*Leila* just for shits and giggles

The thought alone was enough to make your head ache.

Your sister walked beside you as you ascended the wooden steps leading toward the covered gallery, her cheerful voice barely audible as she pointed out familiar banners among the crowd. You offered the occasional nod, just enough to appear as though you heard her, though your attention remained elsewhere.

Upon reaching the platform, you settled into the carved oak seat beside your father. Below stretched the tournament grounds in all their glory. Knights rode between rows of brightly coloured pavilions, armours flashing beneath the sunlight.

Somewhere in the distance, a trumpet sounded.

The crowd gradually quieted as the herald stepped forward, a long scroll resting in his hands. One by one, he began announcing the names of those who had entered the lists.

You paid little attention. Most of the names belonged to sons of neighbouring houses your father had already attempted to introduce to you over the years. Some names you didn't recognize, though they raised no interest anyway. Your gaze drifted instead across the sea of faces below, studying the gathered crowd whilst the herald's voice faded into background noise.

Until it didn't.

"Prince Aerion Targaryen, son of His Grace Prince Maekar Targaryen!"

The world seemed to stop.

The name cut through the noise of the crowd with terrifying ease. For a moment, you thought you must have imagined it. Beside you, your father's jaw visibly tightened, a curse slipping beneath his breath.

You scarcely heard it, your eyes remaining fixed on the lists below while a familiar sensation settled heavily in your chest.

Aerion.

After all these years, he had returned.

---

The crowd had sounded much the same that day. Louder, perhaps.

Your sister's nameday tournament had drawn half the Reach to Ashford, and amongst them, the royal family as well. Prince Baelor Breakspear sat amongst the honoured guests, alongside his brother, Prince Maekar. Lords travelled for days merely to catch a glimpse Targaryens, and every inn within a day's ride had been filled to the brim.

You remembered sitting beside your sister, only half interested in the events unfolding below.

The herald stepped forward and raised his voice.

"Son of Meakar, grandson to King Daeron the Good and Prince of House Targaryen, Prince Aerion Brightflame!"

The crowd erupted, and curiosity drew your gaze toward the field below. The prince sat astride a black horse near the edge of the lists, one gauntleted hand resting loosely upon the reins. Even surrounded by knights and noble sons, he stood apart with infuriating ease. His armour was unlike any you had seen before, dark steel with red patterns that gleamed beneath the sunlight.

Pale hair spilled from beneath his helm, bright enough to mark him unmistakably as a Targaryen.

He looked exactly as a prince ought to look. Unfairly handsome, and dangerously self-assured.

The sort of man mothers warned their daughters about whilst secretly hoping they would receive his attention anyway.

As though sensing your stare, his gaze lifted toward the galleries above. It swept across the crowd before finding you. For a moment, neither of you looked away.

Something appeared to shift in his expression, and the faintest curve touched the corner of his mouth.

Then he lowered his visor and turned his horse toward the lists.

You spent far longer thinking about that smile than you ever cared to admit.

---

The roar of the crowd dragged you abruptly back to the present. Below, the harland continued to call out the names.

Yet you scarcely noticed. Because somewhere among the gathered competitors stood a man you had not seen in years.

And suddenly, against all reason, it felt as though no time had passed at all.

---

Long after the herald had finished calling names and the sounds of the tournament had faded into the distance, you found yourself seated alone within your chambers, staring at the garden beyond the open window. The afternoon sun painted long strips of gold across the floor, whilst somewhere below, the celebrations continued uninterrupted. Laughter drifted upward from the courtyard, accompanied by the occasional burst of music, yet nothing succeeded in distracting you from the thoughts that had plagued you since morning.

Aerion.

The very name was enough to make your blood boil, even after all the years that had passed since you last saw him.

You couldn't believe that after all these years, after everything that had happened, he had the audacity to return as though nothing had passed between you. As though he had not vanished from your life without a word. As though the sight of him would not drag forth memories you had spent years attempting to bury.

You closed your eyes briefly, only to regret it at once.

The image came immediately - pale hair gleaming silver beneath torchlight. Violet eyes watching you from across crowded halls. The faint curve of his mouth whenever he said something he knew would irritate you.

Once, those memories had been precious. Now, they felt like old wounds reopening.

There had been a time when you believed Aerion Targaryen held your heart entirely in his hands. Countless evenings had disappeared in his company, hidden away from curious eyes in quiet corners or amongst the pavilions scattered across the tournament grounds. You remembered conversations that stretched deep into the night, neither of you willing to be the first to leave. You remembered his fingers brushing against your jaw as though the gesture belonged to him by right, and the way your pulse had quickened whenever he looked at you with that infuriating certainty of his.

He had stolen your first kiss with all the arrogance one might expect from a prince, and somehow managed to steal the second just as easily. By the time the tournament drew to its final days, you had already begun overlooking things that should have concerned you. His pride. His recklessness. The casual cruelty that surfaced whenever he felt slighted. You had excused all of it simply because being near him made such excuses feel worthwhile.

Gods, you had been foolish.

Your gaze drifted toward the window as another memory surfaced unbidden.

The night before the Trial of Seven.

You had argued with him for nearly an hour beneath the privacy of his pavilion, begging him to abandon the accusations that had led to the confrontation. The thought of him riding into such a battle had filled you with dread you could barely conceal.

Aerion, naturally, had found your concern amusing.

"Do you not have faith in my jousting, then?"

You could recall the look in his eyes as clearly as if he stood before you now, all confidence and youthful arrogance, forcing you to scramble for an answer whilst he watched in obvious satisfaction. In the end, you had assured him that you did indeed have faith in him, though the truth was that your fears had never been about his skill.

They had concerned the possibility of losing him.

How cruel it seemed now that the last words exchanged between you had been spoken that night. The following day, Aerion had ridden into the Trial of Seven.

And afterward, everything had changed.

The injuries he sustained were grave enough that the castle fell into a state of unease. Servants whispered in corridors. Lords gathered in tense clusters throughout the halls. Rumours spread fast, each more alarming than the last. You remembered desperately seeking news of him wherever you could find it, only to be turned away time and time again.

You were never permitted to see him. Not once.

The morning you learned that Prince Maekar intended to send Aerion to Lys as soon as his condition allowed it, you had rushed to your father's quarters, breathless and dishevelled, pleading your case before he could utter a single word.

You wished to accompany them.

At the time, it had seemed the simplest thing in the world. Aerion was leaving, and you wanted to be with him.

Your father had listened in silence whilst you spoke, his expression unreadable. You remembered expecting anger, or perhaps outright refusal. Instead, he had regarded you for a long moment before promising that he would write to Prince Maekar and inquire on your behalf.

The relief had been immediate. You had thanked him profusely, hope blooming within your chest so fiercely it almost hurt. For the remainder of the day, you found yourself unable to sit still. Soon, you told yourself. Soon you would see Aerion again. Soon you would finally speak to him.

The reply arrived before nightfall.

You remembered your father carrying the scroll into your chambers. You remembered the anticipation as you broke the seal. That anticipation, unfortunately, had lasted only a few seconds.

Those words remained etched into your memory even now.

Prince Aerion appreciates Lady Ashford's concern, but does not believe her presence in Lys would be appropriate.

You had read the sentence once.

Then again.

And again, certain you must have misunderstood. Yet the words never changed.

'Prince Aerion appreciates Lady Ashford's concern.'

The rejection was so blunt, as though whatever had existed between the two of you had been insignificant enough to dismiss with a single sentence.

You remembered your father's hand settling upon your shoulder. A gesture intended to comfort. Instead, it had only made the tears gathering in your eyes spill over.

Even now, years later, you could recall the humiliation of that moment with perfect clarity. The disbelief. The ache in your chest. The desperate inability to understand how everything could have changed so quickly.

How could he not wish to see you?

How could he leave without so much as a farewell?

How could those nights spent together have meant so little to him?

You cried bitterly that evening. For him, for yourself, and for the foolish hopes you had allowed to take root.

Yet grief, like all things, eventually changed shape. The tears dried. The heartbreak faded, and what remained behind was something far less pleasant.

Bitterness.

Every memory of Aerion became tainted by it. Whenever his face surfaced in your thoughts, so too did the memory of that letter. Of the rejection. Of being left behind without explanation whilst he sailed across the Narrow Sea.

In time, sorrow gave way to anger. And anger, at least, was easier to live with.

-

By the time you realised how far your thoughts had wandered, the golden light spilling through the window had long since vanished. Darkness had begun creeping across the grounds, whilst the sounds of feasting drifted even louder than before through the evening air.

With a weary sigh, you rose from your chair.

You had no intention of spending the entire night trapped within your chambers, sulking over memories better left in the past. Gathering a shawl around your shoulders, you stepped into the corridor in search of distraction.

The gods, it seemed, had other plans.

The moment you stepped into the courtyard, the sight made you stop so abruptly you nearly stumbled.

Aerion stood several paces away, one shoulder resting against the wall beside a narrow arched window. His arms were folded across his chest, his posture relaxed enough that snyone might have mistaken him for someone who was simply resting.

You knew better.

The moment your eyes met, you understood he had been waiting. For you.

For several long seconds, neither of you moved.

His gaze remained fixed upon your face with an intensity that immediately set your heart hammering inside your chest. It seemed as though he was searching for something. Perhaps he found it, for a faint shift crossed his expression before he pushed himself away from the wall.

For you, that was enough. Without a word, you turned sharply on your heel and began walking in the opposite direction.

You had no desire to speak with him. Not now, not ever.

Unfortunately, Aerion had never been particularly respectful of other people's wishes.

You had barely taken three steps before he moved into your path. The action was smooth enough that it appeared almost effortless, forcing you to either stop or risk walking directly into him.

Your jaw tightened.

"Is this how you greet your prince?" he asked.

The question might have sounded teasing to anyone else. To you, it felt infuriating.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to his. The years had changed him. He was older now, broader through the shoulders, the sharp arrogance of youth replaced by something more dangerous.

Yet no matter how much he might have changed, standing before him now, you found it impossible not to see the same prince who had left you behind.

With visible reluctance, you dipped your head the barest fraction.

"Your Grace."

The words emerged colder than you intended. Aerion's brow furrowed.

You immediately stepped to the side, intending to continue on your way. A hand closed around your wrist before you could pass. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop you.

The contact sent a surge of irritation through your chest. You looked down at his hand before slowly raising your eyes to his face. A scowl had appeared there.

"What has gotten into you?" He asked.

For a moment, you simply stared, as the audacity of the question left you speechless.

Aerion seemed genuinely perplexed by your behaviour, as though your hostility had arrived entirely without cause.

"I thought you'd be glad I'm back."

Glad.

The word echoed unpleasantly in your mind. You lifted your gaze fully to his then, eyes boring into his.

"Glad?"

The single word dripped with venom. Aerion's grip loosened slightly, not enough to release you, but enough to betray uncertainty.

"I share no such sentiment." You continued, taking in the confusion lingering on his features. ''In fact, I would have preferred it if you had remained gone."

You felt a vicious sort of satisfaction at the sight. Instead of looking away, you held his gaze.

Silence followed after your words. Aerion's jaw tightened as the disbelief drained from his features, replaced by something far less pleasant. His hand, which had begun to loosen around your wrist, tightened once more.

Before you could react, he tugged you closer. The sudden movement stole the breath from your lungs.

"That is a dangerous thing to say to a prince." the words emerged low and sharp, sending an unwanted shiver down your spine.

You lifted your chin defiantly despite the way your heart had begun hammering against your ribs.

"Then perhaps you ought not ask questions if you fear the answers."

Something flashed behind his eyes. Anger, pure and immediate. After all, Aerion had never responded well to being challenged.

"You always did enjoy provoking me."

"Funny. I always thought it was the other way around."

His nostrils flared. For a moment, you thought he might actually laugh. Instead, his expression darkened further.

"You are angry."

The observation sounded less like a question and more like an accusation.

"How very perceptive of you."

"And yet I have no idea why" he said slowly. "If I have offended you, I would very much like to know how."

For a moment, you genuinely wondered whether he was mocking you. Though the look on his face indicated he was serious. That only made your temper worse.

"I owe you no explanation. You should consider yourself fortunate that I am speaking to you at all."

Silence stretched uncomfortably, his gaze moving across your face with an intensity that made you want to look away. Yet you refused to give him the satisfaction.

At last, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You've changed."

The observation sounded almost accusatory.

You rolled your eyes. "Four years have passed. What exactly did you expect?"

"Civility, at the very least."

A sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it.

His eyes narrowed immediately. "You find something amusing?"

"I find your expectations amusing."

Something flashed across his face. Brief. Dangerous.

His jaw flexed. "Careful."

The warning emerged low enough that it sent an unwanted shiver crawling down your spine.

You hated that he still had that effect on you.

Straightening your shoulders, you lifted your chin and met his gaze head-on.

"It's been four years, Aerion," you said, forcing your tone to remain steady. "You left. What precisely did you imagine would happen? That I would spend all that time waiting at Ashford's gates for your return?"

His expression darkened.

"I did not expect to find you speaking to me as though I were a stranger."

Something bitter rose in your throat.

"A stranger would imply we never knew one another."

For the first time since the conversation began, uncertainty flickered across his face.

Only for a moment, then it vanished.

"Then why are you behaving this way?"

"Why?" you repeated. "You vanished without a word."

His brow furrowed.

"I was recovering from wounds that nearly killed me."

"And then you left."

The words came out sharper than intended.

Aerion opened his mouth. You didn't allow him to speak. The anger you had spent years nursing finally forced its way to the surface.

"You simply disappeared. No farewell. No explanation. Nothing."

His jaw tightened "You are angry over that?"

The disbelief in his voice was almost enough to make your blood boil.

"You sound surprised."

"Because I am."

Silence settled once again. Aerion studied you for a moment, as though he was deciding something, before he took a step forward.

Then another.

Up close, you could see that the years spent apart had sharpened him rather than softened him. The boy you remembered had become a man, yet the confidence remained exactly the same. The certainty. The arrogance.

"What happened to you?" he asked, his eyes searching yours "You were never this cold."

The question caught you off guard. Yet you felt something bitter rise in your throat.

Cold.

As though he had not given you every reason to become so.

"A great deal can change in four years.” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Aerion stepped closer still. Close enough that you could see the faint scar disappearing beneath the collar of his tunic. The one left behind by Ashford.

The one that had nearly killed him.

His gaze travelled over your face. Slowly. Lingering.

As though reassuring himself that you were truly standing before him.

"Four years." He repeated, almost thoughtfully.

His grip on your wrist remained firm as his other hand rose without warning. His knuckles brushed beneath your jaw—lightly, as though testing a memory rather than simply touching you.

"Do you know how many times I thought of you?"

For a moment, you did not answer. You could not.

His words seemed to have stolen the air from your lungs before, leaving you breathless. Your fingers tightened faintly where his grip still held your wrist—

a useless attempt at grounding yourself.

Aerion noticed the change immediately. Of course he did.

The corner of his mouth curved, and he stepped closer before you could recover your voice. The heat of him reached you before his touch did, and his scent hit you unexpectedly. It all felt familiar, horribly familiar—something you had no right still remembering.

Then he leaned down. His lips brushed the edge of your ear, and your entire body betrayed you before your thoughts could catch up.

"Has another man touched you while I was gone?"

For a second, you simply froze. The audacity of the question had left you speechless. When your voice finally returned, it emerged as sharp as a blade.

"What concern could that possibly be of yours?"

Your pulse had begun hammering against your ribs. A faint crease appeared between his brows, as though the answer should have been obvious.

"You ask that as though I should be indifferent."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you spent four years in Lys living like a septon."

His jaw tightened. The reaction was small, but it was there. You seized upon it instantly.

A humorless smile touched your lips. "That is what I thought."

For the first time since the conversation began, Aerion appeared unable to find an immediate response.

You took advantage of it, stepping around him before he could stop you. His hand twitched slightly, as though considering reaching for you again.

This time, he didn't.

You dared to hope after learning of Hyacinth's and Baelor's encounter for the first time in months. You've also been grinning nonstop.

The nursemaids told you that Baelor held Hyacinth like he had done it a million times before, gently holding her against his chest while humming her favourite lullaby and carefully placing her in the cot as if she were the frailest thing in the Realm. For you, it was your husband and Hyacinth's father rather than the Prince of the Realm.

You stand in front of your mirror in your room wearing your flimsy nightgown. A bump is beginning to appear as you enter your third month. You can feel your baby moving at night, and when you turn to face the other side of the bed and see it empty, you feel depressed all over again. 

Baelor should be here to feel his child move in the same way as the previous ones. He should be here, speaking to your bump in a language you don't understand, picking names, and telling you how beautiful and radiant you have become while carrying his child.

You, the maester, and Maekar are the only ones who know about this child hidden beneath your heart, and you feel like you're going to burst if you keep this secret any longer.

"Do you feel safe in there, little one?" You spoke softly to your bump. "You have arrived at a very unfortunate time with what has happened to your father, but don't worry... everything will be all right in the end. If your father can cuddle your sister without remembering her, he will adore you. I have no doubt about it."

The next morning, Kiera rushed to your chambers. She told you that Baelor summoned Valarr and Maekar to the council chambers to discuss Hyacinth. You hurriedly dressed and dashed to the council room.

...

Baelor took a deep breath as he walked into the council room.

In the chambers it was him, Valarr and Maekar. Baelor needs his brother in these moments and to stop him from doing or saying something stupid.

“Brother.”

“Father.”

Valarr and Maekar said as he entered.

“Apologies for keeping you both waiting.” Baelor sat down on the chair. “I need to work out what I wished to say… especially to you, Valarr.”

Valarr raised a brow and looked at him expectantly.

“I know, Valarr…” He starts saying the words slowly. “About her.”

“Her?” Valarr asked.

“Hyacinth. I know who she is.”

