as you spoke. “our little dragon demanded my rest more often than not,” a little smile in the corner of your mouth as you continued, offering another kiss, which aerion soaked up like a man starved, inhaling sharply through his nose as he meant to prolong it, but was denied. “and now look at him. chubby and cute as a button,” you paused for a moment for your husband’s gaze to clear from the brief haze of want, before murmuring. “healthy.”

aerion’s expression seemed to ease, chest heaving just so as he watched you, stagnant for now, as if acclimating to your words, to their meaning.

he sighed, moving closer, eyelashes fluttering as a long sigh parted his lips, brushing against yours as he murmured. “healthy,” aerion repeated, tone dipping into reverence. “you have given me a healthy, strong babe,” he continued, tipping his chin to slot his lips with yours, making you gasp softly. “a miracle.”

the words were poured into your mouth, aerion’s lips firm but slow against yours, coaxing you to reciprocate, to let him reward you for the blessing you brought into this world, for the pride that swelled into his chest every time he looked at his son, for all the days and nights you ached and wept from the pain of pregnancy. for his son and heir.

you couldn’t help but melt into his kiss, forgetting for a moment about the content babe suckling at your breast. oh, how you have missed your husband, even if he had kissed you plenty today. aerion couldn’t tolerate the absence of your touch for too long. it was like an itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch, quieting only when your bodies touched, when he tasted your lips, when he felt your warmth seep into him and make a home in the marrow of his bones anew, simmering his blood.

“my good wife,” aerion crooned against your lips, his tongue swiping to lick greedily into you mouth, tasting you fully, swallowing the quiet moan emitting from your throat as he brushed the roof of your mouth and traced the ridges of your teeth. “giving me so much,” he murmured, tone shifting to a pleased rumble from deep within his chest the more he talked. “making me so proud.”

“aerion—,” his name slipped unbidden from your mouth, but it sounded muffled as your tongues tangled wetly, your husband relentless in his conquest of your mouth, coaxing your lips wider for more leverage, groaning when they gave away, lax and pliant for him to do as he wished with.

he was kissing you like he hadn’t in years, his lips wrapping around your tongue and sucking lewdly, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch you, to let his gaze feast on how debauched you looked as you allowed him such indulgences. as you let him slowly move back and forth, taking more of your tongue between his lips before drawing back until only the tip remained, just to repeat the salacious motion, making you whine from how wanton it felt.

“aerion—,” you tried again, half—moan, half—plea, eyes hazy and soft with pleasure, the word coming out garbled from the way he was still leisurely suckling on your tongue, growling in annoyance when you meant to draw back. his gaze was sharp as he gave one last, long suckle, leaning back, just enough to let you speak, your lips still brushing.

“do you not wish to—”

“w—we can’t, my love,” you hoped your tone was apologetic enough for him to let you continue and not dive back in to claim your mouth. “the babe—”

he scoffed, gaze drifting towards the bundle tucked against your breast, still nursing, but slowly drifting towards sleep. the little glutton was still going strong, puckering for more, milk—drunk even though his eyes were half—lidded with slumber and satiation.

you could see a myriad of conflicting emotions flit onto your husband’s features, only to relent moments after, a frustrated sigh leaving his swollen, spit-slick lips from how eager he had kissed you prior.

aerion turned, leaning in to press one last firm, lingering kiss to your mouth, letting his tongue swipe at the seam of your bottom lip before tipping back. “later,” he muttered, thick with unspoken intent. a promise.

you huffed, wanting to protest, but were rendered silent by the way he settled against you, still molded to your back, arm tight around your waist, holding you cuddled into his chest, his chin tucked onto your shoulder.

it made you relax, a small smile quirking your lips as you held the babe closer against your chest, lifting his body just a bit so your husband could easily see him without having to dip his gaze down too much.

“later,” you parroted, and felt your heart flutter when a pair of lips brushed your temple moments later, as if sealing that promise in place.

you two had been married for six moons cycles now. you were from lorath married to valarr in the hopes of establishing good relations with the free cities as lorath seemed to have good standing with all the other cities. you and valarr got along very well, you were not shy like many of the court ladies he had met. you laughed loudly, always spoke your mind and you were always kind to him. you were not the kind of lady he ever thought he would marry but he was happy. the two of you were a good pair.

you and the son of the sealord, ser antar, were apparently childhood friends and he had not been able to come to you wedding so he decided to make the trip to dragonstone an extended stay where he would be here for a whole moon cycle. he remembers you telling him he was free to decline the invitation from antar, that relations with braavos would still be good should he say no but when he really thought about it he decided to accept it.

valarr rarely held company of others. while you had plenty of ladies in waiting valarr tended to stay by himself. too busy dealing with issues presented to him at court, petitions and many other matters as lord of dragonstone. he was nervous he would not get along with antar since he had little to no male friends but the two were fast friends. more so since antar was an extremely outgoing man and basically forced valarr to spend time with him."it is well, we get along well-"

"you know that is not what i meant." valarr looked up from his papers and tilted his head at the eagerly smiling man. "whatever could you mean then?"

"the marital bed of course! shes the daughter of a mistress from a whore house turned wife she must be excellent." valarr couldn't fight the redness that burns up his throat to his ears. he coughs hard into his fist as if antar had punched him in the throat. valarr readjusted himself in his chair in his awkwardness as he tried to avoid antar's eager gaze.

"i don't see why… i don't know why you would…" he sort of trails off, not knowing how to answer. a look of shock takes over antar's face before valarr is saved by a knock on the door. valarr allows whoever it is to enter, not even caring if it was an assassin anyone could come in now to save him from this conversation.

it just so happened to be you. you were wearing a gown he had made for you in his houses colors, there were a few dragon patterns stitched on the sides of the skirt. he couldn't fight the smile that creeps up on his face. you always looked beautiful but when you wore his colors there was a strong sense of pride and affection that washed over him.

"hope i am not interrupting your very manly conversation." you were holding a tray with some snacks on it. you give valarr a sweet smile as you place the tray on his desk. he smiles back at you as he tries to push the earlier conversation from his mind. you reach over the desk and grab his hand lightly before you move away. antar's grin only grows as you sit down next to him and across from valarr.

"simply talking about your marital bed is all." valarr coughs once more and forces himself to look down at his papers. scribbling nonsense on a blank paper. "antar. i told you not to tease him."

"i am not teasing! i am truly curious is all. you must be a very wicked women to have him so flushed." valarr did not look up though he could feel their eyes looking at him.

he had nothing to complain about truly. before he had gotten married many of the knights in the court would always try to invite him out to the brothels with them which he adamantly declined. the thought of bastard children running around made him sick. when he had stupidly asked why they seemed to love to go there so much the men had told him there was no pleasure like the pleasure sex provided, especially from the women at the pleasure houses. 'my wife just does not do it for me.' they would say.

valarr does not understand that in the slightest. he remembers his wedding night very vividly. he was worried for you in the beginning as you did not touch a single piece of food that whole night. you did not even drink anything. there was to be no bedding ceremony but there would be two men sitting in the room to make sure the deed was done. you had left the dinner early, saying you needed awhile to prepare.

it had taken you a full hour before you came into his bedchamber. he had been sitting awkwardly in his bed, your brother who was one of the men sitting in took pity on his and tried to ease his nerves and conversate with him but the young prince could barley hold a conversation. he did not know the name of the man with your brother, likely one of his fathers personal knights.

when you had finally walked in valarr truly thought he was going to faint. you had clearly changed out of your elegant gown and fixed your hair, you were completely covered by a large cloak.

his hands clenched in his lap as he watched you remove the coat to show you were wearing just a simple robe, the neck was so low and loose your breasts were very obviously making themselves known. your skin glowed, you had put on some sort of oil, when you stepped closer and closer to him he could tell you were covered in a floral scent. it wasn't overpowering it was a little relaxing actually to the point his hands softened.

"don't worry my prince, this will be nice for you. if the boys back there are a problem i swear once i start you will not even know they are there."

he tried to look away as you had straddled him sitting down firmly in his lap. your hands cupped his jaw and forced him to look at you. his face had to be deep red at this point and he was trying to ignore how terribly uncomfortable his pants had begun to be."seems you're already firmed up, you like me that much my prince?"

it was more of a tease than an actual question but valarr still answered. "of course i do my lady…" you still paused for a moment like you weren't expecting an answer. or more like you had not been expecting that answer. the two of you were a political marriage, it was not a bond of love. yet valarr had found himself growing fonder and fonder of you with each passing day. maybe one day it could be love. maybe what valarr felt already was love.

you moved your hands away from his face and undid the tie on your robe to let the fabric drop and expose your completely naked body. valarr swiftly moved his head to try and look away but you had caught his head with your hands and forced him to look at you. "don't get embarrassed now my prince."

you had kissed him quickly. it was not like the one you had shared hours ago. that kiss was simple, sweet and quick. this one was hot heavy and passionate. he felt like you were practically trying to eat his lips off his face. but he liked it, he liked it so much he put so much effort into trying to give you that same feeling back.

he didn't even realize he was laying on his back now until you pulled away to catch your breath. the two of your chests raising quickly up and down. before he could even think of doing anything else you had captured his lips again and he gasped, you had stuck your tongue in his mouth. he had no clue people even did this but he was not going to complain.

you froze when he felt your hands drag down his chest to the helm of his pants. you pulled away only a small inch away from his lips, they were practically still touching his when you spoke.

"can i?" it was a stupid thing to ask. of course you could it was the whole point of the bedding ceremony in the first place bur the fact you had stopped to ask made himself feel stiffer."of course, whatever you wish."

the words were a little slurred, your salvia must be full of booze. he felt like he was above the clouds. you pushed your lips back to his as you tugged down his pants just enough to free his cock from them. he hissed against you, the cool air of the room hitting his cock made him shiver. he was not cold for long as practically without any warning you had adjusted him and pushed his leaking cock inside of you.

those men had to be lying. sure they were right, there was truly not greater pleasure than the heat the warmth he was feeling in that moment but the concept of his wife not being the one giving it to him? it was a ridiculous concept.

he was so lost in a drunken heat as you push yourself up and down on his length, your lips sloppily against his as you captured every small groan or moan that escaped his lips. as he found himself getting close and closer to his peak your lips had begun to suck on his neck as his hips had uncontrollably began to thrust up to meet yours. when he reached his peak he had almost fainted for the second time that night. he barely remembers anything after that. minor flashes of you dismissing the men from the room, you had cleaned him up before the two of you got into bed and slept.

as the moons passed he still found the same pleasure in you he had that first night. sometimes the position was different, you taught him many things, many positions, it was some of the most enjoyable moments of his life. even now he finds himself firming up just at the thought of you. he looks back up to see you lost in a conversation with antar, the subject clearly and thankfully having steered away from sex.

"apparently his step father only gifted him five slaves instead of ten and he was so mad he had their marriage annulled." you had made a gross face as antar laughed at the ridiculousness of it. you two were clearly talking about some of the other free cities but he had not been paying any attention. the knock on the door startles him completely back into reality. his voice slightly cracks as he says to come in. your eyes immediately dart to him as a knowing smirk makes its way to you face. you had once told him he had plenty of tells when he was 'needy' as you would put it. he always claimed he didn't do any of the things you said but he knew he did.

it was one of your ladies here to inform you that you were needed in as one of your ladies in waiting was pregnant and you liked to keep up all her health check ups. you bid a goodbye to antar before leaning over valarrs desk and giving valarr a knowing grin."i will see you tonight husband."he fought down the groan that creeps up in his throat. you know he loves to be called husband. your husband. you were teasing him. he watches you leave like a love sick dog until antar pointedly clears his throat causing valarr to look at him."have you told her you're madly in love with her?"

he is silent. he hadn't. he did not know how to even breach the subject with you. he was so sure you did not feel like same way. you acted the same around him as you did everyone else, he did not feel any different from one of your lady friends. except when you did your martial duties of course. "no."

antar laughs before he leans further back into his chair. he lets out a thoughtful sigh as he gazes out the window. "you know. i was in love with her as a kid."

valarr's entire body freezes as he feel like a frost has come over the room. he felt sick. "i am not anymore if you are worried about it so please get that look off your face. i am simply saying i always imagined the two of us would end up together. but when i see the way she looks at you, i can see she never saw me in that same light."

the young prince says nothing but a small smile creeps up on his lips. maybe antar was right, he had known you his entire life. maybe he should plan a dinner with you, unlike the ones you usually share together every night, and tell you how he feels. "you must at least tell me if she screams when she peaks."

valarr felt like an ice cold bucket of water splashed over him. "I'm sorry?"

"she tells me she never does but i know she must be lying. shes a screamer i am sure."

valarr for the first time in awhile had no clue what the man in front of him was talking about. he came to find out antar had a habit of saying pretty random stuff but this didn't seem like anything he had said before. the look on valarr's face must have told antar what he was thinking causing the sealord's son to burst out laughing.

"oh gods you've never made her peak? i almost feel sorry for her. shes a needy woman, maybe she even has a mistress." it was said in a jest. one that valarr let out a fake humorous laugh to but the room was covered in an ice cold chill.

that conversation had been hours ago but valarr couldn't get it out of his mind. antar had left to go find you, after assuring valarr there was nothing wrong and that's how most marriages are. he drowned himself in his work in an attempt to not think too much about it. it bothered him. the idea that you sought out another man bothered him so much. he should be able to provide for you. why had he never considered this before? you had never once complained to him. you seemed perfectly content after you two have sex it had never crossed his mind.

he takes his dinner in his room. he knows its selfish of him, the two of you always ate dinner together, but he couldn't stand the thought of having to see you knowing you were likely thinking about another man. so he stayed in his office far too late into the night. he finally felt comfortable leaving knowing you were always sleep at this hour.

yet when he walked into the room he saw you perfectly wide awake. you discarded the book you were reading as you stood up. you were wearing the same robe you always were when you two had sex. he tried to ignore how his body began to ache. "i am surprised to see you are still up my lady." hes shocked he even managed to push the words out of his throat. you simply narrow your eyes at him. your posture is stiffer than normal, your hands clenched in front of you. you're angry. "you were not there for dinner."

he deflates. hanging his head in embarrassment. "i am sorry my lady. i was… swarmed with work." he can't bring himself to tell you the truth, that he was so sick with jealousy that he did not even touch the dinner that was brought to his office. you look even angrier now than you did before. you lift your had and signal for him to come closer to you. when he gets close enough you grab his hands tightly. "if you have an issue with me I'd like for us to talk about it. i do not want there to be resentment between us." he lets his head drop onto your shoulder, his turns his head to the crook of your neck to smell your sweet scent.

"i am sorry i have not been good at my marital duties." you reach and hand up and caress the white streak in his hair. "whatever could you be talking about my prince? i am more than satisfied."

he suddenly finds himself filled with rage as he swiftly pulls away from you. "you do not have to lie to me." he turns is back to you as he walks a few steps away from you. he does not see the look of shock on your face. prince valarr was not a temperamental man you came to know that well in the moons you've known him now. the fact that he is acting like this tells you he is clearly very upset about something.

you knew something was amiss when one of the servants came to tell you he would be taking dinner in his office. if it was any other day you would have gone straight to his office to see him. but you had guests to attend to. once the room was cleared and it was just antar, you and a large table of food did antar finally speak with a sheepish look on his face. "i may have poked him too much today my friend. its my fault."

you knew antar was a man of many words but not many thoughts which is why you had explicitly warned him when he first arrived to watch his tongue in front of the young prince. it was not as lax about crude topics or joke like you and antar were, he was a very prime and proper boy like his father. antar winces as soon as your face twists into an anger snarl. "I'm sorry!" you lean over the table and glare, your words spoken through clenched teeth, "what did you say?"

you decided to wait for him in your shared chamber once antar finally spilled what he had said. you knew he was likely mad about the idea of you having another mans child. when he came in you would get him to admit his issues, you would assure him that it was not true and antar was kidding and you would thoroughly punish him for the comment then you could both go to bed peacefully. yet it seemed like he was not mad about that at all. he seemed more, upset? about the marital bed? you did not understand at all.

"i am not lying my prince i am sorry if i did something to make you think that. for my sake if you could clarify exactly what you mean i could offer some sort of solution." as always you were very forward. you did not like to let issues linger, your mother always told you men build resentment towards woman easily and it was best to stop issues right as they began. you did not want issues with valarr you liked him a lot.

no words are spoken as valarr keeps his back towards you. you don't like the silence its deafening. you take a deep breath, it seemed like valarr was not going to say anything so you make the first move. you take a few steps towards him, not too close but close enough he could certainly tell you were right behind him. "my prince if this is about that crude joke antar made earlier to you allow me to apologize on his behalf-"

"what kind of husband am i if my wife must take a mistress? i am a failure." he keeps his back turned as he cuts you off. you are lucky he has his back turned as you believe you have never been so caught off guard in your whole life. "I am your wife. what need would i have for a mistress?"

he turns his head to face you, your face completely falls as an uncomfortable ache hits your heart at his distraught face. "i have never made you peak." he says it like it is complete fact. the young prince seems intent on continuing his streak of shocking you as you can barely believe the words spilling from his lips. "I'm sorry?"

"what kind of husband.. what kind of man am i if i can't make the woman i love satisfied." he turns away from you like he is ashamed to even be standing in your presence. you walk up to press completely against him, your hands reach around his body, grabbing his clenched hands and lace your fingers through his. you press your head against his shoulder before speaking. "my love, it is not your job to please me in the marital bed. is it my duty to assure you are pleased so we can produce an heir."

"but you are unsatisfied." "says who?' he is silent but you feel his grip tighten against you. "i am more than satisfied my love i am not lying. if you count the times i peak with you on my mind and your name on my tongue you have made me peak countless times."

he swiftly turns around leading you to almost stumble back before he grabs you to keep you pressed close to him. "whatever do you mean?" your face has your normal teasing smile on it now, you press a small peck to his lips. "my love, why do you think it takes me so long to come to the bedchamber whenever we are about to have sex?"

he thinks for a long moment. he had never truly considered it. he knew women took much longer to get ready for things, he simply had always assumed you just needed more time to get dressed. knowing he was not going to answer you begin to tell him. "before we had gotten married, my mother told me my first time was going to hurt. but i did not want it to hurt so i asked her if there was any way to prevent such a thing. she told me if i prepped myself i would feel no pain at all. she gave me a couple of bottles of oil and liquids i could slather myself with to make myself looser on top of the prep therefore it does not hurt at all. every since then before we end the bed i make sure to thoroughly prep myself."

you press your foreheads together, "i love you husband. there is no need for any other." his heart felt so warm so full. all the terrible thoughts he had been having for hours fled from his mind as he was fulling consumed by you. "i love you wife." your lips connect in a heated kiss. the awkward tension in the room turning into a heated passion as he pulls you flush against his body.

"teach me." he had mumbled against your lips. "teach you what?"

"how to please you." you pull away fully, trying not to get distracted by his plump lips. "my love…" "please."

you relent. like you always do to him. you drag him over to the bed and remove your rode. "take off your clothes." he follows swiftly after you, discarding every piece of fabric from his body as you make your way to sit near the pillows on the bed, leaning comfortably on the backboard. he had long gotten over his embarrassment over your naked body or his own, he loved to look at you now, you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. he places a kiss on your shoulder as he sits in front of you. you almost laugh at the concentrated look on his face he looks like he would hang on to every single word you said.

he gulps when you spread your legs wide, "woman are more complicated than men but not as complicated as many think." you take your hand down and spread your lips open, he has to take many deep breaths to keep himself calm. "this is the main thing that stems pleasure for woman, the pearl." he lets a groan slip out of his mouth as you hum delightfully as you rub yourself.

"use your fingers and simply copy what i was just doing. some people use their mouths but that is a lesson for another day." his fingers replace yours and you immediately tense up, "not so hard." he lets out a quick sorry as you laugh, "don't threat. now simply do as i was doing." he begins swirl his fingers around in a circle and your reaction is breathtaking. your hands reach out to grab his arms as you say his name in a moan. "faster not too fast." he listens just as he would if he was out in the training yard with his mentor. he watches your eyes close and your mouth agape as small murmurs and moans pass through it.

"valarr oh with your free hand, hm your fingers put your fingers in me." his eyebrows furrow deeper in minor confusion, "my fingers?" "yes please i need it." you do not say how many so he simply goes with two. its so warm. so wet. he shudders as your back arches off the bed as the highest pitched moan he's ever heard from you fills the air. "valarr in and out just like you would your cock." his cock twitches at the mention of it, the bed was stained with the precum dripping out of it but he did not care one bit. he followed your instructions exactly as you said. he had no idea why he was not doing this sooner, your noises the way you looked, you were so beautiful and he was so hard.

he curled his fingers when you asked he split his fingers when you said to. the longer it went on the louder and louder you got. he ended up reaching down and wrapping his lips around your nipple while his fingers moved faster and faster. "I'm so close husband." you continued to chant his name and he did not slow his pace, he pulled back from you to get a good luck at your twisted face as your body twitched in pleasure, letting out a loud shout of his name before you fell back, your chest heaving up and down as you tried to catch your breath.

he pull his hands away from you. his awkward held his slick covered fingers in the air unsure of what to do with them. you grab his wrist and twist his hand towards his mouth. "suck on them." he immediately groans as your sweet taste hit his mouth eagerly sucking at his hand to lick up every single drop. "fuck me husband."

he was now so desperate for relief he did not hesitate before lining himself up and pushing into you. he was no longer in control of his body as he began to push himself in and out of you. lust taking control of his body as his now free hands play with your nipples as his hips eagerly thrusted to meet yours. you sounded louder than you ever did any other time he was inside you, your hands reaching around him to claw at his back. "touch my pearl." he was so lost he almost did not hear you he opens his shut eyes to look at your shining ones. "i want to peak with you husband please."

his hands moved on their own, he kept on hand playing with your breast while the other reached down to circle your pearl. he let out a spew of curses as you clenched around him in pleasure. the room was filled with the air of sex, the sound of wetness and skin hitting against each other and the sound of your combined moans. "husband I'm so close." he groans loudly as his head falls to your shoulder. "me too cum with me wife." he reaches his peak before you but he manages to continue to thrust into you so you follow very quickly afterwards. his body fell completely on top of yours as you both laid covered in your own sweat. he had never came so hard in his life. it seemed like you had never either as it took you far too long to exit your dazed expression.

"so. no more talk of mistresses right?" he playfully slaps your side and you both laugh. he does not bother to pull out, too comfortable in your warmth. "we should get cleaned up my love." he ignores you, tugging the blanket from under you both to cover you as he lays peacefully on top of you. "later." his soft sleeping breaths fill the air and you know later certainly means tomorrow. you stare at the ceiling while you play with his hair, sleep unable to take you from this moment.

The solar smelled like ink and dried flowers.

You had learned, in the months since your betrothal was announced, that it was the safest room in the Red Keep. Not because of the guards posted outside — though there were always guards now, ever since your name had begun appearing in the same sentences as Targaryen and heir and threat — but because of what the room was. Baelor's space. Ordered and deliberate, every object placed with intention, the kind of room that felt like its occupant even when he was absent.

You had taken to spending afternoons there when he was in council. You read. You wrote letters home that grew less frequent as the Reach began to feel farther away and the Red Keep began to feel more like your home. Sometimes you left small things behind without thinking — a ribbon marking a page in one of his books, a sprig of dried lavender pressed between the leaves of his notes, the cup you always used left on the same corner of the desk. You did not do these things deliberately. They simply happened, the way warmth happened, the way light found the corners of a room without being asked.

Baelor had never mentioned the ribbon or the lavender. But the cup was always clean when you arrived.

This was how you had learned to read him. In the things he did not say.

You were in a good mood that day, which was perhaps why you did not notice sooner.

The morning had been kind: a letter from your youngest sister, full of news about the harvest and a new foal and three paragraphs about a boy she swore she did not like, and you had laughed alone in your chambers in a way that made your handmaiden smile. At breakfast you had made the Queen Mother laugh — genuinely, not the polished court-laugh — with something you said about the pigeons on the windowsill, and Queen Myriah had looked at you across the table with those dark, perceptive eyes and said, very quietly, you are good for this house, and you had felt it like sunlight between your ribs.

Even the walk to the solar had been good. A kitchen boy had shown you a stray cat he'd been feeding. You'd spent ten minutes crouched in the corridor making friends with it, and arrived at Baelor's rooms with grey fur on your sleeve and no particular urgency about anything.

The day had felt like a gift. You had thought I am happy here. I did not expect to be happy here.

You should have noticed sooner that there was something wrong with one of the servants.

The hands were the thing, in retrospect. Too still. The posture too practiced — the way he moved through the room without the particular learned invisibility of someone who had spent years trying to become furniture. You noticed it the way you noticed a wrong note in a familiar melody. Not a conscious recognition. Just a small wrongness, registering somewhere below thought.

You were still registering it when he moved.

There was a blade.

There was the sound of your own breath, caught and held, and the desk's edge finding the small of your back, and a cold so complete it felt almost like clarity. Your mind did something strange — sharpened, narrowed, cleared entirely of everything that was not this room, this man, this moment.

You did not scream.

Later you would not be able to explain why. Some instinct older than thought, maybe. Some understanding that noise spent breath you might need, that stillness bought seconds, that seconds were the only currency that mattered right now.

He stepped toward you.

You stepped sideways.

It was not graceful. It was not brave. It was pure animal refusal, your body deciding before your mind caught up, and your hand found the ink pot on the desk — heavy, solid, completely by accident — and you threw it.

It caught him on the shoulder. Not hard enough to stop him. Hard enough to make him stagger, to break the straight line of his advance, to buy you the half-second you needed to get the desk between you. Ink bloomed across his clothing, across the floor, across the corner of your sister's letter, and you were already moving — shoving the chair into his path, sending the stack of books sliding — creating noise, chaos, the beautiful unglamorous mess of someone who did not know how to fight but understood, distantly and desperately, that the guards outside needed a reason to open the door.

"Help—"

Not a scream. Your voice came out sharp and flat, the single word, and it was enough.

The door opened. Two guards. The ugly, brief, necessary violence of it, and then he was on the floor and the blade was beside him and you were standing at the far end of the room with your back against the bookcase and your chest heaving and ink on your hands and the grey fur still on your sleeve from the kitchen cat.

You looked at the man on the floor. He looked back at you with eyes so full of rage that they did not resemble something human. You did not understand — and perhaps you never would — how someone could hate with such depth. It was like he carried it in his bones.

"Bind him, please," you said, and your voice was steady. You did not know from where.

You held yourself together through the wait.

It did not feel like bravery. It felt like a door held shut by both hands, all your weight against it, and you knew very well what was on the other side but you could not open it yet because there were still things that required you to be upright. The guards. The questions.

You stood at the window. You watched the courtyard below. You counted the pigeons.

Baelor arrived in eleven minutes.

You knew because you counted those too.

He did not make a sound when he came through the door.

You had expected something. Command. The controlled authority he wore so naturally, sharpened into purpose. Some version of Baelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, managing a situation with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything.

He was silent.

He took in the room in one sweep — the guards, the man bound on the floor, the blade, the ink spreading its dark stain across the stone — and the silence was not composure. Not quite. It was something that wore composure's shape, the way a fire wore a grate.

Then his eyes found you.

He crossed the room. His hands came up to frame your face before he had finished closing the distance, that particular gesture, hovering just short of touch.

"Are you hurt," he said. Not a question. The space before one.

"No," you said.

He looked at you anyway. His mismatched eyes moved over your face with the focused attention of a man checking for damage he could not allow himself to find — your face, your throat, your hands, the ink stains, the grey fur on your sleeve, back to your face.

"Certain," he said.

"Baelor," you managed a smile, just for him, "I promise I am not hurt."

He exhaled. His hands settled, finally, barely — fingertips at your jaw, your temple, lighter than they had any right to be for hands that size. You felt the careful in them. The tremendous, effortful careful.

"You fought back?" he said.

It was not quite a question, even if posed as one.

"I threw the ink pot," you said. "It wasn't—"

"Thank you," he answered, and you didn't really know why. Something moving through his expression that you did not have a full name for. Something that looked, underneath the relief, like it was being filed away somewhere permanent and important.

Then he turned, and you watched it happen.

He stepped back from you — one step, deliberate, a boundary drawn between what you were to each other and what he was about to do — and he looked at the man on the floor, and the fracture happened.

Not loudly. Not visibly, to anyone who did not know his face. But you knew his face. You had spent months learning it, the careful version and the rare unguarded version and every gradation between, and you saw the single clean line that ran through his composure now, and through it — brief, absolute, unmistakable — something that was not Baelor the Hand, not Baelor the principled, not Baelor the deliberate and restrained.

Something older than all of that.

He crouched down beside the man on the floor. And then — unhurried, without heat, with the particular calm of something that had never needed heat to be dangerous — he took a fistful of the man's hair and turned his face up.

The man made a sound.

Baelor looked at him the way you might look at a problem you had already solved. Patient. Absolute. Completely without the performance of menace, which was so much worse than menace, because performance implied there was something to prove and there was nothing here that needed proving.

"You came into my house," Baelor said, quietly.

The man said nothing.

"You came into my house," Baelor repeated, in the same tone, "and you dared to raise a blade to her."

A pause. Long enough to be deliberate.

"I want you to understand something," he said, softly, still holding the man's face up, still meeting his eyes with that fractured calm. "Not as a warning. Warnings are for situations where the outcome is still uncertain. I want you to understand it simply as a fact." His head tilted, slightly. "There is no version of what happens next that does not take everything from you. There is no mercy available here. There is no appeal." A breath. "What you chose to do in this room today — you will spend the rest of your life regretting it. However long that is."

He released him.

Stood.

The composure sealed itself back over the fracture like water closing over a stone. So complete you might have imagined it.

He turned back to you, and he was Baelor again — careful, deliberate, the mismatched eyes quiet — and he said, to the guards: "Get him out of my sight," and to the empty room, to the ink-stained floor, to the ruined afternoon: nothing at all.

You held yourself together through all of it.

Through the maester who confirmed you were unharmed. Through the questions, which Baelor deflected before they could overwhelm you, placing himself between you and everyone who entered with unhurried, immovable certainty. Through the hour of necessary proceedings — the Hand of the King resuming, fractionally, the work of being the Hand of the King, because it did not stop, it never stopped, and you watched him manage it from the window with the part of your mind that was still observing from a slight remove.

You held yourself together until the room emptied.

Until it was only you and him, and the light had gone gold and thin, and the solar was quiet again — except it was not the same quiet, it would never quite be the same quiet — and your sister's letter was ruined under the ink, and there was grey fur still on your sleeve from a kitchen cat you had met that morning when the day still felt like a gift.

Your legs stopped participating.

You sat down on the floor.

Not gracefully. Not deliberately. The stone was cold and real, and you pressed your palms flat against it, and the first breath shook, and the second one broke entirely, and by the third you were crying in a way you had not cried since you were small — the kind that had been waiting in your chest since the moment you saw the blade and threw an ink pot because it was all you had.

Baelor was beside you before you had completed another full breath.

He sat — this careful, composed man, in his court clothes, on the floor — and he put his arm around you, and you turned into it with complete gracelessness and no embarrassment whatsoever.

He held you through all of it.

His hand moved in slow deliberate strokes down your hair. His chin rested against the top of your head. He said nothing because you did not need words yet. You needed the solid fact of him. The reality of his heartbeat under your ear, steady and present and real.

You cried until you could not anymore. Until you were wrung out and still, and the light through the windows had shifted, and his arm had not moved.

"I should have—" he began, and stopped himself.

You felt the breath he took. The way he made himself start again more honestly.

"I knew there was still risk," he said. "I told myself the precautions were sufficient."

"It wasn't your fault," you said, into his chest.

"No," he agreed, quietly. "It was theirs." A pause. "I intend for that to be made very clear."

The mildness of it. The absolute, bottomless mildness.

You lifted your head and looked at him.

"I saw it," you said, trying to fight against your runny nose. "When you turned to him. I saw how you looked at him."

He looked at you steadily.

"I'm not frightened," you told him. "I want you to know that. I'm not frightened of you."

Something moved through his expression — that nameless thing, between relief and grief, the shape of a man who had spent a very long time being careful about what he was. What he was truly capable of being.

His forehead dropped to yours.

"You threw an ink pot at him," he said, very quietly, after a beat.

"It was within reach," you simply said with a slight shrug.

A breath. Warm against your face.

"Within reach," he repeated. And there was something in his voice that was not quite a laugh and not quite undone and was entirely, helplessly fond. "Of course it was."

His arms tightened around you. Not carefully. Not with his usual deliberate lightness.

Fully. Like something that had stopped pretending it needed to hold back.

"You can rest now," he murmured, into your hair.

So you did.

You stayed on the floor of his solar until the light failed completely, and he stayed with you, and his heartbeat was steady under your ear, and outside the pigeons were still on the windowsill, and somewhere down the corridor there was a stray cat waiting by a kitchen door, and you were here, and you were safe, and the man who held you would have — you understood this now, completely and without question if it came to it — burned everything down to keep it that way.

The thing about you, Maekar had decided sometime in the second month, was that you did not know you were doing it.