Valarr’s posture eased, while Maekar’s became tensed.

“You know about the girl?” Maekar asked.

“Yes, I saw her in the nursery two nights ago. Beautiful child.”

“She is," Valarr agreed.

“I also met her mother previously."

Baelor said the name of the lady in the garden. Maekar looked down, his face blank and hard to read. Valarr looked relieved and happy. Perhaps the boy was content that he did not need to make their existence a secret anymore to his father.

“I understand why you have hidden them from me…”

“I didn't want that father.” Valarr interrupted. “I wanted to tell you about them so as not to cause more confusion and more suffering, but they told me it could cause you distress, and in your mind mother was still alive...”

“I appreciate the care you have for my health, son.” Baelor interrupted this time. “But I still find myself… disappointed.”

Maekar and Valarr shared a look.

Makear cleared his throat. “Brother, if I were in your position, I would be upset as well… to hide such an important thing from me… something that regards my children.”

“I know, brother," Baelor said. “It’s not every day your son forgets your teaching and his vows.”

Baelor looked at his son with eyes full of disappointment. 

"What is the need for drama, brother?” Maekar scoffed. “Lay off the boy; we all hid it from you. What vows were broken?

“The vows he made to Lady Kiera in front of the Gods and men.”

“Father, I don’t understand what you are…”

“Your daughter and mistress," Baelor simplified. 

Valarr looked at him with abject horror. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

“While I understand why your daughter is here, what I don’t understand is why your mistress must be here.” Baelor started. “It is a shame to your wife, to your King, to your house, to me! I don’t know what decision I made years ago when all of these came out, but Hyacinth’s mother remaining not to is not the wisest. We should find her a husband and sent her…”

Baelor couldn't finish his sentence because he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head where his wound sat. It was so painful he couldn't breathe for a second. He gasped as he cradled the back of his head and noticed a shadow over him. He looked up and saw his brother standing over him glowering at him.

“Brother…” Baelor said, astonished at the realisation Maekar slapped him in the back of the head. 

His brother, who has not left his side since they left Ashford. His brother, who would scold the maesters when Baelor hissed from the pain because of their harsh touches, has just hit him in the head, right on top of his healing wound.

“I didn't hit you that hard for you to become this stupid, Baelor!” Maekar shouted.

Baelor stood up from his chair. “Do pray tell me, brother, how have I become stupid?"

“You have got it all wrong," Maekar hissed.

Valarr finally regained his voice, and in a broken whisper he said, "Hyacinth is not my daughter, and the lady is not my mistress. She’s my dearest friend.”

Baelor frowned. If Hyacinth is not Valarr’s daughter, why is that child the spitting image of Valarr and Matarys when they were that age? Why does she look like his mother?

“Then who is she?” Baelor asked.

If this is a horrible misunderstanding, he accepts it. He has accused his son of a sin he did not commit, and he accused an innocent woman of being something she is not. He’ll work hard to earn his son’s forgiveness.

“Hyacinth is my sister," Valarr answered.

Baelor’s eyes went wide, and he gripped his chair as his balance threatened to crumble.

“And the woman is your wife," Maekar continued. “I’ll admit I never liked her, and you almost hacked at me when I disrespected her, but she is your wife.”

Baelor looked between Maekar and Valarr as another headache was erupting inside his cranium.

“I don't believe you.”

Maekar scoffed once again. “Brother, if you go down to flea bottom right now and ask any toothless illiterate rat down there who the hand’s wife is, it is not Jena’s name they’re going to say but hers.”

Baelor hid his face against his hands and groaned. Suddenly, he felt something in him that he hasn’t felt in years and that took years of discipline to control it. He felt anger. “Why was this kept away from?!”

He has a wife and a daughter, and no one told him! Where were they hiding while they walked him around the Red Keep?

He remembered Hyacinth’s red face and her anguished wails. How she refused to eat because she missed her father. She missed Baelor. How long has his child been starving herself because he was not with her? How long has she been crying herself to sleep because she did not have his lullabies to put her to sleep?

And his wife?

She told him she had no husband. Did she say that because he did not recall her? Is that why she looked so sad that night? Because he did not remember her? Because he was not with her? Seven, forgive him!

What utter nonsense just came out of his mouth!

"Where are they?!”

He did not wait for any of them to answer because he was walking to the door. He abruptly opened it and almost collided with two people. He took a step back and looked at the two people, thinking they were guards or maybe two maids who were gathering gossip, but it was not that, and Baelor felt his heart sink into the floor.

It was Lady Kiera and his wife.

Lady Kiera looked at him in horror and disgust as she held on to his wife. His wife didn't look at him. He could only see her side profile. Her shoulders trembled and tears were running down her. Tears that he caused.

“My lady…” Baelor tried to reach her.

The lady jumped back away from him and sobbed. “No! No! No! Get away from me! Get away from my daughter, you monster!”

She released herself from Kiera’s grip and walked away. Kiera followed after her. Valarr came out, looked at his father with the same disappointment Baelor had looked at him with previously, and rushed after the two women.

“You goddamn idiot.” Maekar said from inside the chamber.

Her cries echoed in the hallways.

...

What you thought was the end of a nightmare turned out to be the start for a new one.

You did not hide your tears and your sobs.

You held them back when you were sent away to another keep where they would reject you once again. You held them back when they would whisper behind your back that you were a whore that spread her legs to the Prince. You held them back when those same people looked at her with pity and prayed for a swift recovery for the prince.

They now have another reason to laugh at you.

Baelor Targaryen would rather believe that his son has forsaken his vows and sired a bastard than see you as his wife. He thought of you as the others think of you: a whore who spread her legs to garner Targaryen favour. A stain on the royal family’s reputation. He thought of Hyacinth as a bastard and not a member of his family. His first thought was to send you away. Away from…

“He wants to take her from me!” You sobbed into your pillow.

When they told you you had leave, you did with a defeated sigh because you had nothing and no one. Even if you didn't have your Baelor, you still had your Hyacinth. She was the last thing you had left.

What would Baelor do if he knew of the baby inside you? Would he tell the maester to take the infant away as soon as you had given birth? You put your hand against your belly as if they could rip your child apart from you any minute now.

"No," Valar said softly, rubbing your back. “The King is not going to let it happen. I’m not going to let it happen. I swear to you.”

Oh, Valarr! Sweet and soft Valarr, who was one of the first to welcome you when you married his father. How could Baelor think that his son would hurt his wife like that?

You hated him! You hated Baelor! You want him away from you!

You took a deep breath and sat on your bed. Kiera whipped away your tears gently.

The maids come and go inside your chambers, all of them looking at you with pity. Sooner or later the whole Keep will learn that Baelor Targaryen thinks his wife is a mistress and the princess a bastard.

You could no longer stay here.

“Valarr…” You called for your stepson with a hoarse voice. “Can you please get me a meeting with the King? I need to speak with him urgently.”

...

For the first time in his life, Baelor was lost.

This is something he cannot fix with diplomacy.

He has accused his wife of something she was not. 

He has hurt her tremendously.

He has called his own child a bastard when she was made from a lawful union.

He tried to remember them.

He tried to make his mind remember his wife and daughter.

Does he even have the right to call them? After he disowned them so quickly.

Baelor looked over the letters between him and his wife. All the correspondence was hidden from him before returning to the capital. Maekar gave it to him. His brother looked regretful, a rare sight. He tells Baelor they all hid because they didn't want to make his condition worse. Baelor preferred to have had his health go worse than to do what he just did. He looked at the last letter he sent his wife before the trial happened. He promised to return to her. Her faithful husband returned to her as a cruel man.

He organised his letter from oldest to newest. He read them throughout the whole night. His wife had beautiful handwriting, and she explained things perfectly. She talks of their daughter and how her health is faring and what milestones she has reached. She speaks of his sons with the warmth of a mother. She speaks of household management like a seasoned lord.

When reading his own handwriting, Baelor can barely recognise himself. These are words that he would certainly use, but what he doesn't recognise is their content.

He sounds like a man madly in love. Every word is about his yearning for his wife, thinking of his wife and wishing to be beside her all the time. There were letters in which he wrote things he would never think he would write. Sentences that would even make the madames of the silk street blush.

He reads the letter that was written around the time Hyacinth was born. He writes about his daughter with so much love. He writes about his worry regarding his wife’s recovery. He never thought of having another wife. He never thought of having children again. Valarr and Matarys had been enough.

The sun lightens his study. It’s morning already.

Baelor decides to go to the nursery.

...

As Baelor walks to the nursery, he realises now why hyacinths have become such an important symbol in his life. He understands now why he had that handkerchief embroidered with the flower. He understands now why every time he goes to his study there’s a fresh pot of them in his study every day. He understands now why there’s a whole section of the garden full of them.

It was his wife’s house sigil.

There was not much about his wife’s house that he could find in the lineage books. The only notable members were a knight that various tournaments and she, a future queen. Naming a royal Princess after the sigil of her house was the closest thing his wife could do to honour her house.

Baelor was about to enter the nursery when the guard stationed next to the door stepped in front of him. He was surprised but quickly recovered.

“Ser Hobart, please step aside.” He ordered with a firm tone.

“I cannot, your grace.” The guard stated. “I have express orders to not let you in.”

Baelor sighed.

He cannot blame her for doing that, but he just needs to see the baby for one minute.

“Ser, I urge you to step aside," Baelor ordered again. “I respect you for complying with my wife’s wishes, but I will not be barred from seeing Princess Hyacinth.”

“It was not your wife who gave the order, my lord hand.”

Before Baelor could ask who gave the order, the door opened, and a new and even firmer voice joined the conversation.

“So our Lord Hand finally remembers his wife and child! Such a shame it happened after he made a complete fool of himself, accused his son of something he didn’t do and humiliated his wife.”

Baelor bowed his head. “Father.” He tried to peek inside the nursery, and he could see Hyacinth sitting on the rugs playing with her mother. The door closed just as Hyacinth looked over her shoulder and smiled when she saw him. He could hear her babbling from behind the door.

“Don’t call me that right now. I’m cross with you!” 

The king walked ahead. Baelor looked between him and the door of the nursery. Hyacinth was starting to sob. Baelor decided to follow the King.

“Your grace.” Baelor started as he reached his side. “What I have said was utter nonsense! A conclusion that I have shouldve thought of better…”

The King raised his hand, and Baelor stopped talking. He waited for the King to speak, but he remained silent as they walked through the corridors. They entered the garden where Baelor had met his wife for ‘the first time'.

The King stopped in front of a purple hyacinth. He gently caressed the petals.

“For years the council and I tried to find you a wife after Jena’s death.” The King started. “We brought forward every Lady of the Realm suitable for a Prince and you rejected every one of them. ‘I have two healthy sons, my king,' you said. ‘I have no need for another wife.’ That was the end of the discussion.”

The King sat on the bench. Baelor stayed still, listening to his father.

“Years pass and suddenly you are… distracted. You arrived late to meetings, and even when you arrived early, you always seemed unfocused. Every time I asked what was on your mind, you always told me it was nothing.” The King chuckled. “Nothing turned out to be a lady with no parents, an unremarkable house and barely a coin in her name. And you came to me asking my blessing to wed her. I thought you had gone mad!”

Baelor twirled the ring on his finger.

“I said no. It was too risky, and the Lords would never approve a low-born lady as their queen. But you fought me… Gods, you fought me. There’s a reason why your brothers always sent you first to negotiate for something as simple as getting a kitten. I objected to it. You fought it. I objected again. You fought me again. I relented and gave you my blessing. You came back a fortnight later with a bride who could barely look me in the eye. You have your mother’s Dornish stubbornness. Thank the gods she’s not alive to see these.”

Baelor lowered his head in shame.

“All though… I wished she were alive to see you after you wedded her.” The King, his tone now sombre. “You smiled more. You weren't always locked in your study. You looked at ease. When Hyacinth was born, this place finally felt like a home once again.”

The King pauses as he thinks of his next words.

“I was a young man when my own father started to cast doubts about my parentage. Hyacinth is oblivious, but she’ll grow up and she’ll hear them. Even though there’s no doubt in who her father is. There are still going to be those fools who’ll believe otherwise.”

Baelor closes his eyes. Shames runs through his body. He remembers his grandfather’s horrendous remarks towards his father. He remembers how his father always kept his head high. His grandfather was a cruel man, and he has just become like him.

“Father… Your grace…” Baelor breathed out and dropped to his knees. “Please forgive me for my foolish words and assumptions. It was never my intention to hurt any of you.”

“Stand up, son.” The King said. “It is not my forgiveness you should ask for. It’s your wife's, and I don’t think you are going to get it sooner.”

“I will still fight for it nonetheless!”

“Go ahead but be patient.” The King advised. “If she doesn’t want you near her… If she doesn't want you near the child, respect that, even if that hurts your soul.”

“Of course,” Baelor accepted. “Thank you, your grace.” He bowed his head and turned to leave.

"Baelor," The King called. “There’s another thing.”

Baelor looked at his father.

“She’s with child and she wishes to take sanctuary in Dragonstone.”

It felt like an invisible mace struck Baelor all over again.

...

You looked all over your belongings.

Years ago it was just two ugly gowns and a pair of shoes.

Now it was various gowns of various colours and fabrics, a multitude of shoes and jewellery that could feed a poor family for a year or two. Of course you are not going to bring everything to Dragonstone, only the essentials. You already packed Hyacinth’s belongings, and the boat was waiting for you two.

A maid comes in with her eyes uncertain just as you are folding a gown. “My lady.” She mumbled. “The Lord Hand is outside requesting your permission to come in.”

Your hands stilled.

Honestly, you felt like a coward running away from the capital, but for the first time in your life, you had control over where you wanted to go.

“Let him in and prepare Hyacinth," You said. “Girls, leave. I need to speak with the hand.”

Your back was turned as you continued folding your gowns. All the maids left, and he comes in but doesn't say anything. You both remained quiet as you continued to fold your gowns, but this quiet soon became too stifling. Out of frustration you threw a gown to the floor.

You turned around and looked at him.

He looked at you with a blank expression.

He hasn't said anything yet. He was letting you have the first word, so you broke the silence.

“You were the first and only.”

Baelor looked at you confused. “Pardon me, my lady.”

“I was a virgin when I came to the capital and remained so until my wedding night… our wedding night.” You explained.

“My lady…” He started.

You laugh cruelly. “I didn’t even want to marry you! I was just happy that I had someone looking at me. I was just happy someone like you found me interesting that you wanted my company. I wasn't looking for a husband. I would’ve lived happily just being your friend.”

Baelor looked at you almost heartbroken, but you did not care. He broke you first.

“I didn’t marry because I wanted to be Queen or have all the riches of the world. I married you because you promised me you would never leave my side. Because you said you love me. Because I lo…” Your voice broke. “Because I loved you, and I love you still even after you said those horrendous things.”

You turned around, not wanting to cry in front of him. You are so sick of crying. He did not say anything. You were wiping away a tear when you heard a rushing movement behind you and something dropping to the floor. Before you could see what fell, hands grip your waist and turn you around. A face wedged deep into your stomach.

Baelor sobbed your name

“Please! Please forgive me!” His tears soaked your dress. “I am a foolish man! A stupid man, but I’ll be better! I’ll be your husband! I’ll be Hyancinth’s father! I’ll love you again!”

You stare at him shocked. You never once saw Baelor cry. He was a steel wall that would never break. Now. In front of you he was crumbling like a sand castle. You became the steel wall in an instant.

“Your grace, get up… You are embarrassing yourself.” You calmly said.

Baelor doesn’t get up. His grips get tighter. You grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up. He got up but did not pull away. His hands remained on your waist. He’s taller than you, but he’s hunched over in a way that makes sure he doesn't tower over you. He laid his forehead against yours. His beautiful mismatched eyes were red-rimmed as he stared at you.

“I have to leave," You whispered. “The ship is waiting. I have to get Hyacinth.”

Baelor shook his head. “No.”

“I just want space...” You whispered, tears running down your cheeks. Baelor lifts his hand and places it on your cheek. Your body trembles as he gently wipes away a tear. You take a deep breath. “You don’t understand now… but for the first time in my life I’m choosing where to go.”

Baelor moved the hand that was on your waist to your belly, to your bump. He touched it the same way when you carried Hyacinth. You chuckle a bit; the King must have told him.

He opens his mouth and you expect him to plead once again for you to remain. “Write to me.”

You blinked at him.

“They don’t need to be long letters… I just need to know you are alright… that she’s alright… our baby is alright…”

“I will.” You promised.

He sighed in relief.

“Please forgive me, my love.” He said it one more time.

You closed your eyes. Your hands that have stayed on his shoulders move. They carefully go to the back of his head and lay on his wound. That goddamn wound that turned your world upside down. You lift your head, gently nudging your nose against his. You pressed your body closer to his and placed your lips against his. His body shuddered but he kissed you back nonetheless. You could taste your tears in the kiss.

The kiss started gently, but it soon grew into that roughness you recognised. Baelor pulled you even closer to him. You let yourself get lost in the kiss. You could pretend that everything was normal, just for today, but it has to come to an end.

You are the first to pull away. Baelor tried to chase your lips, but you grabbed his face and pulled him away.

“Let me go first."

And he let you go.

...

You imagined Daeron picking up your shoes, using them like breadcrumbs in that story your septa used to read you, and you began to laugh (no matter that it would surely slow you down). You were hit with a fit of giggles so strong that you had to stop to lean against the windowsill, breathing through your laughter.

You looked out onto the vast greenness. Though there was no way to tell for certain, you imagined you were looking in the direction of your home, and perhaps for the first time since you’d arrived at Summerhall, you actually wondered what your father and mother were doing. 

The first time you’d spent a few moons out of the year at Summerhall had been around four years ago when you’d been only seven years old. Despite being that young and certainly unable to formulate a proper argument, you had still protested adamantly against it, insisting you stay at home and entertain your cousins who would inevitably be coming to visit.