That was the part he could not account for. He understood deliberate charm — had grown up watching it deployed at court, had learned early to recognise the difference between warmth offered as currency and warmth offered as itself. He had become, by necessity, very good at spotting the seam. The moment where the performance showed its stitching.

With you there was no seam.

You had smiled at his squire on your third day at court — not the careful measured smile of a girl learning which relationships would be useful to her, but the full unguarded thing, because the boy had said something that struck you as funny and you had simply laughed, and the squire had stood there looking like he'd been lit from the inside. You had learned the name of every guard on your rotation within a fortnight. Not strategically. You had just asked, and then remembered, and then asked after their families, and Maekar had watched his own men become devoted to you with a speed that should have alarmed him.

It did not alarm him.

This was, precisely, the problem.

He had spent his entire life under no illusions about what he was. The fourth son. A sword. An anvil. Useful in the specific way that instruments of force were useful, which was to say when something needed breaking, and set aside after. He had made his peace with it — or something he had mistaken for peace, which held its shape well enough if you didn't press on it. He did not reach for things. He had learned not to. Reaching was for men who had been told the world held something for them, and no one had told Maekar that, and he had decided, quietly and finally, sometime in his adolescence, that it was simpler not to want.

And then you had sat down in his armoury.

Not in a calculated way. In the exact opposite of a calculated way — you had wandered in by accident with a book under your arm and a slightly lost expression, and when he'd looked up from the whetstone you had said, very politely, oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were here, and then simply stayed. Sat on a crate in the corner and opened your book and said nothing else, and the silence had been — he had not known what to do with it. He had waited for the agenda to reveal itself. For the reason behind the staying.

There was no reason. You had just stayed.

He had let you, and told himself it meant nothing, and the next afternoon you had come back.

That had been three months ago.

He did not know what to do with you.

This was the blunt truth of it, the thing he turned over in his mind in the early mornings when the yard was empty and the work of the day hadn't yet crowded everything else out. He did not know how to hold the fact of you — this girl from the Reach with her unguarded laugh and her genuine questions and the way she looked at him, straight on, like she was not afraid of what she found there. Like the scars beneath his beard were simply part of the landscape. Like the sharpness he aimed at everyone was something to be waited out rather than fled from.

Nobody waited him out. In his experience, people did not do that.

You did. Patiently, warmly, with apparent total serenity, the way sunlight waited out a cloud — without effort, without agenda, simply continuing to be what it was until the obstruction passed.

He was not accustomed to being the cloud in this metaphor.

The betrothal was not his doing — nothing in his life was entirely his doing, his life had been arranged by other hands since birth — but he had looked at you across the table after your arrival at dinner and you had looked back with those clear eyes, not calculating, not performing, just looking, and he had thought that this is either the best thing that has ever happened to me or it will ruin me entirely.

He had not, at the time, understood that these were the same thing.

He was in the yard when the messenger came.

Drilling. The repetitive honest work of it, the thing that had been the fixed point of his life since he was old enough to hold a practice sword — this, at least, was simple. His body knew what to do. There was no ambiguity in a blade, no subtext, no bewildering warmth that required him to exist in ways he had not been prepared for.

He was mid-form when the man crossed the yard at a run, and that was the first alarm he noticed.

Maekar was trained to read approaches — speed, posture, the quality of urgency in a man's movement — and this one read as wrong before the messenger had covered half the distance. Something in Maekar went very still before a single word was spoken. The way it went still before a battle. Not calm — the opposite of calm, every sense sharpening to a single point.

The man said your name.

He said solar and blade and unharmed, my lord, she is unharmed and Maekar was already moving before the sentence finished.

He did not remember crossing the yard.

He did not remember the corridors, the stairs, the guards stepping aside. He remembered only the thing that had replaced thought, which was not quite rage and was not quite fear and was something underneath both of those, older than both of those, the part of him that had been the sword of this family since before he chose it, turned now toward a single point with a focus that was total and absolute and not entirely human in its quality.

She is unharmed had been said. He heard it. It did not change anything.

Because she could have been. Between the sending of the messenger and the saying of those words there was a distance, and in that distance someone had decided to put a blade near you, had decided that you — you, with your face full of joy and your laughing at his squire and your patient unhurried presence in his armoury — were a target. Had decided that what was beginning, quietly and terrifyingly, to be the only good thing in his life was a variable to be eliminated.

That was what boiled in him as he ran.

Not injured pride. Not political calculation. Not the cold strategic fury of a Targaryen prince responding to an act of aggression against his house.

Something much simpler, much less governable.

He filled the doorframe and took in the room the way he always took in rooms — all of it, instantly, the threat assessment automatic and immediate — and found: guard, man on floor, blade, overturned ink, scattered books, a slightly crooked candlestick, and you.

Standing.

Ink on your arm. A careful stillness to the way you held your left side that told him immediately, with the eye of a man who had catalogued a thousand injuries, that something had caught your ribs. Your expression — and this was the thing, this was the thing that did something he could not account for — was not the expression of a girl who had been helpless and then rescued.

"Step away from him," he said to the guards that were pining that man, that wretched man, to the ground

"My prince—"

"Step away."

He crossed the space in an unhurried pace. Did not crouch. Did not negotiate with the geometry of it. He reached down and took the man by the collar and lifted, one hand, and felt nothing about the effort because there was no effort, because every piece of him that was not focused on you had narrowed to this, to the man in his grip and what was going to happen now.

He held him up and looked at him.

And the thing that lived in the Targaryen blood — the thing that had not died with the dragons, that had no outlet left except this, the cold and total and absolutely merciless thing that was not cruelty because cruelty required emotion and this was beyond emotion, this was simply the oldest part of him stating a fact about the world — looked back.

The man in his grip understood. Maekar saw the moment he understood.

"Who sent you," he said.

The man refused to tell Maekar anything, just decided to stare at him with a smug grin painted on his lips. You noticed, from where you stood, that it was a deliberate thing, that taunting. Even if the man — you could see it in the way both his hands tried to relieve the pressure from Maekar's hand on his neck — was trembling as a leaf.

You couldn't hear what Maekar said to him then, because his voice sounded as if he were underwater. You made out something about rotting and cells. Maekar called the guards back in and gave his instructions and they moved fast, the way men moved when they had felt what was in the room and wanted very much to be on the right side of it.

Then he turned to you, and all of it — every cold ancient terrible thing — had only one place left to go.

He looked at you for a long moment. You looked back, steady, chin still up, ink drying on your arm.

The shaking started in his hands first.

He had not expected that. He was not a man who shook — had not, in thirty-odd years of soldiering and sparring and riding into things that ought to have killed him, experienced his hands as anything other than reliable. They did what he needed. They did not develop opinions.

They were shaking now.

He crossed the room and his hands came to your face before he had decided to do it, both palms, tilted up to look at him, and he felt the tremor in them and knew you felt it too and could not find it in himself to care.

"You are not hurt," he said. Rough. The wrong way round — statement when it should have been question, because he needed to say it, needed to hear it in the room, needed to make it real with sound.

"A bruise," you said. "The desk caught my ribs. The blade did not—"

"Show me."

The words came out before he'd dressed them in anything acceptable. Raw need, that was all, no armour on it, and the back of his neck went hot and he knew his ears were red and he looked somewhere past your shoulder for a moment because he could not currently manage your expression on top of everything else.

"Maekar." Your voice, gentle. "It is only a bruise. I promise."

He made himself look back at you.

Your eyes were clear and steady and you were not afraid of him, had never been afraid of him — not of the scars, not of the sharpness, not of whatever had just been in this room with you — and the thing that did to him, the specific unbearable thing—

"I know," he said, roughly. "I know. I just—"

He didn't finish.

He stepped back. Turned away, one hand at the back of his neck, and stood there looking at nothing, breathing, doing the slow effortful work of becoming something other than what he'd been for the last several minutes.

"You could have been killed," he said. To the wall.

"I was not."

"You could have been." He turned back. His jaw was very tight. "Someone decided that you were expendable. That you were—" His voice did something he did not sanction. He pushed past it. "You are not."

He said it the way he said things that were simply true. Flat, final, not up for interpretation.

You looked at him, and something in your expression softened, and you said, quietly: "I know."

"I am not certain you do," he said.

You held his gaze. "Then perhaps you should keep telling me."

The silence that followed was very loud.

Maekar looked at you — this girl, this unbearably warm impossible girl, who had sat in his armoury and asked for nothing and come back the next day and remembered the names of his guards and laughed with her whole face and made him feel something shift in him. Permanently. The way foundations shifted.

He had spent his life not reaching.

He crossed the room and his arms went around you and he held on.

Not gently. Not with the careful tentativeness of a man who was uncertain of his welcome. He held on the way he did everything once he'd decided, which was completely, which was without reservation, which was with the full weight of a man who had been keeping himself at arm's length from good things for thirty years and had just run out of reasons.

Your arms came around him, and he breathed, and the solar was quiet.

The rest of it came out sideways. In the wrong order. The way things always did with him.

He did not say: I have not known how to want things and then you sat on a crate in my armoury and I have been undone since.

He said it in the arms that did not loosen. In the chin tucked against your head. In the six guards he would assign in the morning — six, and then when he thought about it longer, more, and he did not care if it was excessive, he did not care at all.

He did not say: the thought of losing you turned me into something I do not entirely recognise.

He said it when he pulled back enough to look at your face, and looked at it, and said nothing, and looked anyway.

You had hit a Blackfyre loyalist with a candlestick, he came to know.

You had stood with your chin up and told him that what sat on your ribs was a bruise, only a bruise, with the same serenity with which you did everything, as though the world could throw you whatever it liked and you would simply remain warm through it.

"You did well," he said, finally. Into the quiet. Roughly, like the words had cost him something.

Your smile, when it came, was small and real and did what your smiles always did to him.

"Thank you," you said.

He looked away. His ears were red again.

"Six guards," he said, to the middle distance. "Starting tomorrow."

"All right," you said.

"Possibly more."

"All right."

He nodded. Looked back at you, and there was something in his face — not open exactly, Maekar was never quite open, but the layers so reduced that what was left was simply him, the unarmoured version, the one he almost never let into the light.

"You will tell me," he said. "If anything—"

"I will tell you," you said. "I promise."

And that was, for now, enough.

The sun went long and amber through the window, and somewhere down the corridor something settled into quiet, and Maekar Targaryen — the anvil, the one who had learned not to reach — stood in your solar with the candlestick still crooked in its place and understood that reaching had happened anyway.

That it had been happening for three months.

That it was, now, irrevocable.

And found, to his own considerable surprise, that he did not want it any other way.

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker

thinking about how BAELOR is older than the men you usually date.

you had matched with him on an online dating app: skimming through the frat bros, and the men holding fishes in their profile pictures, and the guys failing to mask their commitment issues behind a "thoughts on going 50/50 on a first date?", only to find yourself swiping right on him. on a man who, despite handsome, was a year short of turning 50, head of his own architecture firm, and painfully interested in tolkien's bibliography.

the result was just as interesting as the discovery. he used proper capitalization but did not try to make you feel dumb for not doing so yourself, made questions that held an actual meaning and took what you answered with genuine interest, and, most importantly, did not hit you with the accursed "u up?" as soon as midnight stroke.

it was refreshing. it was unusual. and it kept you waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering just what made a man like that spend his time swipping through profiles on an online site like all the men half his age that only seemed to be there in the efforts of wasting women's time.

it felt, frankly, too good to be true.

and the truth is, BAELOR was, at first, just as confused as you were.

he was a divorceé, and had hastily set up his profile after some goading from his sons about, in their words, "needing to put himself out there again." he did not want to waste anyone's time because he did not want anyone wasting his, and was barely learning his way through the app when he matched with you.

you were younger—probably closer to his sons in age than to himself. you were beautiful. you were smart, and funny, and, god, you deserved better than a man who was twice your age, tragically addicted to his work, and, quite frankly, lonely as fuck. not to mention he couldn't even seem to get it up—not that he'd had to for anything else than his own hand for the last decade, but still.

the thing is, he's not even that old. he's not fifty yet. and he's healthy, too: religiously jogs every morning, doesn't drink beyond an occasional wine glass when having dinner with his brother, and follows a healthier diet than the one he kept for half his life.

he's just stressed.

yes, that's it. his firm is supervising a housing development contract that keeps turning into even more of a nightmare with every passing day, maekar is a pain in the ass, and now, to top it all off, he's trying to get back into dating as if he were not a man that has already built a happy, successful life of his own. so yes, he's stressed.

he's stressed, and he's taking pills so he can sleep, and yeah, he's old—he’s old, and both his beard and his hair are speckled with grey, and his back cracks when he gets up from his bed in the morning.

no wonder his dick doesn't get hard as fast as it did when he was twenty-seven.

and, god, you're twenty-seven.

you’re young and bright and lively—you’ve just finished a phd in applied mathematics and (still) think going out to concerts is fun. you smoke while drinking your afternoon coffee and meet with your friends every friday to discuss your book club pick over a charcuterie board and an aperol spritz.

and you said yes when he asked you out to dinner.

you had, in fact, also ordered an aperol spritz during your date. that, wild mushroom risotto, and white chocolate mousse. you told him you’re a vegetarian and baelor did not crack a joke; he took the risotto bite you offered and made a comment about needing to find a similar recipe so he could give it a try at home. you shared half of your desserts with each other and then agreed to continue the date at his place.

and now, you're on your knees, at the foot of his bed, wearing the prettiest red dress he's seen in a long, long time.

you're on your knees, in a short, tight, pretty red dress, and you have his cock inside your mouth. warm, tender, wet—and fuck, he's still soft.

he had, of course, told you about his struggles. somewhere along finishing dessert and ordering coffee, he had confessed in hushed words that even if he took you back to his, he would not be able to perform the way you're probably used to. you had insisted you didn't mind, and had told him you wanted to suck him off regardless, and he had agreed, and god—

you close your lips around his tip, flicker your tongue over his slit, and he allows himself, just for a moment, to think of the what ifs.

what if he was your age, and his dick still worked, and he could have you bent over the kitchen counter? what if he was at least ten years younger, and again, he could get you on a mating press, or a headlock, or anything that was not this. anything that meant he's making you feel good, anything that would not have him feeling the slightest bit of the shame that threatens to swallow him whole.

fuck, he should have eaten you out first. he should have fingered you until you came. 

"mhm," you hum, looking up through your lashes, one hand fondling his balls while the other grips the back of his thigh. "that's it. doin' so well for me, hm?"

he wants to. oh, how he wants to do well for you. be good for you. he wants to run his tip down your slit, coat himself in your juices, and bury himself to the hilt inside of you. he wants to have you on your back, or your belly, or on top of him, or in any position your body wants to be fucked in, splitting your pretty pussy open with his cock.

but you’re on your knees. you’re on your knees, and you have his cock inside your mouth.

you shift in your position, slipping the straps of your dress over your shoulders, pulling the hem down until your tits are spilling out of your dress, and BAELOR hisses. there's blood traveling down alright, and you take him in your hand, harder than he was a minute earlier, and push yourself upwards to tap his tip once, twice, three torturous times against your stiff nipples. he knows he would've busted all over them already, painted them in a mess of a hot, thick white ribbons, if only he were fucking—

"that feels good, yeah?" you breathe out, quiet, aware. "you like 'em? want me to let you suck on 'em later, mhm?"

"fuck, pretty—"

"mhm, that's a yes, isn't it?"

BAELOR smiles, biting on the soft, supple skin of his bottom lip, and he feels like he's on fire. you do it again, tapping his dripping, leaking tip against your tits while you part your lips to let a single ribbon of spit fall over his tip.

his breath catches in his throat.

it looks debauched, dirty—he's seen this in porn, when he's lying on his bed late at night and he's trying to will an erection that will not come, and god, he had never thought it would feel like this.

"yes, it's a—a fucking yes, pretty," he mutters, slipping the word through clenched teeth.

he’s not hard yet, not by a mile, but his cock weighs a different kind of heavy in your hand. your thumb runs in circles over his tip, redder, starting to pulse, and pleasure begins to build at the bottom of his stomach before you've even taking him in your mouth again.

"yeah? and you like that, mhm? telling me what you want to do to me?" a smirk, and a pump up his cock. "you want to talk me through it? tell me how you'd fuck my tight, wet cunt?"

he knows what you're doing: you're stroking his ego just as much as you're stroking his cock, and there's an easiness to your movements that lets him know you're doing it for you just as much as you're doing it for him. because you don't have to stroke his ego, and you don't have to play it up, and you run your tongue across your lower lip when the thought settles in your head.

it feels easy. it feels comfortable.

it feels like going home with a man that was respectful, and attentive, and considerate, since the very first message you exchanged with each other. it feels like going home with a man that spent the entirety of dinner listening to you—genuinely, interested, uninterrupted—instead of saying whatever he'd thought would make his shadow look bigger when he turned around. it feels like going home with a man that thinks of you, your pleasure and your comfort, first and foremost, even when he gets to have his dick inside your mouth.

and so you set your eyes on his once more, and BAELOR feels slightly longer, slightly thicker, slightly stiffer, when you wrap your pretty lips around his tip once more.