That was not a riveting argument for your father, and you found yourself in a carriage not even a fortnight later.

“Why, you haven’t seen Maekar’s boys since you were young,” your father reminded you, as if you were not still young. “You should be excited to see them again. You used to be quite enamored with Prince Daeron, you know. You’d follow him everywhere like a lost pup.”

“Did not,” you huffed, keeping your gaze glued to the small carriage window.

Your father did not attempt to mask his smile.

“I did not!” you insisted.

Upon seeing the princelings again—Daeron in particular—you thought perhaps your father had been telling the truth. Even if you didn’t then, you certainly were now. Not that you would admit it.

Visits to Summerhall had become quite regular for you since seeing them again. You’d spend a moon, sometimes two, there out of every year. Your family was quite close to the Targaryens, likely because of your mother’s and Princess Dyanna’s fondness for one another.

Now, you could confidently say that your moons at Summerhall were the highlights of your year.

Daeron’s footsteps grew nearer, and you hiked your skirt back up to take off further into the corridor.

As you rounded the corner, you stopped short as someone emerged from the stairwell. 

“Woah there.” An elegant laugh rang out above you. 

You blinked into a purple skirt, your hands gripping your own. Dyanna was smiling down at you, one brow quirked fondly.

“Princess Dyanna, I—” You bowed your head and bent your knees into a polite curtsy.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, hm?” Her eyes darted down, and you quickly dropped your skirts to cover your bare feet.

Your chest heaved, and all words left you. You shot a thumb behind you. As if on cue, Daeron called out, “I know you’re here!”

Immediately, Dyanna nodded very seriously as though you were performing a grave task. “I see—well, you’d best get going.”

You blinked at her for a moment and opened your mouth to speak again—you’d hate to be terse with the lady of the house—but you heard Daeron’s footsteps echoing from down the corridor. 

You nodded eagerly, smiling as you went to lift your skirts to run. The moment your skirts rose to your ankles, you remembered your abandoned shoes and froze, ready to drop them again.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Dyanna assured you. “I run faster without my shoes too.” 

You smiled at the thought. You couldn’t imagine her—a princess—running, although you guessed she hadn’t always been a princess. One time, she was a young lady. One who liked to run about barefoot, just like you did.

“I will see you at dinner,” you said, darting past her.

Not long after you made off down the stairs, Daeron rounded the corner.

“Mother!” he exclaimed. “I am searching for–for—” He stopped to double over, his palms on his knees. He held your shoes tightly in his grip, choosing to wave them out at his mother instead of speaking.

“Is that right?” Dyanna sighed as though she were in thought. “I haven’t seen her.”

Daeron squinted at her. “But—Her shoes! She had to come this way.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps her shoes up and walked away.”

Daeron’s squinting intensified, and he pursed his lips. He wanted to laugh, but he was also quite serious about catching you. “You’ve seen her.”

She pursed her lips, and although everyone always remarked on Daeron resembling his father, he was suddenly the clone of his mother. “Is that right?” she asked.

He hummed. “She’s come this way.”

“Perhaps,” was all she offered.

“You would cover for her,” he accused. “You’re both girls.”

Daeron took off down the stairwell, calling your name.

Dyanna watched fondly. “Both girls,” she repeated into the empty hallway.

She remembered when she was a girl—how she’d run through the groves barefoot. Afterwards, she would trek dirt across the lush rugs, leaving muddy footprints, and her mother would always scold her and make her wash her feet before dinnertime, but Dyanna never cared.

She’d continue to run between the trees, stopping only to pluck blood oranges from the low-hanging limbs. They were the only way to stay cool under the sweltering summer sun. If she really wanted to frustrate her mother, sometimes she would even plop down beneath one of the trees. She’d peel an orange and pluck each slice into her mouth, not caring about the way the dirt would stain her dress.

Dyanna continued down the corridor, and as she passed the window overlooking the west gardens, she noticed that Daeron had finally caught you—or perhaps you had let him. The two of you were sprawled out beneath an alder tree. 

Daeron’s back was against the wood while your head sat in his lap. Your skirt was hiked up to your knees, and even from the castle, Dyanna could see your muddy feet.

She smiled. Maybe she would see if the cooks could get ahold of some blood oranges.

***

“‘Day and night, soft purr, soft pad, Pangur Bán has learned his trade. Day and night, my own hard work solves the cruxes, makes a mark.’” Finishing the poem, Daeron snapped the book closed and placed it down in the grass.

The two of you had been in the garden for the better half of the afternoon. 

It started with a game of chase between the trimmed bushes—Aerion had even joined you for a bit before retreating back inside—but when little Aemon came out holding a book of poems nearly too heavy for him to carry, the three of you resorted to sprawling out in the cool grass. 

Aemon asked Daeron to read some poems aloud, and of course, he did. You couldn’t recall a time he’d ever turned down the small boy, no matter his request. The two of them sat cross-legged—Aemon leaning halfway into Daeron’s lap to look onto the pages—while you laid back in the grass. 

You looked up at the sky, but grew bored of that quickly. It was just blue. A nice shade of blue, certainly, but there were no clouds hanging in the sky, no wisps to spot shapes or animals or creatures or anything in. 

You resorted to peering over at the castle walls, squinting to count the bricks or imagine what room you could be peering at, who would be in it, what they would be doing. But doing that put your neck at an odd, uncomfortable angle that, at first, you were willing to tough through. However, that did not last long.

You complained of your neck aching when Daeron offered, “Come lay your head in my lap.”

You’d originally insisted that no, you were fine, but it didn’t take long for you to retract your niceties. 

With your hair out across his lap, you’d closed your eyes and simply listened to him. Aemon had always been a bookish boy even despite his young age, but insisted on Daeron reading aloud. He simply had the voice for it.

You must’ve dozed off for a moment, because when you finally peeled your eyes open, young Aemon was gone.

Without even moving the book to look down at you, Daeron said, “Maester Hyan called him back inside for his lessons.”

You hummed in acknowledgment before asking, “Have you read Pangur Bán?” 

“No. Would you like me to?”

You nodded. “Please. It’s my favorite.”

He knew it to be, which is why he was not surprised when after finishing the poem and sitting the book down in the grass, you’d asked him to read it again.

He sighed, but you knew it wasn’t in frustration. He opened the book again and you mouthed the words along as he read it. He laughed a little once he finished. “I don’t know why you insist on hearing me read it when you have it memorized.”

“You are the best storyteller I know.” He looked as if he were to speak, but you continued, sighing dreamily. “I wish I had a Pangur Bán. Father won’t let me have a cat.”

“That’s surprising. It seems as if he allows you anything else.” 

You wrinkled your nose at him, but disregarded the comment. “Bán means white, you know. Perhaps he is a Targaryen.” You giggled at the idea. “A Targaryen cat.”

Daeron shook his head, but his lip was curled fondly. “I think it is your turn to read a poem to me.” He sat the book on your chest. 

You shook your head, swiftly moving it to the grass. “I cannot read aloud as well as you.”

“That’s not true.” He was peering down at you and suddenly looked as if he wished to say something else.

“What?” you eventually asked, after a few beats of silence.

He shook his head, his long hair brushing against his chin as he finally broke eye contact. “It’s nothing.” 

“I’m sure it is not nothing.” You dropped your voice in a lame attempt to mock him.

“It is so,” he countered.

“It is not,” you easily retorted.

“Is so.” 

“Is not.” 

“Is not.” 

“Is so—” He was laughing before the words completely left your lips. “Oh, Daeron, stop it,” you whined, pushing yourself up from his lap.

He was still laughing. “You are easier to provoke than Aerion.”

You wrinkled your nose. Aerion was the biggest crybaby you knew. To save yourself from proving Daeron right, you chose not to argue, and instead chose to pick the grass from your hair.

“I’ll read you something,” you suddenly told him, reaching for the book to flick through its pages. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

“You suppose.”

You shot him a look. “What would you have me read? Oh! How about—”

“Prince Daeron!”

Both of your heads turned in the direction of the voice. Coming down the steps of the castle was the master-at-arms, Ser Gellery. 

“Lady Ellesmere.” Ser Gellery lowered his head at you before turning to Daeron. “It is time for your lessons, my prince.”

Sighing, Daeron rose to his feet, brushing off his trousers. At one time, he might’ve argued about attending his lessons, but he’d had enough tongue lashings from his father regarding the matter that he found it easier to just go along.

You tried to hide your disappointment, continuing to flip through the book in your lap.

“I will see you at dinner,” Daeron told you.

You glanced up at him. “Yes. Dinner.”

“My lady, I believe the young Prince Aerion was looking for you,” Ser Gellery informed you, bowing his head, before escorting Daeron from the garden. 

You watched the two up the steps and into the castle, until the door shut behind them. 

Despite Aerion being a crybaby, he was okay company. Fine company. Alright company. Fun to run about in the garden with, sure, but that would be a hard job to muck up, you supposed. The proper companion for you—the one everyone had assumed you’d become close friends with, on account of you only being only one year apart in age in comparison to you and Daeron’s two.

You didn’t know why, but you just preferred Daeron’s company—you always had. He had always been easy for you to get along with. 

For a moment, when Ser Gellery came to retrieve him, you thought about asking to tag along. Only to watch, of course. But you’d asked once before only to be told that the training fields were no place for a lady. They’d told you that like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And perhaps young ladies were not typically out on the training fields, but nonetheless, you hadn’t been satisfied with that answer. Not until Daeron told you it was quite dull and as much as you hated to admit it, he tended to be right about the things that bored you.

You laid back in the grass, sprawling your arms out as you peered up at the sky—at its boring, but nice, blue. You closed your eyes. If Aerion had been asking for you, he’d inevitably come searching for you, so you figured you’d better enjoy the peace while it lasted. 

***

You laid on your stomach with your feet kicked up behind you and held the book on reptiles of the Summer Isles close in front of your face. Your eyes scanned the page and you glanced over at Daeron before calling, “Did you know that some lizards can detach their tails when they’re threatened?”

“I did not,” he answered.

“Well, now you do.”

He hummed. “Now I do.”

Daeron had not looked up from his own book once throughout the conversation. You tried not to let this bother you, but when, even after glancing over at him multiple times, he still hadn’t spared a glance in your direction, you sat your book down with so much force, it sent locks of your hair into the air.

“Do you think you’ll get married?” you asked suddenly.

His book blocked his entire face below his eyes, but you watched as his brows raised slightly. That got him to sit his book down. He looked over at you, shaking his head slightly.

You dropped your chin slightly, raising your own brows.

“I supposed I would,” he said thoughtfully.

You nodded.

“Do you?” he countered.

You shook your head back at him, not in disagreement, but playfully. Honestly, marriage was something you had always viewed as duty. Something you’d grow up to do because it was expected of you. You had assumed Daeron would be the same way, which is why you weren’t surprised by his answer.

“I suppose,” you parroted.

“Why do you ask?”

You shrugged. “I was just wondering.” You ran a finger along the spine of your book. “It would be interesting if we got married.”

“Interesting?” He laughed.

“Yes.” You frowned at him. “Interesting is a good thing, I think. Much better than boring.”

“And you think it wouldn’t be boring? Being married to me?”

Your frown deepened. “Of course not. We’ve been in the library for…” You glanced to the window, noting how the sun had climbed into the sky. “Most of the afternoon, and I have been quite content. Haven’t you?”

His lip twitched, and you recognized it to be a sign of when he was amused, yet unsure if he should show it. “You think an afternoon in the library means we would be a good match?”

You squinted. “You act as if we’ve only just met.”

“You act as if a quiet afternoon in the library makes a worthy partner.”

“I don’t mean to judge just based upon today.” You sighed, rolling over to lay flat against the floor, your arms stretched out. “You don’t think our marriage would be comfortable? I would surely think I’m better than some of those stuffy ladies who visit.”

You weren’t sure where ‘stuffy’ had come from. They were all pleasant enough. Polite, albeit a bit spoiled, although couldn’t the same be said about you?

Daeron rolled over onto his back next to you and nudged you with an elbow. “You aren’t ‘stuffy,’ that’s for certain.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Maybe we will be married.” You counted the candles atop each arm of the chandelier above you and did not think about how when it really came down to it, it wouldn’t matter what you wanted. You also did not think about if marriage was meant to be a ‘duty,’ why the thought of marrying Daeron made your stomach hurt. “I don’t think it would be bad.”

Daeron clasped his hands together over his stomach and stared up too, except he wasn’t counting the candles. “No, I don’t imagine it would be. Days like this.”

You continued to look at the ceiling when you noticed there were little crystal birds hanging off the bobeches on the chandelier. “Oh! Did you know some birds can sleep while they’re flying? Like in the sky?”

You sat up on your elbows to look over at Daeron.

He did know that one actually, but he still shook his head slightly. “I did not.”

You smiled at him, a little smugly, although it wasn’t with arrogance so much as excitement. The excitement you always got when you told him something new. “Well, now you do.”

His lip quirked. Now he did, he supposed.

One of your hands was tucked tightly around Daeron’s arm, while the other came around to circle his bicep. Not gentle, but not rough either. Grounding.

It had the bearings to become more intimate than it was, but growing up together, it had become ordinary for walks to have the two of you attached to one another. 

The first time he insisted you take his arm, you were the age where boys were quite gross, and you held no desire to be that close to one, even if it was Daeron. However, when he explained it was the polite thing to do, that all the lords and ladies did it, you agreed.

He was a prince, and you were the daughter of a lord, which made you a lady, right? And if that was what they did—proper ladies—then that was what you would do too. You were three-and-ten, after all. Quite close to a proper lady, by your own standards.

Now, you hardly went anywhere without your arms interlocked or palm enclosed around his arm.

“And the east gardens! There are foxgloves that grow nearly six feet tall—can you believe that? Nearly six feet tall!” You spoke animatedly, even with your hands occupied and unable to gesture with. “Oh, I wish you could return home with us. Even just for a fortnight—perhaps your father…” You trailed off in thought.

“You make it sound lovely, but I’m sure father would prefer I stay here, where he can keep an eye on me.”

You wrinkled your nose, deflating slightly. “I suppose.”

His left arm—the one you weren’t dangling on—moved around to place a palm against your own, which was new. While it had become routine for you to loop yourself around him, he’d never placed a hand on yours like this.

It was close to holding hands—something you hadn’t done since you were children. But it was different now. He wasn’t tugging you along through the cold corridors or the garden.

You raised your eyes to his face. He was peering down at you, and the sunlight was streaking through his wisps of dirty blond hair. In this light, it may have neared silver but it was still nothing like the stark color of his brothers or father. You did not mind it.

“Do you not like Summerhall?” His eyes twinkled.

You huffed, not quite a laugh, and turned back to face the path ahead. You only did so because of what he’d said, not because looking at his face and feeling his hand on yours was beginning to feel suffocating. Not at all.

“You jest,” you said to the cobblestone in front of you.

Daeron hummed. “I wonder.”

“You know I quite like it here. I just—” You shook your head.

“Well, go on.”

“It’s silly.”

His arm lilted in your grasp, a half shrug.

“I just…much prefer the company here and wish to enjoy it at home as well. That is all.”

He paused, and you wouldn’t have noticed any change in his demeanor if not for the red at the tips of his ears. Perhaps his hand tightened on yours, but it was hard to tell for certain.

“Maybe father would allow me to join him the next time he goes.” He kept his vision straight ahead, to the neatly trimmed hedges. There was nothing new about them. They were cut back in the same way, the same shade of green, yet something felt different about the way the sun casted upon them.

“That would be quite nice.” 

“It would.”

He kept his hand atop yours for the rest of your walk.

***

You put your book down abruptly. So abruptly, in fact, that Daeron’s eyes peeked over at you from the top of his own book.

The two of you were in the library, but instead of lounging across the sofa or chairs, you were seated on the floor between the shelves, with your backs pressed against opposite shelves.

You were able to sit as comfortably as one could against the floor with your legs only bent slightly. Daeron, considerably taller, was more cramped. With his legs too long to fit properly between the shelves while sprawled out, he had to tuck one under the other in a way that wouldn’t last more than a few minutes. Though he didn’t complain. He only wordlessly switched legs.

“Can I ask you something strange?” You huffed, tugging on the fabric of your skirts.

Daeron did not lower his book past his eyes. “What is it?”

“Do you promise not to laugh?” 

He blinked. “Well, is it funny?”

You huffed again. “No, it’s just…I don’t know.”

He shook his head dismissively.

You scanned the bookshelf behind his head, choosing a spine to focus on. “Have you ever—” You sighed and shook your head, pulling your knees to your chest. “Nevermind, I—it’s silly.”

At that, he set his book atop yours. “Oh, come on.” He nudged your calf with his foot. “Now you must ask.”

“You are going to laugh at me.” You tucked your chin against your knees, choosing to continue to stare at the shelf in front of you instead of the princeling.

“I will not,” he insisted.

“You will.”

“Will not.”

“Will so.”

“Will not.”

“Oh, stop it!” You brought your gaze back down to glare at him to find him already grinning. You kicked at his thigh, lowering your chin even further into your knees.

Upon seeing your seriousness, Daeron forced his face into neutrality and maneuvered over until he was shoulder to shoulder with you rather than face to face. He gently nudged your arm with his elbow. “Come on. It’s just me. Ask it.”

Just him. You glanced over at him before defaulting back to the bookshelf. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

“Have I—” He blinked at you before shaking his head. “That is what you wanted to ask me?”

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I told you you’d laugh!”

“I’m not laughing!” He wasn’t, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “I just—can’t believe that’s what you’re all worked up over.”

You raised your head to give him an accusatory look. “I’m not worked up.”

“Then what do you call this?”

“Asking!”