"i want—fuck, i want—i'd have you on top of me," he says. "you'd be straddling me. and my, mhm—oh, just like that. yeah, do that thing with your tongue again, pretty girl. please. that... yeah, that thing. 'm just—just not as young as i used to be."

you moan around his cock, tongue at his slit, and he shivers. you look up at him again, pupils blown out wide, eyes hazy with want, and he surrenders to the blissfulness of the moment.

his hand, big and rough, finds the back of your head and pulls you down until your nose kisses his navel. a streak of silver marks the place where his happy trail begins right over the edge of his tummy, and BAELOR’s fingers, long and lithe, wrap around your hair, clenching into a tight fist. the burning at your scalp makes your hole clench around nothing.

"i'd be buried inside your warm, wet pussy," he continues, eyes glued to where his cock disappears inside your mouth, feeling his pleasure grow, and grow, and grow, and he's about to succumb to it all. "and you'd be gripping me so, so tight. and you'd be rubbing your clit as you ride me, and you'd let me suck on your pretty tits, and—oh, mhm, 'm gonna—"

you pull him out of your mouth with a wet pop, and he shudders at the loss of your heat. his cock, still limp but now pulsing red, plops obscenely against your hand, and you pump him faster as you keep your eyes on his.

"gonna what? gonna cum?" you tease, tone resting somewhere between a moan and a mewl, and he almost misses the way in which you're clenching your thighs together as you speak. "gonna paint my face? or—oh, you're gonna cover my tits, huh? suck 'em after?"

and god, you're turned on. you're turned on for him, because of him, and he didn't even need to be hard to have you clenching your thighs together in search of friction, dripping down your thighs in anticipation. oh, he's going to eat you out so, so well after this. he smells your arousal from where he sits and imagines its sweetness when he swallows the knot forming in his throat, and he's—

"mhm, just like that," you mewl, pumping his cock from base to tip as he spills all over your chest in a mess of white.

he moans, loud, unrepentant, humping upwards against your hand as his eyes threaten to roll back against his skull. his thighs tense, muscles clenching as his orgasm ravages through his body. it travels up his spine, making him shake, wrecking him down to his bones, pulling him apart just so you can put him back together.

and you keep pumping his cock, still soft, still leaking, and he feels like it's his heart, hot and bloody and pulsing, that you're holding in your palm instead. he'd let you. he’d present it himself, tear it out for you, bare it clean in open palms if you so wished for it.

he breathes in, breathes out, rhythm frantic as his chest rises, as it falls, and he lets out a long, deep sigh as he lets his head fall back against his shoulders. and he, just like you, feels at ease.

“well, i think he does likes me, after all,” you say, words slipping past swollen lips and melting into a giggle.

and BAELOR rolls his eyes back, still panting for breath, and the corner of his mouth rises into an easy, lazy smile. "brat."

yeah. yeah...

anyways!

For a girl who lived in a modest castle, Summerhall was a paradise. It seemed to be airy, endless, rich in everything; from history to its gardens to its food — oh, the food! The plump berries bursting with red juices that dribbled down and stuck to your chin, the meats and fish, always fresh and cooked so that they were glistening and fell slightly off the bone, and the cakes – crumbly, golden and moreish.  

The palace seemed to exist in a place you’d only heard of in fairytales, where the drama of the Kingdoms seemed to be non-existent and days felt like an eternity. Even the water seemed to heal, one dip erasing the tiredness of your body and making you feel brand new again. 

It was there that you met Daeron, Dyanna’s eldest of the same age as you. Sandy blond haired Daeron, whose siblings looked at him as if he lit the moon at night, a boy who did not particularly enjoy combat (though endured it for his brother) but was skilled at reading and was rather well spoken. 

In the rare moments where Aerion was off entertaining himself, you’d spend time together, quizzing you on the bizarre riddles he’d heard from his uncle, or climbing trees, a right that only the pair of you had from being the eldest. 

“Aerion doesn’t like being left out,” he’d remarked. “He’s not allowed to climb because he’s too small. Sometimes I quite like it up here. It’s quiet.” 

It had been a joyous time then; a time where the weight of responsibility or the distinct boxes your opposing sexes, though discussed, hadn’t yet materialised. You were simply two happy young children whose lives were shortly about to grow more complicated. 

As the seasons passed, Dyanna had more children and visits became less frequent, communication received in the form of letters to your mother. They were mostly light-hearted, but you caught word of Daeron’s growing nightmares; his gradual shrinking from cherished older brother to tormented soul, a victim of Targaryen madness.  

It was hard to imagine Daeron – your Daeron - restless and hysterical, even if he’d always been a dreamer, a Romantic…which is why when Dyanna had died, you’d first thought of him. The one who had her the longest yet was taken away from him too early.  

Your mother had grieved, hard, and you couldn’t imagine what the walls of Summerhall felt like; cold, barren with the echoing of children crying for a mother who would not return and the silent unravelling of a father. It was horrible, and as your mother held you to her chest you innocently vowed that you, nor your father, would ever die so that she would never have to cry again.  

In one of life’s cruel ironies, when you were eight and ten your mother was the first to die. Crabs in the belly, they’d said, words garbled amongst the muffle in your ears, as if your body were literally trying to push away the news from settling in. Nothing mattered now; not the sunrise the following morning, not the taste of freshly baked bread, and certainly not the colour of your dress, which sat crumpled in a corner, unused and unneeded as your father postponed your match-making feast.  

“She must be allowed to miss her mother,” he’d said. Your father was good, attentive. So much so that when he noticed you started refusing your breakfast oats or would not leave your room for hours he wrote to Maekar, in a desperate, final plea to take you for a month. 

‘I have no doubt you understand the grave implications of losing one’s mother, a wife. My daughter is ill, I’m afraid, and no cure imagined or maesters have been able to soothe her. Your home used to make her so happy. If you would have her for a while, allow her to enjoy a change of scenery in the Stormlands, I hope she can return in better spirits.’ 

Graciously, Maekar had taken you in, and though a room was fitted to be yours it didn't feel the same. There was something about returning to a place like this with a fresh pair of eyes and a different body entirely that forced you to realise just how quickly royalty had been forced to grow up.

Aerion was no longer a playful boy, still a little on the smaller side (you would never say this to his face), but chiselled and hungry in a way a grown man would be. Daella wore regal dresses and pinned her hair in a particular way. Aemon was no longer even around.

And Daeron, well, Daeron was stuck somewhere in between, a man in age and certain experience but still seemed to have the quiet essence of a child. Even during the separation, amidst all the trauma, he never forgot you. 

It was late into the first moon of your visit where you’d witnessed Daeron drunk. Surprising, as word was that he was intoxicated rather frequently, but you figured Maekar had given him strict instructions to not do so around you. The rule was to be broken eventually, and was, in the form of a thudding sound below you during what had been a quiet evening on your balcony. With a peek over the ledge you noticed Daeron, swathed in grey, scrambling to his feet after presumably scaling a gate. You’d called out his name, and he’d answered, head lolling, but finding itself looking upwards in your direction.  

“Daeron? Are you alright?” 

He’d blinked, slowly. 

“Perhaps you could — let down your hair? Lend a hand?” He chuckled to himself, tripping over his feet even as he stood upright. 

“You’re in no condition to climb.” 

He drew in air through his teeth. 

“I’d hoped you’d have more faith in me.” 

You tutted playfully. 

“Go through the castle. I will meet you halfway, and if we get caught, I can say I found you in the stables.” 

Though it had taken some time, Daeron had followed your word, chin tucked to his chest as he appeared at your door, cloak beginning to fall off his body. The scent of alcohol didn’t bother you as much as the smell of stale food did, and with a glance to a damp wet spot on his torso you concluded that he might’ve had an accident on the way home – and chose not to question it.

What you did comment on, however, was the bleeding from just above his ear. 

“You should go to the maester—“ 

“And be scolded from my father for sneaking away when I haven’t been caught?” He interjected, raising an eyebrow. It’s but a scratch. The remedy is simple; I’ve administered it myself.” 

The remedy came in the form of his half-empty wine skin, decanting your silver pot of dried petals and holding it above the flame of a candle, unrefined, like a commoner from the streets of Flea Bottom.  

“I fear it will take a while to boil,” you remarked, looking down at the liquid, heat beginning to escape the surface. 

“I have nothing but time,” he’d hummed, silent until he heard the quiet bubbling from the pot before speaking again. “...You were crying. I heard you.” 

“I miss her.” 

“Our mothers were always the finest pair of friends,” he began slowly, eyes fixated on the floor. “Perhaps they are together like double stars. Never truly gone....” he trailed off before nervously looking up at you, eyes wide and cadence thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect a drunk man could be.  

“Maybe you are right,” you sighed, dipping one of your spare handkerchiefs into the boiling wine placing it upon the wound and holding it there. “How did you manage this, anyway?” 

Your touch was gentle, skin soft in a way a maesters’ wouldn’t have been, and, as you focused on slowly dabbing the blood away, didn’t notice how Daeron instinctively nuzzled his head towards your chest, eyes half lidded as he peered at you, gaze especially focused on your lips. He swayed, but you accounted that to the wine, or possibly a mild delirium.  

“It is just an iron gate. The walls of the Red Keep are impossible,” he laughed, swiping his tongue over his lips. “Luckily there are many secret routes that work to my favour.” 

“You speak as if you’ve tried.” 

“I have. My cousin caught me that time. He’s a fine lad, but I much prefer having you find me,” he spoke earnestly, eyes scanning your face for a reaction. Daeron saw your smile, but he didn’t feel your cheeks warm. 

“Must I keep a wineskin in my chambers for the next time you come to me bloodied?” 

He cocked his head, satisfied. 

“Why not? Might do you a favour when you get thirsty.” 

Perhaps it was because you hadn’t chastised his habits, or that the stars of your late mothers had spurred you together, or even a third thing in between, from that moment Daeron became attached to you more than ever before. On paper it made sense, you were a similar age and understanding, but most importantly you were the only female that wasn’t his sister, a septa or a whore. 

In essence, you were just what he needed. 

As for you, well, Daeron made you laugh, crack a smile at a time where it felt impossible to do so – and he was a great listener, content in simply resting his head on your shoulder whilst you nattered. It was always done away from the eyes of his father, but never Egg, who became almost like a brother to you also. With them, it was easy for one month to turn into two, and eventually, five.  

On the six month, with the wounds of your mother’s death slowly healed, you decided it was time to leave.

Daeron was staring at you.  

It wasn’t unfamiliar. He looked at you a lot. So much so you could tell he was sober without even sparing him a glance – his body was always impossibly still, not fidgety but focused. He’d joined you out on the grass for the afternoon and had lay beside you without a word, an arm draped over his eyes. The light stung.  

You’d learnt to enjoy each other’s company like this; usually you were doing some banal activity and Daeron would watch, tell you about his dream, or perhaps end up dozing off entirely, to which you’d leave him in whatever room or position only for him to find you and start the process all over again. You likened him to a stray. 

Moments passed before he broke the silence. 

“Do you think I should cut my hair? My sisters seem to think I would be much handsomer if I did.” 

You shrugged and kept reading. 

“The ends are the slightest uneven, but it suits you just fine.” 

Lazily, he pushed the messy blonde strands back with his fingertips and looked you up and down. 

“Would you care to cut it for me?” 

“Would you ask me to trim your beard, also?” you snickered. “There are a dozen maids who are trained to do that for you.” 

“Well, from what I’ve heard the mundane seems to be of a great interest to you.” 

Sarcasm lingering, Daeron didn’t look away, watching as you lowered your book but kept the pages open, using your finger to note where you’d stopped. You squared your shoulders and turned to look at him. 

“What did Egg tell you?” 

The blonde chuckled again, but it was far emptier than before.  

“He overheard…I know you’ve spoken to my father about leaving. About the motherhouse… becoming a novice.” 

You closed the book entirely, face falling as the weight of your secret was finally spoken aloud. It was easy to write to your father about it – even easier to speak to Maekar – but certainly not to Daeron. 

It wasn’t because you regretted your choice, but the nature of how he’d discovered – even if you couldn’t be mad at Egg – wishing you had taken the chance to speak to him slowly, rationally…on your own terms. You knew the revelation would sting regardless; this wasn’t a matter of a brief distance or separation, but a life away.  

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” you began, clearing your throat. “But you have to understand I’ve given it much thought. There have been nights I’ve barely slept.” 

“That makes for the both of us,” he grinned, before laying on his side, propping himself up by his elbow. “But it feels rather grand, don’t you think? You would leave this life behind? Truly?” 

The tremors in his top lip and fingers were now apparent, knuckles red as he loosely clutched at the blanket underneath you. 

“I was never supposed to stay here, Daeron,” you mused, fiddling with your beaded necklace. “This isn’t my home. Soon enough I would’ve had to return to my father, but…I’ve found such a peace in being away from it all. I don’t care to be a bride or carry the responsibility of the courts. Surely you understand?” 

“I do, but I don’t think anyone would disagree in that I am not designed to be a septon,” he said flatly, mind racing as he contemplated your reasoning. “You would never be able see us again. What of my sisters or Egg?” 

“Of course I will miss them,” you sighed. “Egg is a smart boy, I’m sure he’s already begun to understand. The girls have you. You are a well-meaning brother, I know that. I trust you will take care of them.” 

Rather ungracefully, Daeron snorted. 

“It’s wondrous to know you would put so much misplaced faith in me.”

Tutting, you lowered your chin, bringing your face slightly closer to Daeron’s in a failed attempt to avoid the rays of sunset from obscuring your view. What was a minor annoyance to you was a holy portrait to Daeron; the sun kissing the length of the outline of your body, appearing to him like an angel – or otherworldly being would. For a moment he was captured, in awe of the deity before him. 

“You used to tell me how Egg would climb into your bed at night when he was frightened. And now, here he is, still running to you when there’s something greater than him. Is that not enough to show he admires you?” 

His lips twisted into a messy line, somewhere between a grimace and a chuckle. It was painful, wasn’t it? You’d not yet officially become a novice and yet here you were, speaking like a skilled septa as if the Seven had designed you for the very role.  

The corner of his lips twitched. “But what of you? You would live a life of innocence, never to know the joys of the flesh?” 

“Daeron…” 

“It’s but a jest, but equally a worthwhile question,” he continued, lips parted as he watched you shift your weight. “It is a human instinct. Nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“It does not bother me,” you replied flatly before standing to your feet, smoothing your dress in the process. His ask had been the first of its kind; rightfully, you’d never spoken to Daeron about such things and had never expected to, and it made you all the more uncomfortable, like your skin had suddenly been plagued with mites or a horrid fever.

“Besides, I suppose you’ve done enough whoring for the both of us.” 

Daeron pulled a face, eyebrows upwards in equal shock and disgust at your sudden snipe. 

“I only asked out of curiosity.” 

“I do not shame your choices, yet you belittle mine. Unfortunately, my mind is decided and it is not your choice to make.” 

Your jaw was tight as you turned to leave defiantly, only to be stopped, physically, by the feeling of Daeron’s hand on your skirt. 

He’d reached out towards your hough, three fingers clinging to the lacy fabric, careful not to rip it but enough for him to make his presence known. 

Blonde strands obscured most of his face, but you could see his eyes clearly; bright blue and glossy, but beggared. Startled by the action you felt fused to the ground, stuck between wanting to walk away completely but also wanting to hear his reasoning. He was still the same Daeron, after all. 

“I’m sorry, that was crude of me – please…forgive me, would you? 

His voice was small and honest, more of a pauper than a prince. It was likely just a slip of the tongue, a young man saying the first thing that came to his mind instead of considering their impact first – harmless, really, but not enough to placate your very real and very current anger. You waved his hand away from your skirt and sighed. 

“Not now, Daeron. Let me be.” 

He relinquished, rather quickly, but you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your neck as you retreated back into the indoors, far away from the blazing sun. 

Full and crescent moons passed, indicating that the day of your departure grew nearer. Your family’s carriage was to arrive at Summerhall one morning, take you home before embarking on a long journey to King’s Landing and begin your training. Where the days had been long, they now seemed to lapse in rapid succession, and you wondered if it was because the gravity of your choice was now real.  

Daeron hadn’t spoken to you since the afternoon on the green, but it hadn’t stopped him from watching you from afar; peering into the dining hall when you would eat your dinners, or ‘accidentally’ walking past your chambers.

If he wasn’t hovering, then he disappeared completely, either in a cup or in a whore, something that was repeatedly made apparent to you by Egg. 

“Daeron’s out again, so I came to you. He told me he hurt you. I don’t think he meant it. He does silly things sometimes.” 

“I know,” was all you replied. “I was mad at him, but not anymore. We’re friends. It happens. One day you’ll understand that.” 

Little Egg, forever the messenger, must’ve carried word, as on the morning of your final day, amidst your dressing, you were greeted to a knock on the door. On the other side was Daeron, his hair tousled in a way that made him look rather handsome, eyes widening and seemingly straightening his back as you glimpsed at him. 

“For you,” he murmured, shrouding his body behind your door as he outstretched his hand. His palms were shaking, and squeezed under the weight of his clenched fist were the stems of an assortment of flowers, baby blue, pink and yellow. “A gift for your departure. I-It’s not much, I know, but jewellery seemed ill fitting…” 

With an exhale, you took them off him, momentarily soothing his trembling hand. 

“Thank you,” you said, voice firm but not rude. “I should finish gathering my things —“ 

“I can help you—“ he insisted in a raised tone. 

“I’ll be down for breakfast,” you cut him off, uneasy at the notion of the pair of you being alone. “You could see me there?” 

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“I listened to you. I-I left you alone like you wanted.” 

“I never asked for you to stop speaking to me.” 

“But you implied it. I just wanted to be good for - to you…” he corrected quickly. “Please. It is your last day.” 

You glanced down at the flowers – they were pretty - and back at Daeron’s trembling figure. It was so easy for him to break down your defences, tugging at your heartstrings with the great notion of friendship and eternity. You knew it would kill you if you left Summerhall on bad terms, never never able to truly rectify them again.  

“Allow me this moment, please?” You said softly. “I must sleep early as my carriage leaves at sunrise, but we can spend the afternoon together, I promise. Like the days of old.” 

“The days of old…” he contemplated, nodding. “If that is what you wish, my lady.” 

He backed away, and unbeknownst to you that would be the last time you would see him until late that evening, long past the afternoon and beyond supper. You’d queried everyone in sight, to which they shook their head or diverted their eyes — a reminder that his word would always carry more weight than yours. 

By the time the evening arrived you were sick, tired, exhausted by Daeron’s flakiness that you wished the moon would be replaced with the sun already.  

You were ready in your nightgown when a guard knocked for you, and sure enough Daeron was alongside a pair of them; hunched, sweating and looking plain awful.  

“He called for you,” they spoke flatly, guiding him into your arms the way a mother would a newborn. You didn’t argue, nor spare Daeron even a scolding glance, but took him, silently, arm around his waist as you guided him back towards his chambers. It was an arduous affair, he was drunk, and far heavier than you could’ve imagined, his arms around your shoulders feeling as if you were carrying a baby ox. 

Once you reached his room, you helped pull off his shoes, heaving him those final few steps to the bed, spine bouncing against the pillows.  

“I’m terribly sorry to wake you,” he drawled. “I-I just needed to…” 

“Talk? We’ve only had all day to do so, Daeron.” 

His lip wobbled. 

“One could say I had cold feet.” 

“We’re not getting married.” 

“No. It’s the opposite. A funeral of sorts. Both are lifelong, aren’t they?” He paused. “There were – things I wished to say to you, but I couldn’t bear it…” 

“Without help?” You replied. “We have been friends for a lifetime, Daeron. What is so difficult that you cannot say it without influence?” 

He didn’t reply, but thrust his head to the ceiling in exhaustion and began to paw at his clothes, trying to remove his tunic. 

“It is soon to be my twelfth moon, and yet I am the same man. A coward. It’s silly — I thought I reckoned with it…” 

You sighed, watching him fail to undress himself, and, in an act that would soon become you hamartia, decided to help him; fingertips grazing over his as you steadily undid the buttons.  

“You mustn’t think that way. Change is always possible.” 

“Not for men like me.” 

He paused and placed a clammy hand on your wrist, voice barely a whisper. He had that look again, the look you’d come to know as one of love, or at least intense affection. 

“Must you leave before my nameday?” 

You hadn’t done it intentionally. It was just a coincidence that happened to work in your favour.  

“Your father might make you a match. It would be inappropriate for me to remain here.” 

“I think he has given up with such a thing,” Daeron murmured, his grip still on your wrist. You’d discarded his outermost layer down the foot of the bed. “He’s always been wise under it all.” 

You pursed your lips. 

“He loves you.” 

“Do you?” Daeron said abruptly, and it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. “L-love me? I care not if you think me foolish, but I cannot imagine a life without you.” 

So that was what he’d wished to say. In a sense he’d said it many times throughout the months you were with him, but you’d been too passive, too ignorant to say. Now it was in-front of you, very real and too hard to ignore.  

“I care for you, Daeron,” you said honestly, swiping a tongue over your lips. “I do. But my call to the Seven is much stronger.” 

“It is grief talking. I know just how much it can consume… I know what it’s like to wake on the morrow and regret your choices.” 

“What are you suggesting?” you breathed, chest heaving and words unsteady. 

He tutted, and chuckled to himself.  

“My mother always thought we’d be a fine pair…let us indulge her wish, please. Marry me and I vow to make you happy for the rest of your life…I will be so good for you, I swear it…” 

His words were like an anchor, weighted and sharp, sinking right to the bottom of the ocean that was your heart. Had this revelation come earlier - had your mother never died - would you have accepted it? How true were the words he were speaking, and how much were influenced by the cup? It was impossible to look him in the eye, not when he was sweaty, shaky and on the verge of tears, for you feared you might see the sincerity in it all. 

“The arrangements have been made. I leave at sunrise.” 

Swallowing, you made an attempt to pull yourself up from the side of the bed, but Daeron gripped your forearm, his trimmed nails digging into your skin.  

“Then let us spend this moment together. You keep me still.” 

Daeron might’ve been nothing like his brother or cousin, but he was still a prince. Needy. Consuming. Unmistakably above you in terms of status. You might’ve been friends, but in the eyes of tradition and the way of the world you weren’t equals. You never would be. Even if you were married.  

The blond was nuzzling his head against your arm now, a sneaky hand wrapped around your waist as if to try and pull you onto the bed. You didn’t budge; instead, dignified, you gently cupped his cheek to placate him. 

“Daeron. I think it’s time for you to rest.” 

He listened, guided by his fondness for you and your light touch to his torso, pushing down on his soft stomach to guide him back to bed. Relaxed, it seemed he was about to give in completely when his grip, still around your waist, tightened, slowly becoming a silent battle for dominance.

He was strong – attributed to the liquid courage, no doubt – and before you knew it you were face-to-face with Daeron, all that was left were your legs dangling over the side of the bed. You were crudely balancing yourself on an elbow, the silk of your nightgown slowly sliding down, and showing off the bare skin of your collarbone and shoulders. He seemed content now, unabashed as his eyes fluttered over your body, tears still pooling in the corners and threatening to spill when he was ready. 

“My dear friend,” Daeron crooned, “it has been a silent torture to watch you grow into a woman. You’re beautiful, truly…” He paused, enough to let his words linger. “Might you gift me with a kiss? Just one?” 

A kiss was innocent enough, surely, and if there were anyone in the seven kingdoms to share your first one with it made sense to be your Daeron, right? You felt a little foolish as your heart raced as you brought your face towards his; ungraceful as you pressed a gentle peck to the corner of his mouth, tasting a mixture of salty sweat and sweet wine.

Unsure of where to place your hands you opted for the space between his pectorals, drawn closer to him by his hand pressed against the small of your back, the other on your face as he guided you to the centre of his mouth. You were kissing, properly now, Daeron leading messily – switching between his tongue flicking at your own, and eventually moving from your mouth entirely, kissing your cheek, up to your ear and back down to the crook of your neck.

He chose to nestle there, pink lips shiny from your saliva as he inhaled your scent. Intuitively, you cradled him. 

“I am going to miss you so,” he whined. “My heart…I adore you —Just let me hold you, please…” 

Opening your mouth to object, you felt a sudden wetness on your skin. He was crying – softly, but it was there all the same. How could you leave when he had no one else to cry to? His father? A whore? No, he was safest with the girl he’d known since he was a boy, his best friend who was soon about to leave him to serve a life of devotion…just not to him.

That was why you held him, traced soothing patterns on his bicep, and slowly let him strip you; pull at the tie of your nightgown to reveal your body and let him cup your breasts. You didn’t know how to feel as he let out a deep, ragged moan as he toyed with your nipples, placing a sloppy kiss to the flesh of them before taking them in his mouth, nor if the suckling sensation was pleasurable at all. He glanced up at you intermittently, desperate to see if you were coming undone the same way he was, but it ultimately didn’t seem to matter to him. 

You were like this for a few moments, slippery, but in a safe place until he slowly began to buck his hips against your legs. The fabric of your nightgown was sheer enough for you to feel his hardening manhood poking at your skin like a dagger, enough for you to grip his bicep. 

“Daeron —“ you stuttered, heat rising as he began to tug at his underwear, pulling enough of it down so that his shaft were freed. It slid fittingly between your thighs as Daeron’s fingers made their way to your privates, fingertips running over your folds with such a painful attentiveness, careful not to cross that invisible line. It sparkled, almost as if he were injecting life into you. 

“You burn for me as much as I do for you,” he slurred, satisfied as his eyes gleamed. Hard and throbbing, his privates twitched against you. 

“Do you feel that? That is my love…all for you…” 

Words evaded you, but none of it seemed to matter. Daeron’s mouth was back on your chest, squeezing the fat and latching onto your nipple as he began to pump himself between you, in a kind of unholy method of self soothing. 

You couldn’t gauge the length but it felt heavy, slick and slimy with his arousal as it glided between you, dangerously close to your entrance as his tip rubbed against the flesh of your ass.  He peered up at you for encouragement, and, sensing your hesitation, spoke gravely, like he were believing his own words. 

“Let us have this moment… I won’t — you will still be pure. It’s not wrong. I’ve – I’ve wanted to have you for so long, please…” 

His thrusts continued, cuddling into you as you passively placed a hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair. It mollified him no doubt, but was equally your way of making sense of it all. He’d always needed you, and you weren’t sure why you’d thought any different. Perhaps he would somehow arrange to have you become a Septa for his sisters, or whichever of his siblings had a child first. Maybe he would sin just so he could seek you out for confession. Whatever happened after this, he was imprinted on you for life. 

His motions grew uncoordinated, and, throwing his head back he let out an obscene moan, one that twisted your insides and made every nerve in your body quiver. 

“I’m almost there, my love…” he heaved, hair muffling his words. “Did you like that? You drive me mad. Madder than my dreams ever could. God’s above, let me worship you —“ 

His knuckles turned white as he gripped your ass, your thighs — any exposed area of skin – before he hastily reached down, hand snaking around his shaft and angling his wet, bulbous tip to your folds, not enough to penetrate but enough to feel the pressure against where you were sensitive. With a few strokes and furrowed brows he came, smearing his release like a paintbrush against your wetness, instinctively pushing as much of it into you as he could.  

Daeron collapsed completely, sticky forehead buried in your neck as his spent coated the valley between your thighs, slowly beginning to dry – all in a confusing picture for the maids to discover the next morning. He whispered sweet nothings in your ear before he began to fall asleep, dreaming of you, no doubt.

The hour had grown shamefully late by the time the last council parchment finally found its proper place.

Prince Baelor had spent the entire evening buried beneath duties that seemed determined to consume him piece by piece. Petitions. Correspondence. Endless disputes dressed in prettier language. By the end of it, even the candles in his solar had burned low and crooked with exhaustion.

So had he.

You saw it in the way his shoulders sagged slightly now that no courtiers remained to witness him. Saw it in the loosened collar at his throat, in the tiredness shadowing those mismatched eyes that had spent all day watching too carefully and speaking too wisely.

And gods, you loved him so much it physically hurt sometimes.

You stood beside the long table sorting the final stack of parchment while silence settled softly around the room. Outside the windows, King’s Landing slept beneath drifting darkness and distant torchlight. Inside, warmth flickered gold across shelves heavy with books and maps and the lingering remains of responsibility.

You heard him move behind you. Then, suddenly —warmth.

Baelor stopped directly at your back before lowering his forehead slowly against the crown of your head. The contact was so quiet, so weary, so unbearably intimate that your heart clenched instantly beneath your ribs.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply felt him there, large, warm and tired beyond words. His breath left him softly against your hair.

Something about the gesture felt dangerously vulnerable tonight. Less like affection and more like surrender. Like the weight of the day had finally become too much to carry upright.

Your hand left the parchment immediately and you turned slowly within the circle of his arms until you faced him properly. And by the Seven, the look in his eyes nearly undid you where you stood.

Need.

Not merely desire, but neediness in its rawest form, hidden beneath all the prince’s careful restraint. Love worn so openly it almost hurt to witness. Exhaustion too. Relief, longing. The terrible fragile softness he only ever allowed himself to show you.

Your hands rose instinctively to cradle his face. Baelor closed his eyes for half a heartbeat the moment your palms touched his skin.

“You are exhausted,” you whispered softly.

A faint breath of laughter escaped him, though there was no real amusement in it.

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Always.”

His eyes opened again slowly.

And there it was again —that unbearable tenderness in the way he looked at you. Like he loved you carefully. Like he loved you constantly. Like, perhaps, he did not even know how to stop anymore.

One of his hands settled lightly against your waist, almost hesitant. As though he still could not quite believe he was allowed this closeness with you.

“You should rest,” you murmured.

“I should.” Yet he made no move to step away. And neither did you.

The silence stretched warm between you, thick with something neither of you had named aloud yet despite how long it had existed.

Baelor’s gaze lowered briefly to your mouth, then immediately away again. Gods, he was still trying to restrain himself, even now.

You saw the effort of it written plainly across his face —the carefulness, the fear of wanting too much, the endless instinct to hold himself back lest he overwhelm you somehow.

The realization struck straight through your chest. So, you ended the distance yourself. Your fingers tightened softly against his bearded jaw as you rose onto your toes and kissed him.

Baelor inhaled sharply against your mouth. It felt almost physical, the exact moment that part of his restraint broke beneath the kiss. His hand tightened hard at your waist. The breath left him unevenly. And suddenly he was kissing you back with the full weight of his longing behind it, like he could not bear to waste a single second of finally having you this close.

He kissed you deeply, carefully at first, drinking in every soft sound you made as though he had starved for it. His other hand rose to cradle the back of your head with almost painful gentleness while your fingers slid into dark hair threaded silver beneath them.

The sound he made at that nearly ruined you. You felt him melt and unravel all at once.

“Gods,” he whispered brokenly against your mouth.

Then he kissed you again. And again. Like he physically could not stop now that he had begun.

The edge of the table pressed briefly against your behind as Baelor moved closer, large body surrounding yours entirely in warmth and steady overwhelming presence alike. Every touch remained careful despite the hunger growing beneath it, every movement restrained only by devotion. Like worship truly sat at the centre of his desire for you.

His forehead rested against yours for one trembling moment.

“You do not understand,” he murmured softly, voice rough with feeling, “how long I have wanted this.”

Your hands slipped over both sides of his neck, holding him close as you kissed him once more and felt the steady, thumping pulse of his life beneath your fingers.

Baelor exhaled shakily against your mouth before his hands slid more securely around your waist and he guided you backward slowly through the candlelit room toward the bed tucked behind carved screens.

Every step felt deliberate, intimate, devastatingly tender, like he was carrying something sacred toward an altar. And gods, the way he looked at you nearly stole the breath from your lungs entirely. Wonder. Love. A need so deep it had become almost holy.

Baelor knelt before you afterward for one suspended heartbeat, broad hands caressing their way up your right leg and taking hold of it, bending it at your knee just in front of his mouth, the hem of your gown spilled at both sides. His dark and light gaze, now almost even in its darkness, moved over your face through half-lidded eyes, looking at you with visible awe. Then slowly, reverently, he pressed a kiss against your knee just above the fabric of your stocking.

The tenderness of it shattered something inside you completely. Your hands found his shoulders for stability, feeling the warmth of his body through the dense fabric of his doublet.

When he looked back up at you again, his eyes were already wrecked with emotion. Like loving you this openly might destroy him. And perhaps he would gladly let it.

Baelor remained kneeling before you for several long heartbeats after pressing that kiss to your knee, as though he had forgotten how to breathe properly.