He nodded, and the stern drop of his chin felt serious, but the rise of his eyebrows gave him away. “Asking. I see.”

You began to push to your feet. “I knew I shouldn’t have—”

A hand grabbed your wrist. “Where did this come from?”

You attempted to shrug him off. “Release me! I don’t wish to talk about it anymore.”

“Sit back down.”

“No.” You tugged your hand away and rose to your feet, smoothing out your skirts and wiping your hands on them. You grabbed your book from the floor and began to walk to the door. 

Daeron was on his feet and at your heels before you’d even made it three steps. “Come back. I didn’t realize—” 

“I’m going to finish my book in the garden.”

He grabbed your elbow, and you thought about yanking it back, rushing through the corridor, and going to the gardens to sulk. Except you didn’t want to. Not really. Maybe out of spite, but that wasn’t enough.

Daeron didn’t know that. He didn’t know that you were only bluffing and that you had no real interest in leaving the library. Just like how you didn’t notice the red dusting his ears and the way he was twiddling the fingers on his right hand—running his thumb along the length of each finger.

“I haven’t,” he said. 

You turned to face him, your eyebrows furrowed and the book clutched to your chest. “You haven’t…?”

“No.”

You couldn’t explain the relief that coursed through you. The way the nerves had jittered through you the moment you realized he could say he had been, and the way they all dissipated into nothing when he answered. 

But that’s not why you asked. No. It wasn’t because you were jealous when, a few days ago, you overheard some girls in the garden, some daughters of some lords who came to visit Prince Maekar, talking about the boys they’d danced with and kissed in the corridors—not at Summerhall but at other manors and castles they’d visited. 

It was just girls sharing stories and talking about boys, as maidens did. You would be lying if you said you didn’t feel any jealousy at the way they laughed boisterously. You had thought about approaching them—you’d already been introduced, so it wasn’t like you were a stranger, not really—but the way they practically floated through the gardens, gripping each other’s hands, made you feel like you were the outsider, and why would they want to laugh with an outsider?

You knew it was childish and irrational, but it deterred you nonetheless, keeping you glued to the bench with your embroidery. It just so happened the bench was behind the shrubbery where they were talking. And no. You were not spying—this was just your favorite place to sit in the garden, and it had nothing to do with the ladies gossiping.

“Why, Sephira, don’t you find Prince Daeron handsome?”

Your back straightened immediately.

“What kind of question is that?” Sephira, you assumed, answered. “He is a prince. Of course he is handsome!”

The laughter bellowed. 

“He’s so tall, as well,” the first girl added. She even sighed dreamily, making the other girls laugh harder. 

“If you like him so much, perhaps you should ask him to take you riding.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Oh!” another girl chimed in. “You must pretend you cannot mount your horse, and he will have no choice but to help you, and your faces will be so close that perhaps…” The grass rustled, and they began squealing with laughter.

You nicked your finger with your needle so deeply that blood stained the fabric you were working on, and you decided it was time for you to retire back to the castle.

You’d listened out for any mention of Daeron taking some girl riding, but you never heard anything, and before you knew it, all the ladies and their families had returned back to wherever they’d come from. 

“Have you?” Daeron asked.

“What?” You clutched the book tighter to your chest, your gaze darting to his face. He had stuffed both his hands into the pockets of his trousers and seemed to be having as much trouble keeping eye contact as you were—he’d look at your face before glancing away, then back again.

“You know,” he said.

“Oh! Um.” You shook your head. “No.”

“Oh.” He paused briefly before nodding. It was not vigorous, but instead the simple tilt of one’s head when they were receiving new information that they were unsure what to do with in the current moment and were now cataloging it away for later. “Well, alright.”

You nodded back, and yours was borderline vigorous, if for no other reason than because your stomach had done a flip and you thought you might lose the oranges you’d snacked on earlier. Why? You were uncertain. “Alright,” you echoed. 

You stared at each other, and you realized he had wispy hairs above his top lip. They were the subtle beginnings of facial hair, something you’d only notice if you were looking closely. Signs of a boy slowly growing into a man.

Then, realizing the subject you’d just been discussing paired with where you were staring quite unabashedly, you dropped your gaze to his feet.

“Would you like to?” he asked.

“W--What?” Your eyes snapped up to his, certain you misheard him.

He blinked rapidly. “I mean—just as friends, of course. If you are, ahem, curious.”

Just as friends. Of course. That’s what you were. Friends. Yes. 

“Are you?” you asked. “Curious, I mean.”

At first, Daeron looked uncertain. “Are you?” he parroted.

You dropped your eyes again. “I suppose I am a bit curious.” 

His lip twitched upwards slightly, not because he found what you said funny, per se, but because it was so you. “Me too.”

You looked up at him. He had gotten closer. 

“I suppose,” he added. 

You were just friends who were curious. Friends could do that. They could be curious together.

Your lip twitched upward too, and you weren’t really sure what exactly to do at this moment—should you ask him about it? Should you grab his hand? Should you reach out and pull him closer? 

He was the older one, albeit by two years, so you supposed he would be the one, hypothetically, to know more about this specific moment, so you closed your eyes. Really, squeezed them shut at first before trying, very deliberately, to relax your face. 

You didn’t see the way Daeron’s throat bobbed as he swallowed deeply, the way he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, or the way he brushed his hair back from his face, only for it to fall right back where it had been lying. 

When he leaned in, the first thing you thought was that his lips were warm. A little damp, like he must’ve just wet them before leaning in. You narrowly avoided springing your eyes open to ensure it was truly happening. You didn’t know a lot about kissing, but you did know that you weren’t supposed to open your eyes during it. However, you had no clue what to do next.

Your face was growing hotter and hotter, and for some reason, you were frozen entirely still—you couldn’t get your arms to move from your sides.

Just as you made up your mind to raise your arms and do something, he pulled back. Your eyes snapped open, and Daeron was blinking at you.

“What did you think?” he asked, his shoulders tense.

The sunlight was streaking through the window and across his face, making his eyes which were usually a deep, almost navy shade of purple, a bright violet. He was taller than you—he always had been—so you had to look up at him, and you suddenly thought back to the ladies in the corridor.

He’s so tall, one of the girls had said. One of the other girls had said he was a prince, in justifying that he was handsome as if being handsome were required of a prince. You couldn’t help but think, with the sunshine streaking across his face, Daeron would be handsome even if he were a stableboy or farmboy. 

He said your name softly.

“What? Sorry, I—” You shook your head. “I was thinking.”

He nodded. “What did you think?”

You swallowed, rocking back and forth on your heels. “It was nice. What about…?”

He seemed to relax slightly. “Me? Yes. It was…nice.”

“You have soft….” You gestured at him before continuing quietly, “Lips.” The moment the word left your mouth, you sat up a little straighter. 

God, was that a weird thing to say? No. It couldn’t be, right? You were just being honest. He’d asked you what you thought so you told him—

“You too,” he said. His mouth was quirked into a small smile, and you were slightly frustrated to see that he didn’t seem nearly as meek about the subject as you were.

“Oh, thank you.” You played with your fingers, wringing them together, then releasing them to clasp your hands together. 

“Do you want to—” His voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat. “Sorry. I meant, do you want to—” He pointed at himself then back to you. “Again?”

Your lips parted, floundering. You hadn’t realized this was an option. 

“If you don’t want to, that's okay. I know you said you were curious. I don’t mean to be strange—” He swallowed. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I won’t be—” 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed onto his arms and leaned up, pressing your lips to his. 

Frozen, Daeron stared at you. He stared at your lashes and how they were sitting against the top of your cheeks. He stared past your face and at your hair—how you had it pulled back like you always did, some strands left out around your face. He thought about how this made him your first kiss and you his. He did not think about how relieved he was that it was not anyone else.

Your lashes began to flutter, and he was brought back to the moment. You’d kissed him. You’d initiated it.

He let his eyes ease shut, and raised a hand to brush the hair from around your face. He let his hand rest against your cheek.

Your grip on his arms relaxed, and your whole body with it as you slowly leaned back. Daeron’s hand remained on your face and the other rose to brush another stray hair from your face. His throat bobbed and his lips parted, but no words ever left him, as the library door creaked open.

“Cousin!” Valarr called. “I’ve been looking for—”

The two of you jumped apart like a cat who’d fallen into a stream. 

You wrung your hands together out in front of you and bounced back and forth on your feet in a manner you hoped was casual. Daeron, who was known to be considerably more levelheaded than you were, scratched at the back of his neck.

Valarr blinked at the two of you and, more notably, the foot of space between you. He couldn’t recall a time he’d ever seen the two of you more than an arm’s length apart. He began to squint, sizing up your nervous rocking and the way his cousin seemed to only be capable of maintaining eye contact for a few seconds at a time.

What’s going on? Valarr thought and went to ask the very thing when you cut him off.

“Excuse me.” You rushed past. “I will leave you be.”

“No need to rush, my lady,” Valarr remarked, a hint of a laugh in his voice.

“Certainly, just give you privacy.” You blinked. It’s only Valarr, you told yourself. Only the son of the heir to the Iron Throne—whose cousin you were kissing only moments ago. You took a breath then corrected, “I want to give you privacy, I meant.”

“Certainly,” Valarr parroted, “and that’s very kind of you, but it’s not a private matter.”

“Right,” you said lamely. You hadn’t thought of that. “Well, I, um, told Daella I would take her down to the stream to hunt for frogs before it got dark. I’d hate to kiss—I mean, miss them. I’d hate to miss them.”

“Right,” Valarr said, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

You realized you needed to escape the library before you made any more of a fool of yourself. “I will see you at dinner.” You bowed your head to them both. You couldn’t name a single time you’d ever bowed at either of them, but you didn’t give yourself time to dwell on that. 

You quickly left the library, the door slamming behind you.

Valarr looked between Daeron and the door. “Did I interrupt something?” he asked.

Daeron blinked, running a hand through his hair. “No.” 

“Are you sure?” Valarr asked.

“Yes,” Daeron insisted. “What did you need?”

Valarr didn’t appear convinced but dropped it, going on to explain why he’d sought the boy out. Something about the horses and his father and Uncle Baelor, but Daeron couldn’t focus, raising two fingers and ghosting them across his lips.

Somewhere down the corridor, you were doing the same.

***

It was this year at Summerhall, the year of your thirteenth nameday and Daeron’s fifteenth, that he’d first told you about his dreams.

You had noticed a change in him. You first noticed how he always seemed to have a cup of dark liquid nearby and how the dark circles beneath his eyes only seemed to grow as the days passed on. 

Eventually, you asked him about it, and he told you about his dreams—how they weren’t just dreams for him and how wine or deprivation seemed to be the only way to stifle them.

As he told you, you could tell he was downplaying it, but you didn’t push it. You just held his hand and let him talk about it whenever he wanted, which was much less than you’d anticipated. 

At first, he told you about them and tried to make sense of them—a great hall overrun with greenery and wilds or a dragon lying across a field of wildflowers, except it wasn’t peacefully napping in the sun but rather crushing and slaughtering the wildlife. No matter how much he talked about them, he couldn’t find clarity. Eventually, he stopped talking about them all together.

You didn’t push it, but he knew you would always be there. At least you hoped he knew that.

You noticed the cups became a staple. If he were in the solar or the library, he’d have a cup next to his book. But you discovered if you were there and if you let him ramble about what he’d been reading and if you did the same, he wouldn’t quite reach for it as much.

You weren’t sure what else to do, so that’s what you did and hoped it was enough.

At fifteen, you couldn’t remember the last time you awoke wishing for your father or mother during your visit at Summerhall, but tonight, when you woke all alone, in a cold sweat, in the strange guest chambers at Summerhall, you had to raise a hand to your chest in attempt to calm your racing heart.

When you shot up in bed, a gasp had clawed its way from your throat. Your eyes darted around the room, disoriented, and did that thing they did when you had just awoken and suddenly all the shapes in the shadows were strange creatures or tall figures. 

Running through the dark forest, with heavy footsteps growing nearer and nearer. The manor—the one back home, not Summerhall—just in the distance, but the footsteps were only getting closer and your legs were too short, but you couldn’t spare a glance behind you, no, it would only slow you down. Right as you reached the clearing in the forest, your dress caught on a briar and you hit the ground. You went to move to your feet but something snatched you up by your gown and—

You flung the quilt from your sweaty body and padded over to the window on shaky legs. The cool stone of the windowsill soothed your sticky skin as you watched the breeze rustle the trees out in the forest. 

It was just a nightmare. A silly nightmare that certainly would’ve terrified a child, and was for some reason plaguing you. Of course it was just a dream, you told yourself. But it did not stop the trembling in your hands.

“I am a young lady,” you whispered to yourself. “I do not get frightened by stupid dreams.” However, saying it and truly believing it were two separate things entirely.

Even when you climbed back into bed (the quilt still laying on the floor) and squeezed your eyes shut and counted sheep and stared at the dark ceiling, your heart kept racing. You still felt like you were in that dark forest, with those footsteps getting closer and closer. 

Eventually, you rose from your bed again and plucked your shawl from its hook before leaving your chambers. You had come to the conclusion that yes, you were a young lady, but young ladies could also be afraid and wish not to be alone. 

You had just begun walking, and before you had even consciously come to the conclusion to do it, you realized you were on the staircase to Daeron’s chambers. Part of you felt silly seeking Daeron about your nightmares, especially when he had confided in you about his own dreams, which were a great deal more momentous than your own, but you couldn’t imagine seeking out anyone else.

For a moment, you had thought about asking for Princess Dyanna—she had always been kind and easy to talk to and in many ways, reminded you of your own mother. However, she was pregnant with her sixth child and you had heard it was quite complicated already, so you did not wish to disturb her if she was able to rest for once. 

Plus, there was the chance you’d disturb Prince Maekar, which was the last thing you wished to do.

As you neared Daeron’s chambers, you realized you had forgotten about an arguably important part of this late night visit—his chamber guard. Of course Ser Tancred knew who you were, but you knew and understood, no matter the circumstances, how this would appear.

Nonetheless, you walked up to him, even despite the furrow in his eyebrows and slight tilt of his head.

“I-I know it is late, but I would like to see Prince Daeron,” you told Ser Tancred.

“It is quite late, my lady.” Ser Tancred glanced between you and the chamber door. “Your father would surely insist you return to your chambers.”

At the mention of your father your stomach flipped. Well, does it look like my father is here? you were tempted to exclaim. “It will not take long,” you instead opted to say. “I just need a moment—just a moment, I swear it.”

Ser Tancred did not look convinced, yet he looked torn—likely unsure if he held the authority to refuse you. “I am sorry my lady, truly,” he eventually said, “but I think it best if you wait until the morrow.”

The door creaked open and both you and Ser Tancred turned to see Daeron peering around the chamber door. He wore a tunic untucked from a pair of plain trousers and his damp hair was pulled back from his face. 

Daeron blinked, glancing between the two of you. “Is something the matter?”

Ser Tancred gave you one final look and sighed deeply, like he knew he had already lost.

“Lady Ellesmere was asking to see you,” he explained. “I was only telling her it may be best to wait until the morrow, my prince.”

You tugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders and fiddled with the golden embroidery at the seam, your eyes cast down.

“Well I haven’t been to sleep yet.” Daeron shrugged. “And I have no plans any time soon,” he added quietly.

“Perhaps it still should wait until—”

You never considered yourself rude or even stern for that matter, but you could not stop yourself from interjecting, “It cannot wait.”

Daeron looked at you and it was as if Ser Tancred had said nothing at all. “Come in.” He ushered you into his chambers without another look at his guard.

You immediately noticed a bottle of Arbor Red and a full cup on his desk. You decided not to comment on it. 

“Come sit.” He ushered you over to his bed, which was still neatly made despite the late hour. It appeared he truly had no plan to sleep any time soon.

You took a seat on the edge and tugged your shawl tighter around you. The bed dipped as he sat next to you. When he didn’t say anything, you glanced over to find him already looking at you. Not expectantly or waiting—just looking. 

He raised a hand to your shoulder and rubbed it tenderly. “Are you okay?”

You nodded immediately, suddenly feeling both bashful and childish at the idea of telling him, I had a bad dream. When you didn’t elaborate, he went on to ask, “Has something happened?”

“I just—” You looked at him and shook your head. “I had a bad dream,” you said quietly.

At that, his hand shifted and moved to your back, and you scooted closer until you were beneath his arm. 

“I…I know it sounds stupid but—”

“It’s not stupid.” His chest was rumbling as he spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You thought about it. About telling him about you being chased in the woods and how it wasn’t an outrageously terrifying dream or incident—quite a standard nightmare, really—but when you woke, it left you feeling especially alone and wishing to see your mother, even at age five-and-ten.

You reached for his hand and he let you take it. “No. I don’t.  But thank you for…being willing to listen. You’re always willing to listen.” He stroked his arm along your back.

“It just felt so—” You stopped. It felt so real, was what you were going to say, but as the words began to leave your mouth you thought about who you were talking to—Daeron, whose dreams were real. “I don’t know,” you supplied instead.

He nodded. His hand was cool, and in any other circumstance, you would’ve been embarrassed at how clammy your own was, but not in this moment.

One thing you had always appreciated about Daeron was that he didn’t offer any excuses or lame comfort. Anyone else might’ve said, “It’s not real,” or “It was just a dream.” While your dreams were in fact just dreams, he knew that saying that wouldn’t have stopped the tremor in your hands or ache in your chest.

“Would you like to go for a walk in the gardens?” His thumb ran across four of your knuckles.

“It’s dark.”

He shrugged and the movement jostled you against his chest. “We’ll bring my chamberstick.”

You thought about it—the cool breeze rustling the bushes, the tittering of bugs—and you blinked once, sleepily. The night air would be nice on your balmy skin, but the thought of the walk back up the staircase afterward with your already tired limbs did not sound appealing. 