The candles burned low around the room, gold light flickering softly across the sharp lines of his face and the silver threaded through dark hair alike. Even from above, you could see the emotion still wrecking him openly now that the last walls of restraint had finally fallen.

No man had ever looked at you like this before, like devotion itself had taken human shape.

His hands rested lightly against your leg, large enough that warmth spread through you now that no layer of fabric separated them from the skin at the back of your thigh. Yet, despite the hunger in his eyes, he did not move further immediately.

That was Baelor.

Even now — undone, wanting, visibly trembling with it — he still treated you as though your comfort mattered more than his desire.

His gaze lifted slowly back to your face. “You are certain?” he asked quietly.

The tenderness in the question nearly shattered your heart.

You reached for him at once, fingers slipping and spanning across his face before gently guiding him closer to your body.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Baelor, yes.”

A shaky breath escaped him. His eyes closed briefly beneath your touch like reassurance itself physically affected him. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he let go of your leg and rose to his full height again, his arms circling you and reaching the laces of your gown.

And gods — he hesitated. Not because he did not want this. Because he wanted it too much.

You saw it plainly in the way his fingers trembled faintly against the fabric of your back, in the care with which he touched you, like he feared moving too quickly might somehow break the moment apart around him.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Yes.”

He undid the first set of laces with slow deliberate care, then paused again. His eyes lifted briefly to yours as though checking once more that you still wanted this, that you were still with him in this unfolding intimacy.

You almost laughed from sheer affection.

“Baelor,” you murmured warmly, “you may stop asking permission every half-breath.”

Heat crept faintly across his cheekbones at that.

“I do not wish to presume.”

“You could never.” The words visibly affected him.

His throat moved once before his gaze lowered again toward your gown. This time when he resumed undoing the lacing, his hands remained steadier, though reverence still clung stubbornly to every movement.

The fabric loosened slowly beneath his touch.

And all the while he looked at you as though committing every reaction to memory: the rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth blooming across your skin, the way your fingers tightened lightly over his chest whenever his knuckles brushed accidentally against bare flesh.

Gods, that seemed to affect him terribly.

Each new glimpse of skin made his expression soften further into something almost dazed. Like he could not quite believe he was being allowed this.

When the gown finally slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, Baelor inhaled sharply. The sound filled the quiet room, its silence otherwise only interrupted by the soft crackling of the hearth.

You felt his hands tighten instinctively at your waist over your thin chemise before gentleness returned immediately afterward, deliberate and careful despite the visible hunger beginning to darken his gaze.

For one suspended heartbeat, he simply looked at you. And gods, the emotion in his face nearly made your eyes sting.

“You are breathtakingly beautiful,” he said softly. A truth spoken with the full weight of his heart behind it.

The tenderness of it settled warm and aching beneath your ribs.

Baelor’s fingertips brushed lightly along your shoulders afterward, almost hesitant again, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin beneath his hands.

“You are still overdressed,” you whispered gently. That startled a quiet laugh from him at last.

“Are you growing impatient, my sweet girl?”

“Desperately,” you confessed.

The look he gave you afterward nearly ruined you outright. Something in him seemed to surrender almost completely then. Not restraint disappearing entirely — Baelor would always be careful with you — but the fear beneath it easing at last.

His hands moved more confidently after that, sliding slowly along your sides before drawing you nearer to the edge of the bed. He leaned forward until his forehead rested briefly against yours again, breathing unevenly while his fingers traced reverently across the newly bared skin of your shoulders.

“You have no idea,” he murmured softly, voice thick with feeling, “what you are doing to me.”

Your hands lifted then to the buttoning of his doublet, undoing them downwards with the practiced ease of a lady-in-waiting, no hesitance in them.

Baelor shuddered. For all his size and composure and quiet authority, he became terribly responsive beneath affection once he allowed himself to feel openly.

You pushed the dark fabric fully from his shoulders at last, his doublet made a dull thud as it hit the ground. Underneath it, light linen stretched across broad chest and strong arms alike. Your fingers slipped toward the hem of his chemise, pulling it up over his head.

As he lowered his head to help with your task, it was Baelor who trembled beneath your hands. And when you looked back up at him, those mismatched eyes held nothing now but naked devotion and want so deep it had become almost holy between you both.

Without moving away from his body, you took enough distance to observe his torso. His chest was covered with a fine layer of hair, which ran down his stomach to the waistband of his pants, where your gaze lingered but your treacherous mind wandered.

When your gaze climbed back again to his face, the look that you found in his eyes nearly burned straight through you. There was not lust alone, that would have been easier to survive. No, this was hunger tangled so tightly with devotion that it became almost unbearable to witness. His eyes moved over you slowly, reverently, as though he still could not quite comprehend that you were real and here and allowing him this.

And perhaps the worst part was how openly affected he looked by it.

His composure had already begun unravelling beneath your hands, but now you could physically see the strain of restraint pulling tighter through him. His breathing had deepened noticeably. One broad hand remained firm at your waist like he needed grounding there, thumb moving unconsciously against your skin while his gaze lingered helplessly on every newly bared inch of you.

Your hand slowly rose to his chest, where you placed it right above his galloping heart. You looked up at him and smiled tenderly at the look on his face.

“You are…” He stopped abruptly, visibly losing the thought entirely.

You smiled widened despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “What?”

Baelor looked almost frustrated by his own inability to answer. “Cruel,” he said hoarsely at last.

The sound of it shot warmth through you immediately. Because gods, this man wanted you. Deeply.

You could feel it in every trembling breath leaving him now. And suddenly you wanted to break the last remnants of that restraint apart completely.

Your hand slid upward behind his neck before he could fully anticipate the movement. Baelor inhaled sharply, and you pulled him down onto you as you took one last step back. The shift happened fast enough to startle a rough sound from him as his larger body landed carefully but heavily above yours against the mattress, broad arms catching his weight instantly on either side of your head.

The feeling of him there nearly stole your breath outright. Warm, heavy and entirely surrounding you.

Baelor froze for one stunned heartbeat afterward, those mismatched eyes of his staring down at you with open shock. Not because he disliked it, but because he had not expected you to lose control first.

The realization visibly destroyed him.

You felt it in the way his breathing roughened suddenly, in the instinctive tightening of his hands against the sheets beside your shoulders.

“Gods,” he whispered.

Your fingers remained tangled firmly at the back of his neck.

“I want you too, Baelor.”

That finished him. You watched the last fragments of composure finally collapse behind his eyes.

His forehead dropped briefly against yours as though the force of emotion physically overwhelmed him. Then his mouth found yours again with sudden desperate hunger, kissing you deeply enough to leave your heart hammering painfully against your ribs.

Now he kissed you like a man quenching his thirst after a drought.

His weight settled more fully over you, careful still despite the urgency beginning to thread through him, broad chest pressing warmly against yours while one large hand slid shakily along your side. Gods, he was trembling. That nearly undid you more than anything else.

Baelor broke the kiss with a rough breath, his eyes searched your face immediately.

“You are certain,” he asked again softly, almost painfully, “that this is what you want?”

The tenderness of the question while he looked visibly wrecked with desire nearly shattered your heart.

You cupped his face between your hands. “Yes,” you whispered firmly. “I want you.”

His expression afterward — you would remember it for the rest of your life. Something raw and emotional and desperately loving all at once, like those words struck somewhere deep enough inside him to ache.

Baelor kissed you again immediately afterward, slower this time but somehow even more devastating. One hand slid into your hair while the other held your hip securely beneath him, large enough to nearly span you entirely.

And gods, the reverence remained even through the hunger. Every touch still felt worshipful. Every kiss lingered. Every breath against your mouth carried the weight of restrained affection finally allowed to exist openly between you. Like he could not stop marvelling at the fact that you were truly here beneath him at last.

Baelor’s restraint finally broke in pieces. Not all at once — not violently — but like a dam giving way beneath too much pressure after too many years of careful holding.

His mouth still moved reverently against yours when suddenly his hands slid lower with newfound urgency, fingers tightening briefly against the thin fabric still separating him from your bare skin. Then, with a rough, uneven breath, he took the hem of your chemise and pulled it upwards, your body arching instinctively to allow him the movement.

It startled you. Not because it frightened you, but because it was the first thing he had done all evening without pausing to ask permission first. His breathing stopped for half a heartbeat as he tossed the fabric to an indeterminate point of the room, leaving you bare beneath him in the low candlelight.

Then he looked at you, truly looked, and whatever little remained of his composure shattered completely.

The sound that left him was low and rough and utterly wrecked. A growl. Like desire itself had finally clawed free from the careful prince who had spent so long trying to contain it.

Heat curled violently low in your stomach at the sound. Because gods, you had not thought him capable of making such a noise. Baelor seemed almost unaware he had done it at all. He sat back slightly straddling your thighs, broad chest rising heavily while his mismatched eyes moved slowly over your body with visible awe and hunger alike.

You had never seen him look less princely. Or more beautiful. You did not have the mind to discern it at that moment. What you knew was that every inch of him looked undone by wanting.

But it was the expression in his eyes that nearly stole your breath entirely. In those bright, merciful and peaceful eyes, you saw worship, like he had spent years praying quietly for something he never truly believed himself worthy of receiving.

And now you were there beneath him. Real and bare and wanting him back.

“You are a vision,” he muttered.

You reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing along his jaw. “Baelor.” The softness of your voice ruined him further.

His eyes closed briefly. His head bowed once like he physically felt the affection in your tone. Then suddenly he bent down over you again with all the hunger he had been trying desperately to restrain finally pouring free.

His mouth found your throat first. Not gentle now. Still careful but starving.

The first open-mouthed kiss he pressed beneath your jaw made your breath catch sharply. Baelor groaned against your skin, the vibration of it eliciting a moan from you, and gods, that seemed to encourage him further.

His mouth moved lower slowly, reverently, kissing and tasting every inch of skin he could reach as though he could not bear to leave any part of you untouched. The roughness of his beard against your throat sent heat rushing through you while his large hands slid along your arms, holding them above your head and over your spilled hair.

“Gods,” he murmured roughly against your collarbone before kissing lower again. “How I have longed for this.”

His mouth descended in its journey to your chest, first kissing your sternum and feeling the outrageous beating of your heart against his lips. The sheer devotion in the way he kissed you there made your entire body arch instinctively beneath him. Baelor groaned at the movement, his right arm moving under your body and holding you just like that with his hand fully extended across your back. His mouth lingered greedily against the warm skin of your chest, venturing to your left breast with wet kisses and circling its mount with his lips.

You moved the arm that Baelor's hand had let free and tangled your fingers into his hair immediately. He began playing with his tongue over your nipple. You clenched your eyes and emitted an open-mouth moan, entirely filthy in its nature.

Baelor shuddered hard. He released your nipple with a wet pop and lifted his head only enough to look at you again afterward, breathing heavily now, eyes darkened completely with desire and emotion alike.

And gods, when you looked back at him, the sight of him hovering above you like this, broad body surrounding yours entirely while devotion and hunger warred openly across his face, nearly made your heart stop inside your chest.

Like you had not merely been wanted by him. You had been yearned for.

Baelor settled more fully on top of you with a rough unsteady breath, large body surrounding yours in warmth and weight alike while candlelight flickered gold across the sharp lines of his face.

You had never seen him like this before. Not the careful prince. Not the composed Hand. Just a man hopelessly in love and finally allowing himself to want.

His right hand slid slowly downward across your body, trembling faintly despite all his size and strength. The movement alone sent goosebumps racing across your skin. He touched you like someone trying to memorize every inch at once, palm broad and warm as it drifted with loving fingers from the dip of your neck downwards over your chest before pausing there briefly.

The soft kneading of his hand against your left breast produced a sharp breath from within your throat. Baelor’s eyes lifted immediately to your face.

“There,” he murmured softly, voice already roughened by desire. “That sound… gods, just how I imagined it.”

The confession sent heat curling through you instantly, pooling lowly in your belly.

His hand continued lower afterward, reverent even through the growing hunger beginning to overtake him. Across your stomach, along your waist, fingertips tracing slowly enough to make your entire body tense in anticipation beneath him.

And through it all, he watched you. Constantly. Every reaction. Every breath. Every small movement beneath his hands. Like your pleasure mattered to him almost painfully much. Like he was committed to engrave your likings deep in his brain.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he whispered, leaning down to press another lingering kiss against your throat. “Do you know that? Gods—so wet—I do not think you understand what you do to me.”

His hand finally reached the apex between your thighs, and the sharp inhale that escaped you when he found the button of your clit seemed to strike directly through him.

Baelor groaned softly against your skin.

“There,” he breathed again, almost reverently. “Tell me if it feels good.”

The tenderness in the request nearly undid you.

You nodded quickly, your hands now occupying themselves with the hard planes of his chest. “Yes.”

A visibly emotional expression crossed his face at the answer, like your pleasure affected him nearly as deeply as his own desire.

“You have no idea,” he murmured while his forehead dropped briefly against yours, his ministrations continuing softly, “how difficult it is not to lose myself completely with you.”

One of his fingers slowly prodded at your entrance while his eyes analysed your face in search for any sort of discomfort. He grew bolder when he found none, and he finally inserted his digit inside you, his entire body tensed the moment he felt you open beneath his touch.

The reaction that crossed his face afterward looked almost unbearably emotional, like the intimacy of it struck him somewhere far deeper than simple desire. His forehead dropped briefly against yours while a rough, uneven breath escaped him, warm against your mouth.

You did not even realize that your eyes were clenched shut, your face contorted with pleasure. You opened them just to find his own — consumed by hunger — studying you.

“There you are,” he murmured softly, smiling when your brows knit together in pleasure. "My good girl."

The praise alone made your stomach tighten.

His digit remained impossibly gentle despite the growing hunger beginning to consume him piece by piece, which you noticed by the growing bulge on his pants as it pressed against you. Even now, with desire darkening his mismatched eyes and need visibly unravelling the last remnants of his composure, Baelor still touched you with reverence first.

You felt the slow careful pressure of another one of his fingers as he entered you, learning every reaction with almost painful attentiveness. The moment your breathing hitched harder beneath him, his gaze lifted instantly to your face.

“Too much?” he asked tenderly.

You shook your head quickly, fingers tightening against the back of his neck. “N— no.”

Baelor exhaled shakily at the answer.

The silver threaded through his short dark hair caught softly in the candlelight as he bent his head again, pressing lingering kisses along your jaw and throat while his two fingers continued moving inside of your cunt, flexing at the perfect spot and making you whimper.

“You feel—” His voice faltered briefly. “Gods.” The broken sound of it sent heat rushing through you instantly.

His beard brushed warmly against the skin of your chest as he kissed it and accelerated the movement of his fingers. The tension coiled in your belly made you emit the most sinful sounds, and you tried your best to hide them, covering your mouth with a shaky hand as the other remained on his chest.

Baelor noticed the movement and frowned when he rose his head, taking the offending hand from your mouth with his left one and pining your wrist to the mattress over your head. Without it, your sounds were impossible to muzzle.

“There,” he whispered looking at you. “I want to hear you.”

The sounds that spilled from you now were entirely beyond your control.

Baelor seemed to know it. The quiet authority that had surfaced in him when he pulled your hand away did not retreat — if anything, it settled more firmly into his bearing, into the deliberate unhurried way he watched your face while his fingers continued their work beneath him.

“You are taking it so well, my love,” he murmured softly. A quiet command dressed as encouragement.

His grip on your pinned wrist remained gentle but immovable. Like he had made a decision and intended to keep it. The contrast of it — his tenderness everywhere else against that one firm hold — sent heat coiling violently tighter through your belly.

His fingers flexed deeper inside you and you gasped sharply, your free hand scrabbling instinctively at his shoulder.

Baelor’s jaw tightened.

“I feel you,” he breathed, voice dropped low enough that it seemed to vibrate against your collarbone where his mouth still lingered. “Do not hide from me.”

The words undid something in you completely.

Because gods, it was not a plea. It was quiet and certain and entirely him. The same authority he carried in a war council, in a throne room, distilled now into something devastatingly intimate. Like he simply expected you to give him everything and had full confidence that you would.

And you did.

The tension that had been coiling mercilessly through your belly finally snapped apart.

Your back arched sharply off the mattress, a broken sound tearing free from your throat that you could not have smothered even if he had allowed you to try. Baelor made a rough noise against your skin at the sound of it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing every last shudder from you with careful devastating patience while your thighs trembled on either side of his hand.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered. The words were wrecked. Reverent. Like watching you come undone was the most extraordinary thing he had ever witnessed in his life.

His fingers stilled gradually as the trembling ebbed from your body, remaining where they were for a long, suspended moment as though reluctant to lose the closeness of it. His grip on your wrist loosened at last, thumb brushing once across your pulse point before releasing you entirely.