“That would be nice, I’m sure.” You readjusted your shawl on your shoulders. “But not tonight.”

Daeron nodded.

“I feel better just…not being alone.” You squeezed his hand.

The room eased into a comfortable silence. You’d known each other far too long to be afraid of the quiet.

“Aemon leaves in a few moons,” Daeron eventually said.

“For the Citadel?” you asked, but you knew the answer. “Is he excited?”

Daeron shrugged. “Hard to say with him. I think he’s ready to learn new things but not really ready to leave here. He’s fond of Aegon.”

You smiled. “It’s hard not to be.”

“He calls him Egg.”

“Egg.” You laughed. “Clever. And appropriate.”

“Yes.” Daeron laughed. “It’s started to stick, much to my father’s dismay.”

“I can imagine.” You could hear Maekar now—His fucking name is Aegon. “I think I heard your father and Aerion this morning. I couldn’t tell if they were just talking or if they were quarrelling.”

“Those two things sound quite alike when it comes to them.” Daeron shook his head. “I think they were talking about Aerion’s upcoming fishing expedition.”

“Fishing expedition?” 

“It sounds a great deal more formal than it is.” Daeron sighed. “Aerion is visiting our grandfather and attempting to make an entire thing of it. A fishing thing, naturally.”

“Naturally,” you parroted.  

You laid back in Daeron’s bed as he continued on about his brother. You were interested in what he was saying, you really were, but your eyes had grown so heavy. The last thing you thought before you drifted off to sleep was that you would have to ask him about it again tomorrow.

You woke that morning from a deep, dreamless sleep. Whether that could truly be credited to Daeron, you were unsure, but nonetheless it soon became a habit.

After dinner, you would inevitably end up in his chambers. You knew you probably shouldn’t—you both were of marriage age, not children anymore—but you also knew you weren’t doing anything wrong, per se. No matter the dirty looks Daeron’s chamber guard shot you.

Daeron eased your night terrors, and his bed was warm and smelled like him. That was all.

Almost three weeks had passed and it had become a right routine. It was something you two had grown quite comfortable with, which was while Daeron was surprised when his father called him to his study.

His father seldom summoned him unless it was to chastise him in some way, so Daeron had more than an inkling of what he was getting into.

Maekar was pacing behind his desk when the door closed behind Daeron, but he stopped immediately to perch on the edge of his desk. He ran a finger along the edge of the wood and did not raise his eyes, even when Daeron approached and stood in front of him.

“Is it true?” he asked, and the moment Daeron’s lips parted, he added, “And do not play the fool, boy.”

Daeron blinked, which was the wrong answer. His father’s chin raised and his violet eyes had already hardened. “I have been informed that you and young Lady Ellesmere have been sharing a bed.”

“Father, I—” Daeron shook his head, but his mind immediately went to his chamber guard, who had been so adamantly against your nightly visits. “I don’t know what Ser Tancred told you, but—”

This was yet another wrong answer, because Maekar’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. “She is a young lady. This is dishonorable and selfish of you,” he spat. “It was one thing when you were children—something for the servants to laugh and speak fondly about—but you are both of marriage age. It is fucking inappropriate.”

“Father, I understand this appears…unbecoming, but I assure you it has only been…” Daeron trailed off, suddenly aware of how pitiful he sounded, “sleeping. She has nightmares and wishes not to be alone—”

“Unbecoming? Imagine if her father was to hear of this—he has entrusted that she stay here and it was assumed that her honor would remain—” He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “No more.”

“Father, she—”

“I fucking said no more, boy.” Maekar brought his fist down upon the desk.

Daeron watched as the inkpot and scrolls rattled. He swallowed and wet his lips before nodding, his chin drawn low to his chest. “I didn’t mean to—she will not get in trouble, will she?”

Maekar sighed, and while it still held the weight of his frustration, it no longer echoed off the stone walls of the study. “If you are telling the truth then I see no reason to inform Lord Ellesmere.”

Daeron nodded, his eyes still cast down.

“If she would rather not be alone at night, she may sleep in Daella’s chambers. I am sure your sister would enjoy the company.” Maekar moved and sat behind the desk. He did not have to say anything for Daeron to know that any discussion about the topic was over. 

He turned and made his way to the door.

“Son,” Maekar called, and Daeron stopped before his hand reached the door knob. “I know that you are…fond of her. But this is not the way.” 

Daeron nodded once. Fondness, he thought as he left the study. That is one word for it. He wandered the hall, thinking about how he’d approach the subject with you, unaware that his brother had plans of taking care of that for him.

Hours later, you were moving from the garden to your chambers to freshen up before dinner.

“My lady,” a voice called out from behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to know that the arrogant drawl belonged to Aerion. 

“Prince Aerion.”

He approached your side, his elbow outstretched like he assumed you would take it. You did not. He bristled for a moment, but willed his face into indifference. At fourteen, he still hadn’t outgrown his childish tantrums—you doubted he ever would.

“It’s rare to catch you not hanging off my brother.” 

You hummed. Aerion had fallen into step with you.

“Though I suppose it’s not a surprise. Not after father has discovered your nightly tarries.”

You stopped in place, but Aerion moved a few steps ahead before turning around to you. You despised how smug he looked at catching you off guard. You quickly tried to force your face into indifference, but it was too late. 

“I—” You cleared your throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He hummed. “No. I don’t imagine you would.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said lowly.

His lips curled and you felt he looked more like a serpent than a dragon. “Your, ahem, visits with my elder brother.”

Cold lead trickled into your belly and you hoped it didn’t show on your face. “I visit with all your siblings. This could be considered a visit,” you replied with what you hoped was coolness.

However, your coolness was no match for Aerion’s flame. “I think you know precisely the visits I’m referring to, my lady. In my brother’s chambers at night. Even a fool would see—”

“It is not like that,” you said through clenched teeth as embarrassment coursed up your neck.

You knew that with Aerion, it was best to just let him talk. A reaction was what he wanted. He wanted to see you flustered and stuttering.

“Oh.” He nodded as if he were truly considering what you had said. You would never be so lucky. “Perhaps that is why your father sends you here.”

“Do not talk about my father.”

Aerion bared his teeth at you. “Perhaps this is what he wanted. For you to return home pr—”

“Enough.” A booming voice called from around the corner. “That is enough, boy.” 

Maekar rounded the corner and it was almost comical at the rate Aerion’s expression fell. 

“What have I told you about spying in the shadows?”

Aerion floundered. “Father, it wasn’t—”

“No.” Maekar shook his head harshly. “I cannot imagine it was. Not what you were insinuating to a fucking guest in our house, boy.”

“I—”

“Go.”

“Father—”

“I said go.” 

You could only stand and watch, your gaze to the floor and your lips pressed tightly together as Maekar ushered Aerion down the corridor by his tunic. He was down by the boy’s ear muttering something you couldn’t make out.

You stood frozen, unsure if you should wait on Maekar to dismiss you.

Aerion had gone down the corridor and Maekar stood staring after him, both hands on his hips. Right when you made your mind to continue down the hall, Maekar turned back to you.

“A word?” His voice was still stern, you’d never heard it not, but it lacked the earlier venom he’d directed towards Aerion. “Please.”

For a moment, you froze, but quickly recovered. “Of course.”

A million things suddenly flashed through your mind—maybe Aerion had been bluffing about him knowing, but either way, you hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really. But it didn’t really matter if you did anything wrong, especially if he, the heir to Summerhall, didn’t like it. Maybe he would send you back home. Maybe he would send you home and forbade you from ever returning. Maybe he—

“Are you alright?” Maekar asked.

“Am I in trouble?” you asked at the same time.

You blinked at each other. You wrung your hands together in front of you.

“You are not in trouble, no,” Maekar eventually said.

You nodded.

He nodded back. “Do you—” He paused. “Do you wish to return home?”

Your head whipped over. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean—I love it here, really.”

“I am not offended—it’s alright to be homesick. I know you enjoy it here with my boys—well, most of my boys,” he added quietly. “Do you wish to go home? I can write your father.”

“No. No, I—” You shook your head. “No. I wish to stay here. If that’s alright.”

Maekar nodded. “You should feel comfortable here. Not trapped or afraid.”

“Oh, I do. Feel comfortable, I mean.”

“Daeron informed me of your night terrors. I want you to know that he told me so in confidence, although it appears we had a spy.” He glanced behind him. “If you wish for a companion at night, Daella would love your company.”

Little Daella. You bit back a smile just thinking about her. She thought very highly of you, asking for you when she finished her lessons.

You’d take her into the garden and name off any flowers she’d point at. Sometimes the guards would even escort you to the edge of the woods so you could get a glimpse of a doe, or if you were lucky, a rabbit. It was hard to get Daella quiet enough for it, but once she saw something, she’d keep her voice down.

“Perhaps that is what I need,” you said.

“She would enjoy it.”

“As would I. She’s very sweet.”

“She is.” Maekar didn’t smile, but something soft overtook the harsh lines of his face. “Please let me know if you are ever uncomfortable here. This isn’t meant to be a prison.”

“I will.” You nodded, fiddling with your skirt. “And, with Daeron—I meant no disrespect or–or shame. Truly. I was only—”

Maekar raised a hand. “No need. You were afraid and you sought out Daeron for comfort. You always have,” he said. “You are good. Kind. I know you meant no harm by it, but I must ensure no one gets the wrong idea. I told Daeron the same.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

“Good. But please, if you need anything during your time here, do not hesitate to say something. Or if my son gives you any…ails.”

“I–I will.”

He nodded conclusively and began down the hallway. As his back grew smaller in the distance, you added, “Thank you.”

He stopped and moved like he was going to turn back around, but only stopped halfway. He nodded his head once before disappearing into the stairwell.

It had been the longest period of time you’d spent at Summerhall. It was coming up on your third moon there, and really, you would’ve been content to stay even longer, but your parents’ letters seemed to be growing a bit antsy. 

You were packing your dresses into your trunk when a knock sounded upon your door.

“Come in,” you called.

The door creaked open. “I was wondering where you’d been,” Daeron’s voice rang out.

“Packing,” you said over your shoulder, not bothering to mask the unhappiness in your tone.

“Already?”

“Hilarious,” you deadpanned, finally snapping your trunk shut. “You act as if you won’t be writing me the moment I arrive home.”

He didn’t deny or look ashamed about it. Instead, he said, “Kalea made lemon cakes.”

“You should’ve led with that.”

He held his hand out to you, and you easily interlocked them as the two of you began your walk to the kitchen.

“I know it’s terrible, but I could’ve stayed another moon,” you said in a mock-whisper, swinging your hands between the two of you.

“I’m sure your father misses you.”

“I mean, I miss mother and father too, I just—” You sighed, and Daeron knew. He always seemed to know. He could translate the minutest raise of your eyebrow to the quietest huff of your laugh.

“I wish you could stay too,” he said, squeezing your hand.

You quietly navigated the corridor until you were nearing the kitchen door. Daeron suddenly slowed until he was a step behind you. You went to open the door when his hands came around to cover your eyes.

You flinched, laughing. “What are you doing?”

“Just open the door.” You could hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, now I’m afraid.”

“Just—Go on.”

You pushed the door open and let him lead you into the kitchen. “Can I see now?”

“Hm…” He nudged you a bit further. “Alright.”

Your vision was filled once again with light, and you blinked the room back into focus. The lemon cakes were on the counter. Next to them was a bowl of cream, littered with orange slices, then a stack of books tied neatly with a blue ribbon. 

“What is—” You turned to Daeron. “What is all this?”

“Just something for you.”

You wrinkled your face at him and moved to pick up the stack of books. “It is not my birthday.” You ran a finger along one of the spines.

“I know.”

You set it back down to pick up the bowl. You plucked an orange out, smearing it along the edge of the bowl to ensure it was sufficiently covered in cream. As you chewed, you noticed it wasn’t a regular orange. It was tart and tangy, yet held more richness, almost like a raspberry. You looked to Daeron.

“Blood oranges,” he said. “My mother loved them. You love oranges and cream, and Kalea had blood oranges, so—hmph!”

You wrapped your arms around his torso, your ear pressed firmly to his chest. “Thank you,” you said.

A gentle hand wrapped around your shoulders, just resting and then stroking up and down your back. You pulled away to move back to the counter, this time going for the lemon cakes.

“Have one.” You held one out to him. 

He took it, easily plopping the whole thing in his mouth. You ate your own, then picked up the books again. Carefully untying the ribbon, you examined the book on top. It was a deep brown with your name inscribed on the spine. You unsnapped its clasp and flicked through its empty pages.

“So you can write me,” Daeron said, nudging your arm.

You glanced up at him. “Is that right?”

“Well, and for any notes you have while you’re reading. The margins of books are only so wide.”

You sucked in a breath. You enjoyed annotating your books, whether that was jotting down thoughts or simply your reactions in the margins, but often found your winding handwriting too large to fit on the page. You didn’t think anyone noticed.

“Thank you,” you said again, setting the journal aside to pick up the next book.

A book of poems. You thumbed through it and landed on a page that wasn’t dogeared, but had creases along its corner that showed that it had been many times before. A smile broke out across your face.

“‘Pangur Bán’—that used to be my favorite as a child.” You knew he knew—of course he knew—but you had to voice it anyway.

“You always insisted I read it, but you had it—”

“Memorized,” you finished for him. “Yes, yes.” You shook your head, smiling. “That didn’t matter. You just had the voice for reading. You always have.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of poetry books at home, but I just—” He gestured at you. “That’s the one we used to read from as children. I just feel like you deserved to have it.”

You clutched the book to your chest. “Thank you, Daeron.”

“It’s not much, but—”

“It means a lot.” You put a hand on his arm. “Truly.” 

The two of you alternated between plucking orange slices from the bowl and eating lemon cakes. You sat on the floor, your backs pressed against the counter. It probably wasn’t wise to sit on the floor of the kitchen, but neither of you cared.

“Why do all this for me?” you eventually asked. 

“You say that like you don’t deserve it.”

You ignored that. “There has to be a reason.”

“It feels strange that I never do anything for you. That’s all.”

You bristled. “Never—What are you talking about? You’ve done plenty for me!”

He continued, “You deserve nice things. You’re kind and good.”

You laughed but cut it off quickly when you noticed he was quite serious. “And where is this coming from?”

“I’ve just been thinking.” A crease formed between his eyebrows that you reached over and attempted to smooth out with your index finger.

“Well, don’t think too hard.” You prodded his cheek with your finger, causing him to swat at you. “Though I appreciate it dearly,” you said sincerely. 

He grabbed your hand and raised it to his lips, not kissing it, only resting it there. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“I’ll miss you too. I’ll write as soon as I get home. You know I will.”

“I know.”

“And perhaps you could come up for a fortnight or two.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll be back here before you know it. It’s strange how at home, time drags on, yet when I’m here, it flies. It feels as though I’ve only just arrived.”

He ghosted his lips across your knuckles before releasing your hand, but you let it rest against his leg.

Goodbyes were always hard, but you noticed Daeron seemed especially somber. Perhaps due to the fact you’d stayed nearly three moons. You weren’t exactly thrilled at the idea of returning home after becoming so used to seeing him nearly every day, but the thought of coming back was enough to keep you going.

You thought about saying as much, but decided at the last moment it was too intense. Knowing Daeron, he was probably reading your thoughts anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

A bird was chirping somewhere outside the window, but inside the kitchen, all that could be heard was the gentle scraping of a bowl. Daeron wrapped an arm around you and let his head fall gently against your shoulder. His hair tickled your cheek and he brushed his arm up and down your upper arm.

Love, you thought suddenly, as you raised another orange slice to your mouth.

When your father insisted you join him on his trip to the Red Keep, you had instantly suspected something was up. It was not unusual for him to invite you on the various trips he took, but it was rare he would invite you to the capital. As a child, you once asked to accompany him, but he informed you he went to conduct business and you would be bored out of your senses. 

You argued that Daeron, Aerion, and Aemon may be there (as the others had not been born yet), but he told you that if they were there, they would be busy with their lessons and their own duties and that you would be forced to entertain yourself. 

Boredom was more than enough of a dealbreaker for you, so you hadn’t mentioned it again, even well into your teenage years. The Red Keep was the place of business, while Summerhall was the place of fun—to you, at least.

You reminded your father of this when he invited you with him. “Will I not be bored?”

He seemed to have forgotten any of his previous words as he frowned at you. “I would think not with Maekar and Baelor’s children there.”

You were tempted to remind him of his previous claims, but were too afraid that he would go back on his word.

The first day you had arrived, you spent it mostly in the chambers you would be sleeping in while your father was in meetings. You were quite tired from the journey and even slept through dinner, and found someone had left a tray at the desk for when you awoke.

The next day, you had been walking down the corridor to the library, hoping to find Daeron, when a flash of sandy blonde hair dashed past you and attached to your waist. You were startled, but quickly recovered upon realizing it was only Daella.

“Oh, hello, princess!” You laughed, patting Daella gingerly on the shoulder. 

“I’m so glad to see you.” She squeezed you around your torso, burying her face in your skirts.

You combed a hand through her hair. “As am I.”

“Have you heard?” She set her chin against your beltline to look up at you.

“Heard?” You faltered. “Heard what, princess?”

“Perhaps I am not to say…” She looked off down the corridor, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips.

“Say what?”

“Oh, my lady, if I am to tell you, you mustn't tell father I told.”

You found it unlikely you would cross paths with Prince Maekar, let alone hold council with him. You nodded.

Daella released you. “Well, come here!” She tugged at the sleeve of your gown. 

You leaned down to her and for a moment, all you could hear was the puffs of her laughter.

“Why—”

“Sorry, sorry.” She leaned back to compose herself before leaning in and cupping her hands around your ear. “We are to be sisters.”

Sisters.

“Daella, what are you—”

“I overheard father speaking with your father this morning. I mean, we all thought you would marry one of my brothers, but it is true!”

You stood up a little taller despite yourself. “Why—are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes!” Her voice was nearly a squeal as she clasped her hands with yours, jumping. She suddenly became grave. “But you must pretend you don’t know.”

“Well, as you said, everyone already assumes—”

“Still! Father mustn’t know I was spying or else he’ll—” The young girl was getting worked up.

“I will not tell, sweet girl.” You pet her shoulder.

“Is it not so exciting?” She sighed wistfully, as if she was the one to be married. “I always wished for an elder sister.” She twirled around you, clutching her skirts. “Well, I must continue my lessons, if I am late again, father will surely have my head.”

“Go on.” You smiled. She had always been a busy child.

Daella took off down the corridor, the pitpat of her sandals growing quieter until they bled into the ordinary creaks and moans of the castle walls.

Married. You were to be married.

Of course, a part of you always knew you were to be married to one of the dragon princelings. At eighteen, you were certainly nearing the age for it—many noble ladies your age had already been married for years.

Your thoughts drifted to Daeron. The way you’d clutch his arm as he led you through the gardens. The way he’d let you place flowers in his hair while he recited lines of poetry. How you’d run about the corridors and into the library, sprawling out atop the rug. How you’d caught him watching you read many times, and the way the tips of his ears would redden and his eyes would shoot to the forest out the window.

Then, you thought to the way his eyes darkened as he recounted his dreams—nightmares, really—to you. The way it wasn’t unusual to spot him with a cup of something before the sun had hardly peeked from the horizon. 

But it was Daeron. Your Daeron you’d known since you were children. 

You continued walking down the corridor, your steps a little lighter. And when your father requested your presence in his temporary chamber after dinner, you couldn’t stop the skip of your heartbeat.

“Father,” you greeted as you entered the chamber. “You requested to see me.”

He was sitting at the table, sloshing the contents of his goblet about. “Sit, my dear.”

You moved across the table, plopping down in the chair. You twiddled your fingers and bit back a smile.

“I assume you have suspicions as to the reason I have summoned you.” He did not wait for you to reply. “Since you were a child, there have been whispers about your marriage to one of Maekar’s sons.”

Your heart lifted and you sat up a little straighter despite yourself.

He continued, “It is true. That is partially why you have spent so much time here as a child leading up to your young adulthood. While some men see marrying off their children as nothing more than a political necessity, I could not. It is of importance to me that you are safe, well-cared for, and happy. Seeing you here, I have no doubt you would be all three.”

You listened eagerly.

“I have spoken with Maekar this morning and it has been decided.”

You nearly rose from your seat then and there—nearly ran to your father and tossed your arms around him, peppering kisses along his cheek.

“You shall be married to his second son, Aerion Brightflame—” Your father kept on, likely saying how Maekar’d spoken to his son, likely explaining when the ceremony’d be, but you couldn’t hear it.

Second son. Aerion Brightflame.

Second.

Aerion.

Your lips tugged downwards and, gods, you knew you were no longer a child. You never considered yourself spoiled (although you undoubtedly were), but in that moment, you were struck strongly with the urge to jump up and stomp your foot.

“Father,” you interrupted. “Second son?”

He blinked at you. “Yes. Maekar’s second son, Aerion—”

“Who is the first son to be married to?”

He blinked again. “Daeron? He is not—” He shook his head. “Why do you—” Your face must’ve revealed more than you thought because he sighed. “I know you think very highly of Maekar’s eldest son, but you must look at it from my perspective.”

“And what perspective is that?”

He sighed again, pressing his fingers into his temples. “I should have seen this coming, you always did follow Daeron about as a girl.”

“Father.”

“It has been determined that Aerion is a better match for you, my girl—”

“But father, please—” You rose.

“Prince Aerion will be a good match for you—”

“Father, Aerion is dreadful!”

“Maekar has promised that the boy is to stay in line.”

“But—”

“He has insisted upon your hand.”

“Oh, well, if he insists—”

“He is the prince, what he insists matters a great deal, dare I remind you.”

“What about Daeron?” you asked suddenly.

“What about him?”

“Does—Does he know?”

Your father sighed once more. This time, not in frustration. “He agreed it would be best.”

You recoiled. “He has—what?”

“Maekar claims the boy has agreed this to be the best match—”

“Don’t make me, father; please don’t make me marry him.” Tears sprung to your eyes.

Your father stood, moving to your side. He wrapped his arms around you, but you remained stiffer than the heart tree, your arms straight at your sides. “You will be happy. Remember when you return home from Summerhall, how you have nothing but wonderful stories about your time with the princelings—” It was clear he was truly trying.

Enveloped in his grasp, you were struck with the urge to sob into his warm chest. To screech how it wasn’t fair. But somehow, you held it together, despite your glassy eyes. “May I be excused?”

He combed a hand through your hair. “I—”

“Please.”

He nodded, releasing you. He plopped back down in his seat, raising his goblet to his lips. “Go ahead.”

The chamber door slammed behind you as you navigated the Red Keep. The castle was vast and you truly only knew the way to your father’s chambers and your own, but you managed to find Daeron’s. 

You were not gentle as you brought your fist down to it, and you did not wait to hear a reply before barging in.

Daeron was sitting in a chair next to his hearth, nursing a goblet. You were certain it was not his first one of the day. “I figured I would be seeing you,” he said, raising the goblet to his mouth. 

“Your brother.” 

“This is for the best—”

“He is dreadful, Daeron—”

“Perhaps you will soften him.”

“‘Perhaps’? Perhaps he will be my ruin!” 

“My father would never allow it,” he said coolly. 

Your mouth opened and closed, working around words that you were positive were not the correct ones. Daeron seemed confident in his words, although you weren’t sure if it was confidence or if he’d just sat with them for so long he’d come to accept them as truth.

You wanted to spew confidence back at him—demand that he listen to you and not wave you off for what he had come to believe as obligation. But despite how hard you fought to keep your voice steady, it wavered. Instead of demands or thought out arguments, what cracked from your lips was “I will never forgive you.” 

He kept his gaze locked on the burning logs. “I know we have fun—had fun together, but this is for your own good.”

“How do you know what is good for me?” He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued, “You! You are good for me!”

You thought about the book of poems sitting next to your bed at home and the journal currently stuffed into your trunk because you never left home without it. You thought about blood oranges and lemon cakes.

Daeron shook his head.

“Yes. You are and you know it.” You neared his chair, falling to your knees. You took the goblet from his grasp, placing it on the ground, to grab both his hands. “Have you had a nightmare? Is that what this is?” 

“I need not have dreams to know I am unfit for you.” 

“Unfit? Aerion is unfit.”

He was looking down at you with an unreadable look in his eyes. His face looked hollow and sunken in, dark rings circling his eyes.

“Have you been drinking all day?”

He shook his head once. “Rise.” He tugged you up gently, not releasing your hands even when you stood at full height again. “The floor is no place for you.”

“You cannot expect me to simply accept this.”

“You must.”

You looked at your interlocked hands. The hands that had led you through the gardens of Summerhall, that had flipped hundreds of pages reading aloud to you, that had reached for yours during dinners when Maekar’s gaze hardened just enough. You ran your thumb along his fingers, if for no other reason than to feel where bone met joint.

He tugged you gently into his lap. Your head met the crook of his neck like it had countless times before. You stared at the pale expanse of flesh, tucking your face beneath his jaw. You felt his fingers brush across your cheek.

“It’s not fair.” Your voice was muffled. “It’s not, you know it’s not—”

He shushed you, stern but not unkind. “It will be alright.”

“How can you say that?” You moved to make eye contact with him, but his palm flattened against your head, keeping you tucked into him. It hit you that perhaps this was as much for him as it was for you.

“Because it must be.”

You felt heat rise to your face and warmth prick your waterline. You tried to breathe through it, but any attempt was futile. “Buh—but I don’t want it to be.” 

He shifted to plant his chin atop your head, shushing you again.

“I don’t want to marry him.” You grabbed two fistfuls of Daeron’s tunic, as if it would bring you any closer to him.

“You must,” he said gently into your hair. You thought if he said the word must one more time, you would simply explode. “I will still be here. I am not going anywhere.”

“I—” You took a deep breath through your sniffling. “I thought we were to be married. I wanted—I want to marry you.” 

He did not reply, only continuing to run his fingers gently across your face.

“Have you nothing to say?” You tried to sound harsh, but it was impossible with the wavering of your voice. 

“What would you have me say?” His chest rumbled as he spoke.

You knew you were nearing the attitude of a spoiled child, but you couldn’t stop yourself from saying quietly, “That you will marry me.”

He did not say anything.

“Tell your father and–and I’m sure my father would—”

“Shh. Don’t get wound up.”

You shifted so that your face was buried into the fabric of his shoulder. It was unfair to ask—you knew you were not the only person who would be affected by this union—but yet you did. “Why would you do this to me?”  

He smelled faintly of wine, as he often did, but also of what you had come to know as parchment. It was earthy and warm and almost held the scent of leather or dry wood. There was a hint of spice that you noticed was the soap he used for his hair. You let it surround you, a blanket, while the thump of his heartbeat served as a lullaby.

When Daeron noticed your breathing had evened out, no longer shallow and choppy, he finally lifted his chin from your head and answered you. “Because I cannot give you what you deserve,” he told the cold room. Tears glistened on his cheeks against the light of the fire and for a moment, he simply sat there, holding you against the flickering orange glow. 

He knew it was not wise, but he scooped his arms beneath your legs, keeping you cradled safely against him as he rose from the chair. Careful not to wake or jostle you too much, he crossed the room, and laid you gently atop his bed. 

He thought you looked at home, despite your puffy red face. Even in sleep, you must’ve felt the same, because you did not hesitate to nuzzle against the pillow and shove one arm beneath it.

Daeron thought back to when you were younger, when you’d sneak into his room at Summerhall and crawl beneath the sheets with him. 

He climbed into bed next to you, and even in sleep, you gravitated to his warmth and tucked your head to his chest. He let himself imagine this as his future. A lifetime of waking next to you. A lifetime of you coiled around him.

A lifetime of him waking you in the middle of the night shouting, he reminded himself. This is what she needs. Sure, his brother could be arrogant, and there was no denying his temper, but this was for the best. It had to be.

But for the night, he let you cling to him. He pretended this could be the rest of his life. Just for the night.

When Daeron woke, the sun was already streaming through the window and the spot where you had been laying was already cold and somewhere deep within his chest, something had split. He did not think about the fact that this night, out of all nights, his body chose to grant him peace in sleep.  

You stayed in your chambers for the rest of the trip, even taking meals in your room. When the day of your departure came, you stood in front of everyone and gave polite nods, even to Daeron, who pointedly avoided your gaze. You even tilted your head at Aerion, your lips pulled tight, and he looked too smug, but when did he not?

On the carriage home, your father informed you that you would be married following your twentieth name day, and for a moment you were surprised—most other ladies of your status were already married at your age. But looking at your father’s face, you realized this was his way of attempting to amend things with you, even if by just putting it off. 

You had no other choice and you knew that, so you simply nodded and accepted it as fact.

At first, Daeron sent letters. They sat unopened at your desk before they were eventually raked into the trash. You did not return to Summerhall the following year, nor the one after. 

— end of part i.

A/N: well well well... what a cute way to launch the requests for my 1.5k followers celebration 🥹 (already 40 followers away from 2k, this is insane thank you so much 🫂). this one is especially dear to me because it comes from a real-life friend of mine and is actually inspired by a true story (minus the love story part lol). one of their classmates has a baby and would occasionally bring her along to lectures, and knowing that I often take inspiration from real life, my friend suggested it could make for a cute bucky fic 😭 you may also notice that the layout for requests (and shorter stories in general) is a little different. partly because I’m running out of pictures for moodboards 🥲 but also because I want to differentiate them from my longer stories since I’m trying to improve my summarizing skills 😭 I really hope you’ll enjoy my shorter one-shots as well!

Universities function on rumor as much as fact, and Professor Barnes has acquired a reputation long before many of his students ever stepped into one of his lectures. He is demanding, precise, uninterested in excuses. Assignments submitted late are graded late, if they are graded at all, but questions are always answered thoroughly—provided they aren’t an attempt to compensate for poor preparation.

By the middle of September, punctuality has become an unspoken rule in his class. Late arrivals are met without comment, only a brief pause and a solemn look that lingers just long enough to make the entire room shiver.

It’s therefore difficult to imagine a classroom less suited to your situation.

Your son fell asleep in the car. That, in itself, is quite unfortunate. Had he remained awake, you would have sat outside with him a little longer, gathered your thoughts, considered whether attending at all was worth the anxiety currently twisting your stomach. Instead, Milo sleeps peacefully against your shoulder while you stand in the corridor outside the lecture hall, alone, staring at the door and trying to not think about the fact that you are carrying a diaper bag covered in cute cartoonish lions, and moments away from walking into a room filled with people who would undoubtedly have opinions and speculations about you and your son.

Everyone’s eyes fall on you the moment the door opens subtly beneath your careful hand. As much as you try to be silent, it would have been impossible to not notice you.

Curiosity proves far more common than judgement, though. Students glance up from laptops and conversations, register the baby, and immediately start wondering whether Professor Barnes had already been informed.

The answer becomes obvious a few minutes later.

He stops just inside the doorway, gaze moving across the room only to land on you almost immediately. His blue eyes remain there long enough that several students abandon any pretense of looking away.

You rise before he can speak.

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice carries farther than you intend in the suddenly silent room. “My babysitter quitted.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t find anyone else.”

Professor Barnes listens in complete silence and that only makes the exchange incredibly uncomfortable. He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he reassure you. Instead, he stands with both hands by his sides, his expression giving away so little that half the room starts preparing for the worst on your behalf.

Perhaps he expects more explanation. Perhaps you feel compelled to provide it.

“I didn’t want to miss another lecture.” The admission seems to embarrass you as your voice wavers a little.

The baby shifts slightly against your shoulder at that exact moment and you adjust him instinctively.

“If it’s a problem, I’ll leave.”

Professor Barnes glances toward the child with plain reluctance, then back toward you.

“How long?”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“How long is this arrangement supposed to last?”

The question seems reasonable enough. Unfortunately, even reasonable questions occasionally require uncomfortable answers.

You look down, almost in shame.

“I don’t know.” The honesty escapes before you can soften it. “I’ve called a few places, but most of them have waiting lists.”

Nobody in the room appears particularly eager to be in your position. And Professor Barnes seems to find this information exactly as inconvenient as everyone expected him to.

The slight tightening of his jaw suggests a man being presented with circumstances he neither likes nor approves of, yet can’t argue against. For a few moments he says nothing at all. Then, he finally exhales quietly.

“Sit down.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“You can stay, but take the baby outside if he starts fussing.”

Your lips part in relief so quickly that it’s almost painful to witness.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Barnes.”

The Professor gives no indication that gratitude interests him and simply glances at the digital clock above his desk.

“Class started thirty seconds ago.” He states louder, throwing a stern look at the rest of the class, too busy staring at you.

The soft murmur reprises normally as everyone frantically starts reaching for their notes.

The matter, as far as he seems concerned, is closed.

At first, your presence in the lecture hall attracts attention. People look up when you arrive, track your progress toward your usual seat near the front, and observe with a curiosity they rarely bother hiding. A baby simply isn’t something anybody anticipates finding in Professor Barnes’ lectures, and for the first couple of weeks there is the persistent conviction that things would soon return to whatever passed for normal.

Instead, Milo keeps showing up and the lecture hall adapts accordingly.

Your classmates learn to move their bags when they see you approaching with your arms already full; somebody always seems to have a spare pen when yours disappears into the seemingly endless depths of the diaper bag, and more than one person has kindly shared lecture notes after discovering that trying to write while simultaneously preventing an increasingly fast infant from eating paper is a task bordering on impossible.

Milo, meanwhile, thrives under the attention.

He likes brightly colored pens and would become completely absorbed by them, tracking their movement with remarkable concentration as soon as the familiar clicks reaches his small ears. He inevitably falls asleep about twenty minutes into every lecture, regardless of how noisy the room happens to be. Your classmates also learn that laughter produces immediate excitement, his legs kicking enthusiastically while he looks around in search of whatever seems to be making everybody so happy.

Most notably, however, they learn that Milo has developed a favorite.

The first sign is the smiles. At seven months old, he smiles frequently enough that nobody considers it unusual. Babies smile at strangers, at ceiling lights, at absolutely nothing at all... but soon the pattern becomes difficult to ignore.

Every morning, without fail, Milo’s attention drifts toward the door shortly before Professor Barnes arrives. Sometimes he is playing with his favorite plushie—a small, soft bunny your best friend gifted him when he was born. Sometimes he is busy trying to pull your notebook from your hands. Sometimes he is halfway through a bottle.

None of that matters, though. The moment Mr. Barnes appears, Milo’s face lights up.

Every. Damn. Time.

“Oh, no.” You mutter one morning as your son nearly twists himself out of your arms trying to watch Mr. Barnes cross the room. “We’re not doing this.”

Milo responds by grinning even harder.

“You don’t even know him!”

False. At this point, Milo sees Professor Barnes with more consistency than he sees his own grandparents.

The problem is that his interest doesn’t stop at smiling.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the focus of that fascination appears to be Mr. Barnes’ vibranium arm.

At first, the fixation seems harmless: Milo watches it move whenever the Professor gestures, his big eyes following it in awe even as he writes across the whiteboard. If he passes nearby, your son instantly tracks the motion with the unwavering concentration of somebody witnessing a miracle unfold in real time.

“Oh my God.” You whisper exasperated one afternoon after catching him staring openly for nearly ten minutes. “Stop looking at him like that, baby.”

Milo ignores you, of course, and Professor Barnes remains apparently oblivious.