When you finally found the presence of mind to open your eyes, Baelor was looking down at you.

And gods, the expression on his face.

Wonder, naked and unguarded. Emotion so raw it sat plainly across every feature without apology or restraint. His breathing was uneven, chest rising heavily above yours, and beneath the hunger still darkening his mismatched eyes there was something else entirely. Something that looked terribly close to reverence.

Like he had been trusted with something sacred and intended to spend the rest of his life being worthy of it.

“Baelor,” you managed softly. Your voice came out like a wrecked half-moan.

His throat moved. His free hand rose slowly to push a strand of hair from your face with fingers that still trembled faintly.

“I have you,” he murmured. Simply. Completely.

The aftershocks were still moving through you in soft waves when the wanting hit you like something physical. Not gradually. All at once.

Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up with them, fingers finding the hem of his trousers with clumsy, graceless urgency. The laces resisted you immediately. Your hands were still trembling — from the orgasm, from the heat still pooling low in your belly, from the simple overwhelming need of him — and the knot refused to cooperate with fingers that could not seem to remember how to function properly.

You made a frustrated sound against his shoulder.

Above you, Baelor stilled.

Then, slowly, you felt it. The quiet shaking of his chest. A sound escaped him that you had never heard before — low and warm and entirely unguarded. A laugh. Soft and tender and helplessly fond, like the sight of you undone and fumbling and desperately wanting had broken something open in him that dignity could no longer contain.

“You seem to be struggling,” he murmured, voice still rough with desire but threaded now with unmistakable amusement.

“I am not,” you said immediately.

The laces defeated you again. Completely.

Baelor laughed once more, the sound of it settling warm against the top of your head where he had pressed his mouth. Gods, even his laugh was careful with you.

“I think you are,” he said softly. “Terribly.”

You looked up at him then with what you hoped was dignity and suspected was nothing of the sort. His mismatched eyes were bright with open affection, the hunger still darkening them unable to fully suppress the tenderness sitting alongside it. He looked younger like this. Less the Prince, less the Hand. Simply a man quietly delighted by the woman beneath him.

“Then help me,” you said plainly.

Something shifted in his expression at that. The amusement did not disappear but deepened into something warmer and more devastating beneath it.

“So impatient,” he murmured. Not a criticism. Pure adoration.

“Baelor.” His name left you as something dangerously close to a whine.

His jaw moved. Like the sound of it affected him physically.

“Gods,” he breathed. “Do you have any idea—” He stopped. Exhaled roughly. “The things you do to me when you say my name like that.”

“Then stop making me wait,” you whispered.

That finished whatever remained of his amusement.

He rose from your body and his hands moved immediately with steady deliberate fingers that made quick, efficient work of the laces yours had so thoroughly failed to conquer. The contrast of it — your trembling helplessness against his calm sureness — sent heat rushing through you all over again.

But he slowed as the fabric loosened. Of course he did. Even now.

His eyes lifted to yours as his hands stilled at the waistband.

“Still certain?” he asked quietly. The question was softer this time, less fearful than before, more simply his — the instinct to check, to be sure, woven so deeply into him it surfaced even through naked want.

You reached up and touched his chest. “More than I have ever been of anything.”

The breath that left him was long and unsteady.

Then he pushed the last of the fabric down and away entirely, and for one suspended heartbeat the candlelight caught every line of him above you, and gods, you forgot, momentarily, how to breathe.

He hooked his thumbs beneath the hem of his briefs and pushed them down in one slow, unhurried movement to finally discard them. The candlelight caught him fully then, and you—

Stared.

Completely. Unabashedly. Without a single pretence of composure.

He was beautiful. Broad shouldered and lean hipped, all hard planes and warm skin dusted with dark hair that tapered down his stomach and framed him where he stood fully hard above your body. And gods, that— your mouth went dry entirely. He was thick and heavy and flushed dark with wanting, curved slightly upward in a way that made heat pool so violently low in your belly it nearly hurt.

You were fairly certain you stopped breathing for several seconds.

When you finally dragged your gaze back up to his face, Baelor was watching you, and the expression sitting across those sharp features was something entirely new.

Gone was the careful restraint. Gone was the trembling vulnerability. In its place sat something quieter and infinitely more dangerous — a small, unhurried smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His chin had lifted almost imperceptibly. Those mismatched eyes moved over your face with full, calm awareness of exactly what he was doing to you.

Gods. He knew.

“You are staring,” he said softly.

“I am aware,” you managed.

The smile deepened fractionally. Not arrogance — not quite. Something more honest than that. The simple, unguarded satisfaction of a man who had spent the entire evening coming undone beneath your hands finally watching the scales tip the other way entirely.

He liked this. The evidence of your wanting written so plainly across your face. He liked it terribly.

He lowered himself over you again slowly, the warmth of his body settling against yours, and you felt him — all of him — hot and heavy against your inner thigh. The contact alone dragged a sharp breath from you.

Baelor’s smile had not fully faded.

“I am not going anywhere,” he said quietly as if he knew your thoughts even before you voiced them. Then, softer still, with the pride retreating just enough to let the devotion back through, “I have wanted nowhere else for a very long time.”

His hand slid beneath your thigh, drawing it upward gently, repositioning you beneath him with that same careful deliberateness that characterised everything he did. His forehead dropped against yours. His breathing had deepened again, chest rising heavily, the last traces of amusement dissolving now into something rawer.

The blunt heat of him pressed against your entrance and you inhaled sharply.

Baelor stilled immediately.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You opened your eyes. Found his already waiting.

“I want to see your face,” he said simply. “When I—” His voice faltered for just a moment, emotion roughening the edges of it. “I want to see you.”

Your hands slid up his back and held.

“Then look,” you whispered.

A shaky breath escaped him, and slowly, with the same devastating reverence he had given everything else tonight, Baelor pushed inside you. The sound that left you was immediate and helpless, swallowed only partially by the quiet of the room.

Baelor made no sound at all.

He simply stopped. Buried only partially inside you, arms braced on either side of your head, every muscle in his body drawn taut as a bowstring. His eyes had fallen shut despite himself. His jaw was clenched. His breathing had ceased entirely for one suspended, trembling moment like he did not trust himself to do several things at once.

Then, roughly—

“Gods.”

Just that. Like the word had been torn from somewhere deep.

You felt him twitch inside you and clenched instinctively, and the sound that escaped him then was nothing like the careful prince who had spent all evening restraining himself. Low and rough and entirely wrecked, pressed into the skin of your throat where his forehead had dropped like his neck could no longer support the weight of the feeling.

“Do not—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Give me a moment.”

The vulnerability of it nearly shattered your heart completely. This man. This enormous, careful, quietly commanding man, undone to his foundations by the simple fact of finally being inside you.

“Take all the time you need,” you whispered, caressing the back of his head with delicate nails.

A broken exhale left him.

His hips pressed forward again slowly then, sinking deeper by careful degrees, and you felt every inch of it — the stretch of him, the fullness, the overwhelming warmth — your fingers dug into the muscles of his back hard enough to leave marks and you did not care even slightly.

“You feel—” His voice failed completely.

“I know,” you breathed.

“No.” His hips pressed flush against yours at last and he lifted his head, finding your eyes with his own, and gods the look in them— “You do not. You cannot.”

He was fully seated inside you now. The completeness of it stole rational thought entirely.

For a long trembling moment neither of you moved. His mismatched eyes searched your face with that relentless attentiveness, checking, reading, memorising. One broad hand cradled the side of your face with fingers that still shook faintly.

“Are you—”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “Baelor. Yes.”

Something in him released.

He drew back slowly and thrust forward again and the sound you made echoed off the stone walls of the solar with absolutely no dignity whatsoever. Baelor groaned low against your jaw, hips finding a rhythm that was deliberate — unhurried, deep, devastating in its patience. Like he intended to take you apart piece by piece and wanted to savour every single moment of the process.

“There,” he breathed against your throat. “Gods— there.”

His hand slid beneath your lower back, tilting your hips upward, and the new angle made white bloom briefly at the edges of your vision.

You cried out his name. Baelor shuddered head to toe.

“Again,” he said lowly. Not a request. That quiet command again, surfacing through the devotion like steel beneath velvet. His lips brushed your ear. “I want to hear you again.”

You gave him exactly what he asked for.

His rhythm deepened. The careful restraint was thinning now, each movement carrying more urgency than the last, his breathing ragged and warm against your throat, your name leaving his mouth between broken exhales like a prayer he had been saying privately for years and was only now finally allowed to speak aloud.

The hand cradling your face slid into your hair.

“Look at me,” he murmured again, pulling back just enough to find your eyes. His own were completely dark now, blown wide with desire, but the emotion in them had not diminished even slightly. If anything, it had deepened, made more naked by the hunger surrounding it. “Stay with me.”

“I am here,” you managed breathlessly. “I am here—," you moaned.

Like he needed the confirmation. Like even now, with your bodies pressed together and no possible closer he could get, some part of him still feared waking up.

The tension was coiling through you again already, rebuilt with terrifying speed, and you felt Baelor’s composure finally fracturing completely above you — his hips losing their careful deliberateness in favour of something more urgent, deeper, his broad chest pressing against yours while one hand gripped your hip hard enough that you would likely find the ghost of his fingers there tomorrow morning and feel nothing but fondness about it.

“Baelor—” His name left you broken and wanting.

“I know,” he said roughly. “I know. Come apart for me.”

And gods help you, you did exactly as he asked.

You felt it building in him as well before it broke — the rhythm losing its careful edges, his breathing coming ragged and uneven against your throat, the hand gripping your hip tightening past the point of deliberateness into something rawer and more desperate beneath it.

And gods, you wanted more.

“Baelor.” Your hands found his face, pulling it up from your throat until those wrecked mismatched eyes found yours. His hips stuttered briefly at the interruption, a rough sound escaping him at being made to pause. “This is not a council,” you whispered. “You need not pretend.”

The effect was instantaneous. Something behind his eyes simply collapsed. Not gradually. Not with the careful measured giving-way you had watched all evening. All at once, like the last stone pulled from the base of a wall.

His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. The breath that left him was long and unsteady and when he looked at you again the careful prince was simply gone — what remained was just a man, enormous and wanting and finally, finally done pretending otherwise.

“Hold on to me,” he said. Low. Certain. A voice you had never heard from him before.

You barely had time to comply.

His arms swept beneath you — one across your back, one beneath your thighs — and he lifted you from the mattress entirely like you weighed nothing of consequence. A startled sound escaped you, hands flying to his shoulders as the world rearranged itself. Then he was on his knees, broad and steady in the middle of the bed, and you were in his lap, chest to chest, his arms locked around you like iron wrapped in warmth.

The new angle drove him so deep your vision went white at the edges.

“Baelor—”

“I have you,” he said roughly against your temple. “I have you.”

And gods, he did.

His hands spread wide across your back, fingers spanning the full breadth of it, and the sheer size of them against your skin sent heat crashing through you so violently you trembled. You felt small. Completely, devastatingly, wonderfully small — surrounded entirely by the warmth and solidity of him, your feet not reaching the mattress, your body entirely dependent on the strength of his arms to remain upright.

Baelor seemed to feel the effect it had on you.

A rough sound left him. Something dark and knowing and entirely unlike anything the careful prince would have allowed himself.

“Do you like it when I handle you like this?” he murmured against your ear.

You buried your face against his throat rather than answer. Which was, of course, answer enough.

A low sound resonated in his chest. “Gods.” His arms tightened fractionally around you, making the point of your smallness against him unavoidable. “I have thought about this.” His lips brushed your temple. “Having you like this. Being able to—” His hips rolled upward beneath you and stole the rest of the sentence entirely from his mouth.

You cried out against his shoulder.

Baelor moved then — properly, fully, with none of the careful deliberateness of before. His hips moved with a newfound deep, rolling rhythm that the position made devastating, each movement pressing you closer against his chest while his arms held you utterly immovable against him. The sounds filling the room now were entirely beyond either of your controls.

And still — still — even through the urgency, even with the last of his restraint finally abandoned — his hands never stopped being careful with you. One broad palm cradled the back of your head. The other held you against him like something precious.

Undone completely. Gentle to the last.

“Look at me,” he said roughly, pulling back enough to find your face. His own was wrecked beyond recovery — flushed, breathing ragged, eyes dark and devastatingly open. No composure. No careful princely distance. Just him, stripped entirely bare. “I want—” His voice broke. “I want to see you when you come apart around me.”

Your fingers twisted into the dark silver-threaded hair at the back of his neck and held. “Do not stop. Baelor, do not stop—,” your voice finally broke.

He did not stop.

His forehead dropped against the crook of your neck, both of you breathing the same broken air, his arms impossibly tight around you as he drove deeper still and the tension inside you wound so tight it became almost unbearable —

“There,” he breathed fiercely against your mouth. “There— give it to me—”

You shattered.

The sound you made was entirely ruinous and you felt Baelor shake around you as it left you — a full body tremor moving through all that size and warmth and strength — his own composure finally, completely gone as he followed you over the edge with your name on his lips like something holy.

For a long, suspended moment afterward neither of you existed as anything other than two people breathing hard against each other in the candlelit dark.

Then Baelor’s arms shifted — still holding, but softer now. Cradling rather than gripping. His lips pressed slowly against your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Each one unhurried and deliberate, like he was returning piece by piece to himself and finding you still there each time.

“Gods,” he said finally. Quietly. Into your hair.

You laughed — breathless and undone and entirely helpless against it.

His chest moved beneath you in response. That low warm laugh again, the unguarded one, the one you suspected very few people had ever been trusted enough to hear. His arms tightened once more briefly. Like punctuation. Like mine.

The candles had burned lower still by the time the world returned to you fully.

You were aware of things in pieces. The warmth of him first — overwhelming and immediate, his large body curled around yours where he had laid you both down against the pillows with the same careful deliberateness he gave everything. The sound of his breathing next, slow and deep and evening out gradually above your head. The weight of his arm across your waist, heavy and certain and entirely unwilling to create even an inch of distance between you.

Baelor’s lips pressed into your hair. Once. Then again. Like he could not quite stop.

“Are you with me?” he murmured softly.

The question was so him that something ached sweetly behind your ribs.

“Entirely,” you whispered. A long slow breath left him at that. His arm drew you fractionally closer.

For a while neither of you spoke. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting the room in deep amber and shadow, and outside the windows King’s Landing remained sleeping and entirely unaware that something irrevocable had just occurred within these walls.

Baelor moved eventually — not away, never away — only enough to press his lips to your temple with a tenderness so quiet it made your eyes sting unexpectedly.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“No.” You turned your face up toward his. “Not in the slightest.”

He searched your expression for a long moment with those mismatched eyes, reading you the way he read everything — carefully, thoroughly, leaving nothing unexamined. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him. The faint line between his brows eased.

“Good,” he said simply.

His hand moved then — slow and unhurried, trailing lightly up and down your arm in a rhythm that felt entirely unconscious. Like touching you had already become something his hands did without instruction. Like they had simply decided this was where they belonged and saw no reason to argue the point.

You watched his face in the low light.

The composure had not fully returned yet. Perhaps it would not, tonight. His features remained soft in a way you had never seen them in council chambers or great halls — open and unguarded and terribly young somehow, stripped of every layer of careful princely distance. He looked like a man who had set down a very heavy thing and was only now beginning to understand how long he had been carrying it.

“You are thinking,” you observed softly.

The corner of his mouth moved. “I am always thinking.”

“Not like this.” You reached up and smoothed a thumb across the furrow that had begun forming between his brows without his apparent awareness. He closed his eyes briefly at the touch. “What is it?”

A long pause.

“I am trying,” he said quietly, “to decide whether this is real.”

The words landed somewhere directly in the centre of your chest.

“I am aware of how it sounds.” A faint self-deprecating breath. “A grown man. A prince of the realm.” His eyes opened and found yours, and the vulnerability in them was so naked it nearly took your breath away. “And yet I find I cannot entirely convince myself that I will not wake.”

You rose up slowly onto your elbow until you were looking down at him properly. His dark hair was thoroughly dishevelled against the pillow, silver threads catching the last of the candlelight, and he looked up at you with that open undefended expression and gods —

You loved him so much it lived in your bones.

Your hand took his and guided it to the centre your chest. Rested there above the steady thumping of your heart.

“Feel that?” you asked quietly.

“Yes,” he murmured.

“That is real. I am real.” You leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, felt him exhale softly against your cheek. “And I am not going anywhere.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then his arms came around you fully, gathering you down against his chest with a care that made your heart clench, his chin resting against the crown of your head and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“No,” he agreed quietly. Something settled in the word. Like a decision made and kept. “Neither am I.”

His hand moved slowly through your hair.

Outside, a distant bell marked some late hour over the sleeping city. Inside, the last candle guttered softly in its holder.

Baelor pressed one more kiss into your hair before his breathing began to slow and deepen, the exhaustion of the day and the evening and the full weight of finally having allowed himself to want something catching up with him at last.

And just before sleep took him entirely, so quiet you almost missed it—

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For not letting me hold back.”

You said nothing. Only pressed closer against the warmth of his chest and felt him breathe and let the words settle around you both like something sacred.

The city slept. The candles burned out one by one. And Baelor Breakspear, Prince of Dragonstone, held you in the dark and finally, finally rested.

You were almost asleep when it occurred to you, though. The thought arrived quietly at first, then with increasing and somewhat horrifying clarity.

Tomorrow morning you would rise from this bed — from Baelor’s bed, in Baelor’s solar — straighten your gown, and walk directly back to the chambers of Queen Myriah. His mother. The woman whose correspondence you organised, whose hair you dressed, whose daily confidence you held with practiced discretion and absolute loyalty.

You would look her in the eye, and she would look at you. And you would have to be normal about it.

Above your head, Baelor breathed slowly and peacefully, entirely unbothered, his arm still warm and immovable across your waist. You stared at the carved ceiling in the darkness and contemplated your situation with the full sobriety it deserved.

You had just slept with the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it — small and helpless and slightly hysterical — muffled quickly against his chest.

Baelor stirred faintly. “Mm.”

“Nothing,” you whispered immediately. “Sleep.”

A drowsy sound left him. His arm tightened once across your waist and he stilled again, breathing evening back out within moments. You stared at the ceiling a while longer. Tomorrow, you decided, was a problem for tomorrow’s version of you.

Tonight you were warm and held and loved by a man who had looked at you like you hung the stars, and no amount of impending self-conscious eye contact with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was going to take that from you.

You closed your eyes. Tomorrow could wait.

A.N.: This is my first smut-centered work! Well, this and Maekar's, which you can expect somewhere along the week (I still have to proofread some parts).

Baelor had faced a lot of things without flinching.

He had stood in war councils where men argued about acceptable losses with the particular detachment of people discussing grain yields. He had ridden into battles where the outcome was genuinely uncertain. He had sat beside his father through long nights of difficult governance and never once let the weight of it show on his face in ways that would not serve the room.

He had believed himself, if not fearless, then at least practiced in the management of fear.

He had not, it turned out, ever been truly afraid before.

This was afraid.

You had been in labour since before dawn. The maester had assured him twice now that everything was progressing as it should, which was the sort of statement that contained enormous room for interpretation and therefore provided approximately no comfort whatsoever. The women moved around the chamber with purposeful efficiency. Candles burned. The fire had been built high.

And you were — gods, you were extraordinary.

That was the thing that kept striking him at irregular intervals, breaking through the fear with the force of something obvious that he nonetheless kept rediscovering. You were working harder than he had ever seen any person work at anything, with a focused endurance that humbled him completely, and between the waves of it you looked at him with those exhausted clear eyes and occasionally squeezed his hand and once told him he was allowed to tend to other matters if he needed to.

He did not even make the slightest attempt to move.

He stayed exactly where you needed him, which was beside you, holding your hand with both of his and being as steady as he knew how to be while internally dismantling at a rate he hoped was not visible on his face.

“You are doing wonderfully,” he said quietly, during a brief respite.

“You do not have to—” a sharp breath. “—say that.”

“I am not saying it to be kind, my love. I am saying it because it is true and you should know it.”

You looked at him. Even exhausted, even in the middle of something that was consuming your entire body, you looked at him with that expression that had always made him feel simultaneously seen through and held.

“You are terrified,” you said softly.

“I am perfectly—”

“Baelor.”

A pause.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Somewhat.”

Your fingers tightened around his.

“Me too,” you said. “Stay close.”

“I am not going anywhere,” he said while approaching to kiss the crown of your head. “I promise you I am not going anywhere.”

The baby arrived as the afternoon light turned gold through the windows.

Baelor heard the cry before he saw anything else — small and furious and immediate, announcing itself to the room with the complete conviction of someone who had things to say — and something happened in his chest that he did not have a name for.

At least not yet.

The maester’s voice. The women moving. And then, after a small eternity measured in held breath—

“A girl, your grace. Healthy. Perfect.”

You made a sound that he would remember for the rest of his life.

He looked at you first. Always you first. Your face, tear-streaked and exhausted and suffused with something so luminous it barely seemed like an ordinary human expression — relief and love and wonder all arriving simultaneously and too large for any single face to contain cleanly.

“Baelor,” you said. Barely above a whisper.

“I am here, my love.” He brought your hand to his lips. “I am right here.”

Then the midwife was beside him and there was a bundle of linen and a very small face and she was saying something about holding her and he was—

He was holding his daughter.

The world went very quiet.

She was— gods, she was so small. He had known, in the abstract, that newborns were small. He had not understood, in any way that mattered, what small would mean until this moment — until he was standing here with her cradled in arms that had carried swords and shields and all the heavy machinery of war and finding that she occupied barely a fraction of the space. Her entire self fitting within the span of his chest. Her head, impossibly small, resting in the crook of his elbow.

She had stopped crying.

She was looking at him — or looking in his direction, her dark unfocused eyes finding his face with the vague determined attention of someone trying to make sense of entirely new information — and he was looking back at her and the world had narrowed to exactly this.

This small person. This extraordinary, perfect, impossibly small person.

He was not aware of the tears until one landed on the linen and he blinked and discovered, with some distant surprise, that his vision had become blurry.

He did not attempt to correct it.

“Baelor.” Your voice, soft and wondering.

He looked up.

You were watching him from the bed with an expression he had never seen from you before. Something that contained all the love he had ever felt from you and something additional besides — something that seemed to arrive specifically from the image of him standing there holding her, from the particular sight of those large careful hands cradling something so small and fragile with such absolute and instinctive gentleness.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He crossed to the bed. Sat carefully beside you. Adjusted his hold so you could see her face and he could see yours and she was between you both in the golden afternoon light and he thought, with the total clarity of a man who has just had something fundamental rearranged inside him—

This.

This was the thing everything else had been in service of. Every council, every campaign, every careful year of doing what was right and needed. It had all been moving toward this room, this light, this small face between them.

“She is perfect,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended.

“She is.” You leaned your head against his shoulder. “What do you think she will be like?”

Baelor looked down at his daughter, who had reached a conclusion about his face and seemed to find it acceptable, her tiny features arranged in an expression of profound seriousness.

“Formidable,” he said quietly. “If she gets the traits of her mother.”

You laughed, soft and exhausted and warm against his shoulder. His daughter, apparently opinionated about the noise, made a small sound of commentary.

Baelor felt something move through him that he understood, with complete and quiet certainty, was going to be the dominant experience of the rest of his life.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then to yours.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair. For her. For this. For all of it.

You said nothing. Simply tucked yourself more firmly against his side and looked at your daughter in his arms with that luminous exhausted expression.

The afternoon light moved slowly across the room. Outside, the world continued with its business. In here, the three of you existed in the particular golden quiet of something just beginning.

And Baelor Targaryen, who had faced many things without flinching, held his daughter in careful hands and felt, for the first time in his life, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The maester had made the mistake, approximately two hours into the labour, of suggesting that Prince Maekar might be more comfortable waiting in the adjoining chamber.

He had not suggested it again.

Maekar stood at your bedside with his arms crossed and his jaw set and the expression of a man conducting a military assessment of every person in the room and finding most of them wanting. He had said nothing for several minutes, which you had learned over the years was not the same as him being calm. Maekar silent was Maekar building toward something.

You recognised the signs.

“He is moving too slowly,” Maekar said. Quietly. To you, but loudly enough.

“He is moving at the correct pace,” you said.

“How would you know what the correct—”

“Maekar.” You said his name with the specific weight that meant not now and felt his hand tighten around yours in response.

A pause.

“He should be doing something,” he said. Lower this time.

“He is doing something. Several things. You are simply not qualified to evaluate them.”

A sharp look. “I am perfectly capable of—”

Another wave of pain hit you and whatever he had been about to say dissolved instantly. His hand tightened further around yours — not hurting, never hurting, but gripping with the focused urgency of a man who had decided that holding your hand was the one useful function available to him and intended to perform it to the absolute best of his ability.

“Breathe,” he said roughly.

“I am aware of how breathing works.”

“You were holding it.”

“I was managing it.”

“Breathe properly.”

“Maekar—”

“Please.”

You breathed properly.

He exhaled when you did, which told you everything about the state of him that his expression was working so hard to conceal.

An hour later, though, he had progressed from silent assessment to active commentary.

“That draught he gave you an hour ago,” Maekar said, his eyes tracking the maester across the room with the focused attention he usually reserved for opposing forces on a battlefield. “I want to know what was in it.”

“It was for the pain.”

“I know what it was for. I want to know what was in it.”

“Maekar—”

“I am asking a reasonable question.”

“You are interrogating a man who is trying to help me deliver our child.”

“I am ensuring the man helping you deliver our child is doing so competently.”

The maester, to his considerable credit, had developed over the course of the afternoon a practiced ability to continue working while being watched with open suspicion by a Targaryen prince. You made a mental note to thank him afterward. Possibly with a substantial gift.

“My prince,” the maester said, with the careful diplomacy of a man navigating a known hazard, “I assure your grace that everything is progressing—”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“And it remains true, your grace.”

“Then why—”

“Maekar.” You squeezed his hand hard enough to redirect his attention. He turned immediately, violet eyes finding your face with that instinctive priority he had always given you over everything else in any room. “Look at me.”

He looked at you. The aggression in his posture dropping several degrees the moment his focus narrowed to your face.

“Come here,” you said. He obeyed instantly “You are frightening them.”

“I am not frightening anyone. I am asking reasonable—”

“You are frightening everyone including me slightly, and I know you.”

His jaw tightened. “I am not trying to—”

“I know.” You brought his hand to your cheek, held it there the way he could never quite resist. Felt him go still beneath it immediately, the tension not disappearing but quieting. “I know you’re not. But I need you here.” A beat. “With me. Not over there making the maester nervous.”

A long pause.

“He should not be nervous,” Maekar muttered. “He should be competent.”

“He is both. They are not mutually exclusive.” You held his gaze. “Stay with me.”

His thumb moved against your cheek.

“I am not going anywhere,” he said roughly.

“I know. But stay with me. Here.” You pressed his hand more firmly against your face. “Stop watching him and watch me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The frustrated helpless energy of a man built for action being asked to simply endure settling into something quieter and more painful beneath the surface.

“I cannot do anything,” he said. Very quietly, just for you. “I cannot — there is nothing I can—”

“You are here,” you said. “That is everything. That is all I need.”

His throat moved.

“That is not enough,” he said. “It is not sufficient—”

“Maekar.” You waited until his eyes found yours fully. “It is enough. You are enough. Just hold my hand and stay with me.”

A long shaking breath left him.

He stayed. For about forty minutes before the maester said something about positioning that Maekar found professionally inadequate and you had to grip his wrist with both hands to prevent him from offering a detailed counter-assessment.

“He is wrong,” Maekar said, with quiet fury.

“He has delivered hundreds of babies before this one, my love.”

“That does not mean he cannot be wrong about—”

“Maekar Targaryen.” Your voice came out with the specific gravity of a woman who is in labour and has reached the limit of her available patience. “If you say one more word to that man, I will not speak to you for a week.”

A pause. “You would not.”

“Try me.”

He closed his mouth.

Turned back to you with the expression of a man who had been outmanoeuvred and knew it and was choosing to accept this particular defeat gracefully.

“Fine,” he said stiffly.

“Thank you, my love,” you sighed in contentment.

“I still think he—”

“Maekar.”

Silence. The maester, across the room, exhaled a breath he did not know had been holding in.

The baby arrived as the evening bells rang over the city. Maekar heard the cry and went completely still.

It was so sudden and so total — the change in him — that it was almost more striking than the sound itself. One moment he was wound tight with barely managed tension, the next he was simply still, every line of him arrested mid-motion by that small furious sound filling the room.

The maester’s voice. The women moving efficiently. And then—

“A boy, your grace. Healthy. Strong lungs, as is evident.”

You laughed. It came out exhausted and wondering and slightly tearful all at once.

“Maekar,” you managed.

He was already looking at you. Had been looking at you, you realised, from the first cry — not at the maester, not at the baby, at you. Making sure. Checking every detail of your face with that focused violet gaze that missed nothing.

“I am alright,” you said immediately. The breath that left him was enormous.

Then the midwife was saying something about did his grace wish to and Maekar was turning and there was a bundle of linen being placed in his arms and—

He went very still again. A different kind of still this time. You watched it happen.

Watched the exact moment Maekar Targaryen, fourth son, the sword of his family, the man who had spent his entire life being hard and necessary and difficult to reach — looked down at the small face in the crook of his arm and simply—

Stopped.

Not frozen. Not rigid. Just— stopped. Like every process that was not directly related to looking at his son had been suspended indefinitely without his input.

The baby was so small.

You had known he would be. You had tried to prepare for it. But the reality of it — the reality of those large, scarred warrior’s hands, hands that had held swords and pulled bows — cradling something so impossibly small and fragile with an instinctive care that looked entirely natural and entirely new all at once—

Something happened behind your sternum that you had no name for.

“Maekar,” you said softly. He did not respond immediately.

His eyes had not left his son’s face. The expression on his own had moved through several things in rapid succession — shock, something raw and bewildered, something that looked almost like fear of an entirely different quality from anything that had come before — and settled finally into something you had never seen from him.

Something completely undefended. Wonder. Just wonder. Plain and helpless and entirely his.

“He is—” Maekar started. Stopped. Started again. “He is very small,” he said finally. His voice was completely wrecked, and you did not think he was aware of it.

“He is,” you agreed gently.

“I did not—” He stopped again. His arms adjusted fractionally, infinitesimally, with a care that made your heart clench. “I was not prepared for how small.”

“I think no one ever is.”

Maekar looked up at you then. And gods — the look on his face.

You had loved this man through prickliness and fury and walls built so high you had needed a running start to clear them. You had loved him in every version of himself he had ever reluctantly allowed you to see.

Nothing had prepared you for this version.

This man, enormous and scarred and quietly terrifying to most people who encountered him, standing in the candlelight holding a baby who occupied barely a quarter of the space available in his arms, looking at you with his eyes wet and his expression completely bare and something in him so thoroughly dismantled that there was no telling when or whether he would manage to put it back together.

You were not certain he would want to.

“Come here,” you said. “Both of you.”

He crossed to the bed immediately. Sat beside you with the careful deliberateness of a man transporting something precious and fragile, which was new enough from Maekar that it made your chest ache sweetly.

He adjusted his hold so you could see your son’s face.

Your son looked back at you both with the vague unfocused intensity of someone assembling a picture of the world from very limited initial data.

“He has your mouth,” Maekar said quietly.

“He has your brow.”

“Gods help him.”

You laughed softly. Maekar’s mouth moved at the corner.

Then he looked back down at the baby and the almost-smile faded back into that open wondering expression and he was quiet for a long moment.

“I did not know,” he said finally, just for your ears, “that it would feel like this.”

“Like what?”

A pause in which he seemed to search for words with the usual difficulty and the unusual willingness.

“Like everything I have ever been angry about,” he said slowly, “was because I did not have this yet and did not know what I was missing.”

The tears that had been threatening for the better part of an hour arrived without further warning. Maekar noticed immediately, and his free hand found your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye with that careful gentleness he had spent years learning to let you see.

“I did not mean to—”

“You didn’t,” you managed. “That was— Maekar, that was the most beautiful thing you have ever said.”

He looked faintly alarmed by this information. “I have said better things.”

“You genuinely have not.”

He looked at you for a moment. Then back at his son. Then back at you.

“I love you,” he said. Gruffly. Plainly. The way he said things when he had decided that the time for managing them had passed. “Both of you. I want that to be — I need you to know that.”

“We know,” you whispered.

Your son, apparently having formed a sufficient initial picture of the world, made a small sound of opinion about it. Maekar looked down at him with an expression of complete helpless adoration that he was not even attempting to conceal.

“He is going to be very loud,” he said.

“He is your son.”

“That is not—” A pause. He closed his eyes for a beat and sighed. “I suppose that is unfortunately fair.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He pressed his lips to your hair and held them there, the way he always did when words were insufficient, which was more often than he would ever admit.

Outside the window the city bells rang the evening hour. Inside, the candles burned warm and low and your son regarded the world with serious violet eyes that were going to break hearts someday, you were already certain of it.

And Maekar Targaryen, who had spent his entire life being told what he was for, held his son in careful hands and finally, completely, understood.