Or, perhaps, chooses to not acknowledge it.

Weeks pass and the fascination only intensifies.

By the middle of October, Milo has started leaning toward Mr. Barnes whenever he walks past your row. By the beginning of November, he is actively attempting to reach for him whenever the opportunity presents itself.

The inevitable finally happens on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

The lecture has been underway for nearly half an hour, most people having settled into the comfortable rhythm of note-taking and occasional distraction. Professor Barnes is moving through a complicated explanation that occupies nearly the entire whiteboard, his handwriting spreading neatly from one side to the other while students hurry to keep pace.

You are trying to copy a diagram one-handed while your son, who has apparently decided sleep is no longer part of his afternoon plans, occupies your lap and often attempts to interfere with your efforts.

The moment Mr. Barnes approaches the front row, his attention shifts completely.

His eyes immediately lock onto the vibranium hand and a few nearby students notice immediately.

Milo leans forward and you adjust your grip automatically. He only leans farther. Only then do you glance up from your notebook and realize exactly what has captured his attention.

The embarrassment makes your neck burn.

“Oh, baby.”

Several students look away in a futile attempt to hide their grin.

“Don’t do that.” You feel like crying, but Milo doesn’t care at all. His entire focus remains on the arm.

Professor Barnes, noticing the unusual silence that has settled across the room, finally looks over.

His gaze follows the direction of Milo’s, landing directly on his left arm.

You really hope the floor could open beneath your chair.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes.”

The apology emerges instant and desperate.

“He’s… a very curious baby.” You try to go for a smile but you are pretty sure it resembles a grimace.

Professor Barnes says nothing.

Milo, encouraged by the fact that his target is finally looking at him, immediately stretches both chubby hands forward.

The gesture is so earnest, so hopeful, that a few people can’t fight back their smiles anymore.

You look horrified.

“Milo.” You choke out, eyes wide and scared.

For a brief moment, Professor Barnes simply stares down at him. Until your son smiles: a proper curve of his lips that lights up his entire face. The kind that makes complete strangers smile back without meaning to.

The whole class gasps collectively, because Mr. Barnes nonchalantly extends his hand, allowing Milo to grab his fingers at once.

The victory is apparently everything he has hoped for as his delighted squeals echo through the lecture hall.

You drag your unoccupied hand down your face.

“Jesus Christ.”

Professor Barnes glances at you. “He’s fine.”

The statement should not, under any reasonable circumstances, make the situation more embarrassing, but somehow it does.

Milo continues holding onto the offered finger with obvious satisfaction, until the Professor turns back toward the whiteboard.

“As I was saying…” He clears his throat lightly, gesturing at the diagrams.

The lecture resumes, Professor Barnes continues teaching as though a toddler hasn’t just left traces of his own saliva across his hand… and Milo keeps clutching his fingers whenever he wanders close enough.

You spend the next forty minutes with mortification written all over your face.

By the time class ends, not a single person can confidently explain what the lecture has actually been about.

Everybody has become used to a version of Milo that rarely causes any trouble. He babbles, certainly. He occasionally attempts to steal pens. Once he managed to grab an entire page of somebody’s notes and crumple it beyond recognition before anyone could stop him.

Actual tears, however, are rare enough that the sound draws every eye toward the front row.

You want to disappear.

Your eyes widen so fast that it’s obvious you have been dreading this exact moment since the first day you brought him to class.

“No no no, please wait just a second.” You mutter, frantically gathering your things.

Milo only cries harder.

The notebook on your desk snaps shut, one hand reaching for the diaper bag while the other tries to soothe a baby who has apparently decided that nothing short of complete misery would properly express his feelings.

“I’m really sorry,” you fret, rising from your seat. “I’ll take him outside.”

Professor Barnes sets down the marker calmly. In a room currently distracted by a crying infant and an increasingly distressed mother, the movement attracts considerably more attention.

“Where are you going?”

You freeze at the sound of his deep baritone.

“Outside.”

“Why?”

The question catches you completely off guard.

“Because he’s… crying?” You reply unsure.

Mr. Barnes glances at Milo’s crumpled features and fat tears wetting his cheeks, then looks back at you, before sighing and simply holding out his arms.

“Give him here.”

You stare at him with your jaw slack.

“What?” You squeak out.

“Give him here. He’s clearly tired of sitting for hours.”

The rest of the students watch the scene unfold in disbelief.

“And you need to take notes.”

You are still staring at him as if he just started speaking another language.

Mr. Barnes lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you’ve suddenly decided you don’t need them to pass my exam.”

Your mouth opens and closes helplessly, before carefully transferring Milo into his arms.

The crying doesn’t stop immediately. It does, however, begin losing conviction.

Mr. Barnes adjusts his grip with surprising familiarity, settling Milo against his right side before turning back toward the whiteboard.

“The problem with this interpretation is that it assumes the conclusion before the evidence has actually established it.”

The marker moves steadily across the board, and Milo hiccups.

A few minutes later, your son has reduced his complaints to occasional sniffles, until he falls completely silent, his head tucked against Mr. Barnes’ shoulder while he discusses course material with the same seriousness he brings to every lecture.

Nobody recovers.

The sight of Professor Barnes pacing slowly across the front of the lecture hall with a sleeping baby resting against his shoulder is significantly less unsettling than how natural he makes it look.

Once the semester has reached its final stretch, the idea that Professor Barnes merely tolerates Milo has quietly stopped making sense to anyone who was lucky enough to see the three of you interact.

It’s no longer unusual to hear him use the baby’s name as part of the natural rhythm of his speech.

“Milo,” he would say without looking up from the board when the baby starts to wriggle too close to the edge of your lap.

The sound alone is enough to calm him, which in itself has become one of those things students notice but don’t quite understand how to talk about.

Several colorful objects start appearing around his usually dull desk without comment. A teething ring in a muted blue kept inside the top drawer, pulled out automatically whenever Milo grows restless. A small cloth elephant with one ear slightly bent, usually resting near the stack of graded papers, which your son would immediately reach for the moment he is close enough to see it. A soft book with stiff pages and bright illustrations that makes a faint crinkling sound when handled with curiosity by his chubby hands.

Sometimes, he knows what’s happening to Milo before you do.

The lecture has ended five minutes ago, but you are still at the front desk with your latest assignment. Milo keeps squirming in your arms, not settling no matter how you shift him. Your eyes squint at the corrected paper, not really understanding what your professor did to reach the right result.

Mr. Barnes stands beside you, one hand on the desk while skimming the paper without any urgency. The room is mostly empty now, just the three of you and the faint sound of chairs being dragged somewhere down the hall.

You point at the problem set. “I kept ending up with two different answers here depending on how I handled this step, but I don’t understand where I went wrong.”

He gently leans forward and places his index finger on the sign he’d circled.

“Here.” He taps the bracket. “You’re only applying the minus to the first term. It has to go across everything inside.”

You exhale through your nose, half frustration, half acceptance.

“Right. Okay.”

He doesn’t comment and just slides the paper slightly back toward you.

Milo twists again in your arms, letting out a small irritated sound and your hand smoothes his back without looking away from the paper.

Barnes glances down at him.

“He’s uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still focused on the problem set. “He’s been like this for days.”

“He’s teething.” Mr. Barnes states calmly.

You finally look up at that, eyebrows lifting slightly. “How are you so sure, Professor?”

He looks at Milo for a second longer this time, then back at the assignment as if the answer isn’t complicated enough to deserve emphasis.

“He’s always chewing his hand and drooling a lot more than usual because his gums are probably swollen.”

You shift Milo higher against your shoulder again, watching him stare at your professor as he settles briefly. “That’s… annoyingly observant.”

That earns you the faintest glance from him, like he isn’t sure if you are complaining or just acknowledging a fact.

“Cold cloths help,” he adds eventually. “Not ice, just cool water. Wring them out properly.”

You go still, briefly throwing him a curious glance.

“You’ve dealt with this a lot.” You mention off-handedly.

He doesn’t look up immediately.

“No,” then, after a beat, “just paid attention when it happened to my younger sister.”

The chair beside his desk appears the following week without announcement, and nobody would have thought much of it if it hadn’t immediately become the place you end up during breaks, sitting with Milo while trying to breathe for a moment between lectures.

The first time it happens, you look at it uncertainly, hovering for a second too long before Mr. Barnes simply looks up from his papers and repeats, without hesitation, “Sit.”

He doesn’t speak much while you are there, but he doesn’t shut you out either. When you say something, he answers without looking up right away, usually just a few words before going back to what he is doing.

Sometimes you speak more loosely, just thinking out loud about how tired you are or how your day has gone, and he’d respond with a short comment or a quiet hum of acknowledgement. A bottle of water would be set within reach without comment, a granola bar placed beside your notebook as if it had been part of the desk arrangement from the beginning. When Milo squirms too much or reaches toward him from your lap, Mr. Barnes would take him without waiting for you to offer.

If he calms down, he would keep him there. If he starts fussing again, Mr. Barnes would walk a few slow steps around the desk area, still listening to your voice.

Most of the building has already emptied out, the usual echo of footsteps and distant conversations fading into a soft murmur. A new academic year has begun a few weeks earlier, bringing new classes, new students, and different routines to adapt to.

Kate is only passing through on her way back to the library after a quick coffee break when she notices that Professor Barnes’ office door isn’t fully closed, which in itself isn’t unusual during the day, but feels slightly different now, at this hour, when most doors have already been shut and locked into the night.

It stands ajar just enough to let the light spill out into the corridor in a thin line, and something about it makes her slow down without quite knowing why.

You are on the couch near the window, turned toward the coffee table, a stack of notes spread across your lap and the space beside you like you have tried to organize them into something manageable and then given up halfway. Your pen moves every so often, pausing in your fingers while your gaze drifts across the same line over and over again.

Milo is asleep against Professor Barnes’ chest, finally surrendered to exhaustion. One small hand is curled into the fabric of his white shirt as though even unconscious he has to make sure he’s still there.

Mr. Barnes is sitting beside you on the couch rather than at his desk, leaned back enough to give himself space while still holding your son securely, his other hand busy grading a stack of papers balanced across his knee.

Every so often his fingers adjust slightly against Milo’s back without looking down—small, automatic corrections that come too naturally, like his body has memorized the child’s weight by now.

Kate should have left then. Finding the three of you together isn’t particularly surprising. She has spent most of the previous semester sitting beside you, and after a while it became impossible to not notice things.

Mr. Barnes knew which songs made Milo stop crying, which foods he would immediately throw on the floor, and exactly how long he could sit through a lecture before getting bored. More impressively, he knew when you hadn’t slept. Kate had seen him arrive more than once, take a single look at you, and set a coffee beside your notebook before he’d even taken attendance.

She is ready to walk away, but Milo shifts.

A small movement, a restless ripple through sleep, followed by a soft whine tinged with the faintest edge of discomfort. His face tightens, brows drawing together, and his grip on Mr. Barnes’ shirt instinctively changes, fingers curling a little more firmly as if searching for something safe.

The Professor moves at once.

“Hey buddy,” he says quietly, voice dropping to a mere whisper. “It’s alright.”

He brings Milo closer against his chest, his other palm settling between the baby’s shoulders in a slow, steady rhythm. The papers on his knee remain untouched, his pen resting loosely between his fingers as he focuses entirely on the small toddler in his arms.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, almost absently. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

The tension leaves his body in gradual stages until there is nothing left, except the faintest lingering sound of his steady breathing. He doesn’t immediately go back to his task, instead gently leaning down to press a brief kiss to the top of Milo’s head.

That should have definitely been her cue to leave.

But Mr. Barnes stays like that for a moment longer, eyes on Milo as if confirming it has actually worked, then leans back into the couch.

“You are staring.” He mentions, but there is no edge to it.

You roll your eyes but it doesn’t land properly because there is still a soft smile on your lips. “You’re imagining things again.”

Mr. Barnes tilts his head just enough to look at you properly.

“Yeah?” He murmurs with a little amused smirk.

Milo decides to make a small sound in his sleep again, and Professor Barnes promptly glances at him, before looking back up.

At that point, his arm comes around your waist as he moves closer, pulling you in until your head lands on his free shoulder. His thumb brushes your belly once.

“You’re tired.” He mumbles.

“I’m fine.” Your answer is automatic, too quick.

That gets you a small, disappointed exhale from him.

“Hey.” He whispers, his fingers squeezing your hip once, causing you to slowly look up. Mr. Barnes just nudges his nose lightly against yours—an absent, almost teasing gesture that brings a hint of a smile on your pretty features.

Before you can open your mouth, though, he is already leaning closer, his forehead brushing against yours.

Your breath hitches at that, yet your hand still rises, cupping his jaw as your thumb lightly strokes the stubble on his cheek.

“What?” You whisper, softer now.

His eyes watch yours for a moment—shiny with exhaustion yet still so beautiful—then they flick down to your mouth, the lipstick from this morning now completely gone.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

The kiss is very different from the one you shared last night in your bed—a simple, warm press of lips that gradually deepens as the grip on your waist tightens in response to your cute, soft breaths. Your fingers curve more firmly against his face, holding him there as his mouth languidly move against yours.

The moment you slightly pull back, Mr. Barnes follows your lips once more, your faint giggle muffled against his mouth as he kisses you again, firmly.

His forehead rests on yours when he finally relents, his thumb gently stroking the sliver of skin that peaked out as the hem of your shirt shifted with you.

Your hands eventually wrap around his forearm, squeezing the muscle slightly before relaxing again. It’s only then that Mr. Barnes lets out a little relieved sigh as your head falls back on his shoulder and you finally allow your eyes to flutter shut.

Kate purses her lips in a poor attempt to hide her smile, and finally keeps walking.

— ⟢ END NOTES: I guess if I get better at this I might open requests for some of my stories! thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

My dearest Prince,

It has been two days since you departed, and in those two days our Princess Hyacith has let the whole keep know her displeasure at the fact you are not there to sing her lullabies and tuck her in for her nap. Her sweet little face goes red from how much she cries, and her gaze is fixed on the door, waiting for your arrival.

Do not worry; she does not cry all the time. She enjoys the company of her big brother, who takes her out to the gardens to play, and her Grandsire, who purposely skips meetings with the small council and goes straight to the nursery. Your father tried to sing the same high valyrian lullabies you sang her, but she does not find the King’s singing abilities enjoyable and fusses when he starts a song. I’ve managed to make her fall asleep by wrapping your shirts around her.

Our little girl is not the only one who misses you.

I just don’t have the luxury of screaming about it like Hyacith.

I miss you so much, my love.

I wake up, and the first thing i do is reach for you, and I get confused when i only feel the cold and unmade sheets. Your pillow is slowly losing your scent.

Come back to me as soon as you can. Give my love to Valarr, Kiera, Maekar and his boys.

Your loving wife.

...

My Darling Wife

Every day away from you and our children is torture if I dare be dramatic.

It breaks my heart to know how distressed our little princess is. 

My Poor Little Hyacith, too small to understand the world but wise enough to know when something is missing.

The same way she looks at the door, waiting for my arrival, I find myself humming her favourite lullaby when deep in thought, thinking that her cradle is next to me and i’m lulling her to sleep. You have to forgive me, my lady, but before I left I stole your handkerchief, the one with hyacinths embroidered on it. It carries your scent, my love, and unfortunately, just like my pillow, yours is slowly fading away.

I too reach for your warmth when I wake up first thing in the morning, but I only have a cold side of the bed and the sounds of horses and garrisons as the reminder of the miles between us. Don’t count the days until you see me again, my love. I’ll be there before you realise it.

Your faithful husband, Baelor.

...

When the letters and trinkets stopped arriving, you did not get worried.

Your Baelor is a busy man. He could be far away from his study in the Red Keep, but he’ll still find a way to bury himself in matters of the realm. In the meantime, you spent your days taking care of your daughter, overseeing your stepson studying and looking after household matters.

The horrible news arrives when you are strolling through the gardens with the King. Ever since you married Baelor, you’ve become quite close to the King, a daughter he never had. A guard runs to the gardens, shouting for the King.

The Guard stopped in front of them, sweating and breathing rapidly.

“We have received a letter from Prince Maekar bearing urgent news…”

You did not know what to expect. A Blackfyre conspiracy. How you wished that were the cause. The Guard hands over Maekar’s letter, and the King quickly reads it over. He would’ve collapsed to the ground if he had not grabbed hold of you. You caught him and let him support your body against yours.

“Your grace!” You shouted.

The king was pallid, and his gaze was blank. He called your name and told you to get Mtarys. It was about his father. It was about Baelor. You guided the King to the guard and ran as fast as you could to the training yard where Matarys was.

When you find your stepson, you bring him to the gardens where the King remained. The King is sitting on the bench, crumpling the letter that had caused so much distress.

The King looks at Matarys with solemn eyes. He stands up. “My boy, before you panic, I need you to know your father is alright. He has been injured.” Yours and Matarys’ breaths hitched. “But he is alright. Your Uncle Maekar has assured me, and they are coming back.”

The King tells you, and Matarys tells you, that Baelor got injured after joining the side of a Hedge Knight during a trial of seven. Baelor fought bravely. Baelor was struck by his own brother's mace. Baelor lay asleep for two weeks with Maesters who did not know if he would live or die.

The Gods smiled at Baelor.

He woke up.

The King looked at you as he continued speaking. “The Maesters say a lot of things can happen to a man when he's struck hard in the head. Baelor woke up asking for Jena.”

...

Baelor arrives inside a wheelhouse, a contrast to the way he departed a month and a half ago.

A month and a half ago, he stood in the Keep’s entrance bidding his goodbye to you, Hyacinth and Matarys. He ruffled Matarys’ hair and told him to behave. He gave Hyacinth a cuddle and kissed her cheeks. He puts your daughter back into your arms and kisses you gently. You still remember how much his gaze was full of love and adoration towards you, towards his family.

As he rode his horse out of the gates, he looked over his shoulder where you still remained with Hyacith in your arms and Matarys by your side. You grabbed Hyacith’s arm and waved at him. He smiled and waved back.

Baelor Breakspear returned to the capital a different man. Well, not different. He returns as a man he hasn't been in years. He returns as Prince Baelor, husband of Lady Jena Dondarrion and father of Prince Valarr and Prince Matarys. You and your daughter may as well not exist.

You met Baelor one year after Lady Jena’s death. Baelor didn't intend to have a second wife, and you didn't intend to fall in love with him. You’re an orphan who comes from a House whose sigil and motto nobody could tell even if their lives depended on it. Only Baelor could answer it. 

When he asked your House name you felt embarrassed because you stood in front of the greatest man in the Realm and you come from nothing extraordinary. You mumbled your full name, and without wasting a beat, he asked if you were related to a knight. You recognised the knight he named, your great-grand sire. You were shocked that he would remember such a thing. He wasn't a remarkable knight; he just had few tournament wins under his name, and that was it. 

On that day you felt seen, and that was the start of everything.

It wasn’t a hot, passionate love affair.

It was built slowly over the years like a well-tended fire.

You were Lady Kiera’s lady-in-waiting.

You didn’t see Baelor every day. 

You were busy attending the Young Prince’s wife. 

He was busy being the Hand.

When you crossed paths, you would bow to him, and he would nod at you.

It was a practice dance between the two of you, but as time went on, the dance started to shift patterns, like the invisible minstrels had changed the tune of their instruments. 

When you and Baelor crossed paths, you both slowed your paces as if to make the moment last longer. You would hold eye contact longer than it is appropriate for either of your statuses. You would walk forward, and when looking over your shoulder, he would be staring right back at you. It was you who made the audacious step of turning this dance into something more.

“It’s just a beautiful day today.” You said.

He almost looked stunned by your comment, but he then smiled and agreed with you. Then Baelor did his own audacious step; he asked if you wanted to take a stroll with him in the gardens. You accepted.

The wheelhouse stops in front of the awaiting group. Prince Maekar, who was riding his horse alongside, quickly jumped off the animal before a stable boy even arrived. He rushed to the Wheelhouse and opened its door. Lady Kiera is the first to come off and then Prince Valarr. The Young Prince lifts his hand to the inside, and a big but thin hand grabs it. Maekar approaches and lets the last person inside lean on his body.

The sight in front of you almost makes you want to faint, and Matarys grabbed your hand.

Baelor looked too thin and frail. His clothes looked baggy, and his face was sunken. His head was bandaged, and you could see a faint spot of red.

The King is the one to go to him first.

Baelor tries to stand straight in front of his father and king.

“My King,” He mumbled as if speaking was the hardest task he could perform. “Please give me time to recover and I shall attend to my duties…”

The King didn't let him finish. He walked to Baelor and pulled him into his arms.

Daeron Targaryen stripped his title and crown and held his firstborn, whom he almost lost. Baelor wrapped his arm around his father and rested his head against his shoulder. Maekar, who was holding Baelor upright, looked down in shame and was about to step away when Daeron grabbed him and brought him to his hold as well.

It was a heartbreaking sight.

“Matarys.” You called for your stepson lightly. “Go to your father.”

Matarys reluctantly lets go of your hand.

He approached shyly and stopped behind the King.

“Father.” He called out.

Baelor lifted his head and fixed his gaze at his youngest son.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes studied the boy in front of him; they go wide when it dawns on him who the boy is. Matarys was only eight years old when Jena died. He was now twelve. He carefully frees himself from his father's and brother’s grip, and with uncoordinated steps, he moves forward.

Baelor takes another step forward and loses his balance, dropping to his knees right in front of Matarys. Maekar rushes to his brother’s side. He was about to lift him, but Baelor raised his hand. He grabbed his youngest son and pulled him to his arms just like his father did a few moments ago. Matarys broke down and cried in his father’s arms.

"Shh...shh," He hummened. “When did you get so big, my boy?” Baelor asked as he patted his son’s arms and back.

A tear slips down your face, and you quickly wipe it away. It gave you hope. If he remembered his son with one glance. He may remember you as well.

The Maesters start to surround Baelor, ready to see the extent of his wound and see how truly bad it is. Baelor reluctantly lets go of Matarys and allows Maekar to get him up from the ground and escort him inside.

They walk to the entrance where you stood. Your body goes rigid. Should you call for him? Should you hold his arm? Should you introduce yourself?

You looked directly at Baelor, and he looked back at you.

You waited for that glimpse of recognition, but it did not arrive.

Baelor politely nodded at you. “My lady.”

You stayed there astonished.

You could almost laugh. That’s Baelor, alright. The man could have a limb hanging by a thread, but he would still slow down and greet the person in front of him just because he couldn't forget his good manners.

Maekar didn't look at you. His gaze was forward.

Coward! You think bitterly. Your brother would've looked me in the eyes!

Kiera walks to you and hugs you. You break down in her arms.

...

Maesters surrounded him and prodded his head.

They gave him Milk of the poppy, which made his senses go dull. He was in and out of consciousness. There was so much he wanted to ask and do. How was the realm? How were his sons? How was his father’s health? Where was Jena buried?

The maesters disperse, and he’s no longer being touched. His eyes were closed, but he could hear everything around him. He could hear them whispering among themselves about the side effects of his wound and how they could bring back some of his memories without causing emotional and mental distress.

He hears light footsteps coming inside the chamber.

“He just fell asleep.” He hears Maekar say. “You shouldn't be here.” His brother doesn't say it with a malicious tone, but Baelor nonetheless wishes to scold his brother. This person was a guest, a friend of his who wanted to check on his well-being.

He tried to open his eyes, but his lids were heavy. 

The person doesn't respond to Maekar, nor do they obey him. In fact, they step closer to Baelor. Now Baelor wished he could see who this person was that was so bold to defy his brother.

The steps are light. A Lady, perhaps?

The bed dips as someone sits beside him. and his hand is held. It was a lady indeed. The hand was soft and warm. A contrast to his rough and cold skin. The lady rubs his hand delicately, warming him up. 

The lady remains silent, but he could hear her sniff and a hitch in her breath as she held back a sob. He wanted to tell the lady to not waste tears on a fool like him. He tried to squeeze her hand, but his fingers still felt like wood.

No one speaks.

He could feel her gaze on him. Her hand grazed his knuckles slowly.

Another sound of footsteps appears along with the sound of clanking. A guard.

“My lady?” He calls.

The lady speaks for the first time. “Yes?”

Her voice is soft and gentle, just like her touch.

“Prince Valarr requests your presence.”

The lady pauses in her gestures, and Baelor mourns her touch. She sighs and carefully lays Baelor’s hand on the wool blanket.

He waits for her to get up and leave. She moves not away from him but towards him. She leans in, and Baelor could smell citrus fruits and oranges – a far cry from the medicine and incense that surround him. She presses her lips against his temple, and Baelor feels his heart skip a beat.

She gets up and starts to walk away, but Baelor wanted her to stay. He moved his head, and finally he managed to open his eyes, but his vision was blurry. He could only see the tail end of the Lady’s blue gown.

The Maester suggests you and Hyacith keep a respectful distance from Baelor so as not to create more mental distress for him.

...

You are to be a stranger to your own husband.

Who are you now?

You have no idea.

Are you still a wife even if your husband doesn't remember you?

Is your daughter a princess even if her father doesn't remember her conception?

You lie on your bed. The same bed you shared with your husband a few months ago with your daughter sleeping peacefully right beside you. You envy her. She doesn't know one of her favourite people in the world doesn't recall her existence. He doesn’t remember her laugh, her smile, how much he prayed for her and the love that he had for her. He doesn't remember how happy he was when she was born. A man who thought he would never hold another small child of his blood, especially a daughter.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I never thought I would feel so much love for a woman until you presented this blessing to my life.” He told you when he held her for the first time.

She doesn't know her father doesn't remember her mother.

He doesn’t remember the days where polite conversations turn into something deeper and meaningful. The days when you sought each other's eyes from across the room. The day he asked you to be his wife. The day you made oaths to one another in front of the Gods and men. The days of getting to know each other's bodies.

Baelor lies on a bed, not knowing on the other side of the Keep there are two people who have become important to him. He doesn't know there’s a possibility you carry his fourth child.

You haven't told anyone. You haven't sought a maester or midwife to confirm it, but you knew. You knew your body. The lack of blood wasn't your only clue. Your breasts were tender, and when Hyacith would squeal, screech or whimper, you would feel a tug on them. You felt nauseous. You craved oranges, the same cravings you had in your first pregnancy. You wanted to tell Baelor in your letters but decided you wanted to surprise him. You regret that choice now.

If you had told him your suspicions, would he have still joined the fight? Maybe he still would. He joined a fight knowing he had two small children waiting for him, and he still went ahead.

Seven! How you wished to whack him on the head as well!

...

“And this is Aemon the Dragonknight! My great-great-uncle! My brother was named after him. When Queen Naerys, my great-grandmother, was accused of adultery, he demanded her accuser fight him in a trial by combat and won!”

“Oh…”

You smiled as you watched Aegon escort the Hedge Knight around the Keep, and you smiled at the Hedge Knight, who was amazed at everything around him.

Hyacinth’s shrieks announce your presence in the corridor.

Aegon turned around and smiled when he spotted you and his cousin.

“Auntie!” He ran towards you.

The Hedge Knight lowered his gaze as he followed his young squire.

“Hello, Hyacinth!” He greeted her, grabbing her little hand.

“Hello, Egg.” You greeted him in return and looked at the Tall knight in front of you. “Will you introduce me to your friend?”

Egg smiled. “Aunt, this is Ser Duncan the Tall.”

The Knight stood straighter when you gazed at him, and his cheeks turned red.

“My lady.” He respectfully bowed his head.

“Ser Duncan the Tall this is my cousin, Princess Hyacith of House Targaryen and my aunt…”

Ser Duncan the Tall’s eyes go wider when Egg tells your name and your relationship to the royal. He began to speak, but his words were incoherent, and they did not make any sense. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you.

“My lady… Please forgive me for all that has happened!” He started rambling. “It was never my intention to drag the Hand into this mess! It was never my intention to cause this much harm to your family!”

“And what was your intention, Ser Duncan?” You asked.

Ser duncan lifts his head and looks with his sincere blue eyes. “To protect the innocent, my lady. As every knight should.”

You sighed.

“Egg.” You said. “Would you and Ser Duncan like to take a stroll with Hyacith and me?"

Aegon and Hyacith walk ahead of you and Ser Duncan.

Aegon holds Hyacinth's hands and teaches her how to walk.

“Another foot forward... another foot forward.”

Ser Duncan breaks the silence. “She looks like him.”

You nodded. “She does.” You nodded. “I was in labour two nights and one day, and she came out the spitting image of her father and brother.”

Ser Duncan smiled.

“And she has the audacity to prefer her father over me. The one who gave her life and fed from my very own breast.”

Ser Duncan let himself chuckle.

"Have you talked to him?” You ask, not needing to clarify who.

“I have, m’lady.” He answers. “His grace recovers well and has been able to walk well with the assistance of a cane.”

“Does he remember you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But he does tell me that he would gladly let me join his kingsguard and serve him.”

“Do you plan on accepting it?”

“I’ll be honest with you, my lady. I don't know..." He continues. “I am grateful for the offer. It is something a Hedge Knight strives for his whole life but…”

“But?” You encouraged him.

“I don't feel ready to give up that life yet. Especially with Egg as my squire.” He explains. “He’s a good lad. A pain in my side… but a good lad. He could do so much better outside of places like these.”

You nodded. “I think you’re correct, Ser Duncan.”

“Your husband said the same thing. Even told Prince Maekar that he should reconsider it.”

That makes you pause. 

Your husband. 

Nobody has said that since Baelor’s return. As if the reminder were a dirty memory that shouldn't be evoked. As if that would cause him to break into pieces.

“I know it’s not the same, but I have lived that ‘Hedge Knight’ life before.” You told him. “I came from a House that wasn't worthy enough to be remembered in the lineage books. I couldn’t tell people which side they fought during the Dance of Dragons or the Blackfyre rebellion. My parents died when I was young, and I have been shipped off to every corner of the realm to various relatives. I learnt rather quickly to never get used to any keep I arrived at because I would be sent away before I could learn the names of the servants. I arrived in King’s Landing with one last favour and two ugly gowns in my name.”

Ser Duncan listened to you attentively.

“I don't know what you heard of me, Ser, but there are those who think I slithered my way into Baelor’s bed and seduced him into marrying me.”

Ser Duncan shook his head and stammered an apology and told you he would never believe such tales regarding your honour.

You laughed.

“Oh… How I wish I could tell these noblemen it was the other way around. He seduced me! I didn’t realise he actually wanted me for a wife until he took me to Dragonstone and knelt before me. A Prince knelt before me and asked me to be his wife! Do you know what I said?”

Ser Duncan blinked. “Yes?”

“Your Grace, get up! You are embarrassing yourself!” You said using the same shrieking voice you did years ago. “And he did not get up. He told me he would stay like that until I said yes. And I just… kept denying him! I tried to get him up from the ground, but he would not budge.”

You smile as you remember that day.

“No matter what objections I threw at him, he would fight back. ‘The King would never approve,' I said. 'The King already knows and has given us his blessing,' he said. ‘Your sons would not want a replacement for their mother,' I argued. ‘My son helped me choose the ring,' he argued back. ‘The court would never accept me,' I tried once again to bring him to reason. ‘The court would have to fight me if they disapprove of our union,' he said, still kneeling on the ground and holding the ring.”

“What made you say ‘yes’?”

You twisted your engagement ring. “I made him promise to never leave my side and ship me off to whatever corner of this realm. If he promises me that I will say ‘yes’.”

You wish to cry, but you will not cry. Not when it’s such a beautiful day.

“He will remember you, my lady. I am sure of it!” Ser Duncan reassured you.

“I hope so, Ser," You say. “Because who am I without my Baelor? I came from nothing and belonged to nothing, but Baelor never let me feel like I didn’t belong next to him. " You look at your daughter. “At least for my daughter’s sake, the Gods will guide him back to us.”

Hyacinth guided her cousin to you and Ser Duncan. She stopped in front of the tall knight and looked at him like she was studying him. She is definitely her father’s daughter. She pulled her hand from Aegon and grabbed Ser Duncan’s leg pant. Ser Duncan stood still like a statue, and he had a look of sheer panic on his face, as if it were a dangerous animal clinging to him and not a small child.

Hyacinth made a squealing noise and tried to climb Ser Duncan’s leg.

“It seems like the Princess wishes to know how you view the world, Ser Duncan.” You said humourously.

“You should do as your Princess asks, Ser," Aegon said, sharing your amusement. 

Ser Duncan took a deep breath, rubbed his palms against his pants, crouched down and lifted the princess. He held her at arm's length away from his body. His breath hitched when Hyacith let out a screech.

“She prefers being held closer, Ser Duncan.” You gently pushed your daughter into Ser Duncan’s chest, and you could've sworn he stopped breathing.

Ser Duncan looked at Hyacith, who was looking back at him, and cleared his throat. “hum.. Evening, Princess.”

The little girl babbled in response.

You smiled, but you couldn't help the feeling like someone was staring at you. You turned around and saw a person retreating, but you could recognise that silver head from anywhere.

“Ser Duncan, Egg. I will be right back.” You said, not giving time to hear their answers as you went inside.

You catch Maekar just as he is going up the stairs.

“How is it that a Hedge Knight and your nine-year-old son have more guts to look me in the eyes than you, brother?” You asked, saying the last part rather sarcastically.

Maekar goes stiff and turns around, staring at you with a scowl. Years ago that look frightened you, but now it held no power over you.

“I would like to remind you, girl.” He hissed. “That you are speaking to a Prince of the Realm.”

“And I would like to remind you, your grace.” You said with your chin high. “That I’m still Princess of Dragonstone and your future Queen even if your brother doesn't remember me. I’m still a member of this family until the King says otherwise."

Maekar has never been warm with you. He’s only polite because you are his brother’s wife. Because the King likes you. He shares the same opinion the court has towards you: too unfit and unworthy to be the heir’s wife.

Maekar huffs and goes down the stairs. “You left your daughter with that oaf?”

“Ser Duncan is a good man. My husband saw that, so I trust him, and besides, he’s with your son, and you let him be your squire.”

“You trust him after he caused all of this.”

“Yes.” You said, feeling ready to defend Ser Duncan’s honour. “After all, it was not him who called for a trial of Seven. It was not him who swung the mace.”

Something flickered in Maekar’s eyes. Hurt? You did not know and you did not care. Baelor remembers him, and Maekar gets to see him every day. You haven't been able to talk to your husband and could only rely on the accounts from your stepsons, Kiera and the maesters about his well-being.

“If I could undo what happen…” He started.

“Spare me your sorrows, Maekar," You cut in. “I will only forgive when he remembers me. When my daughter stops crying herself to sleep because she heard her father’s voice and he did not come to her. When the baby inside of me…” You stopped when Maekar’s eyes went wide and he looked at your belly.

You turned around and walked away from him.

You owed him no explanation.

You owed him nothing.

You come back to Ser Duncan, still holding Hyacinth and asking Egg if she’s still breathing because she has gone quiet. Hyacinth was happily sucking on her fist.

...

Baelor doesn't like to be idle. He doesn't like to remain still. He also doesn't like to be coddled. He understands an injury like this needs to be taken care of properly, but he feels like he’s going to forget all his manners if another person asks if he’s alright.

It’s nighttime, and half of the Keep is asleep. Usually at this hour Baelor would be hunched over his desk and looking over his ledgers, but he’s not doing anything, and he hates that. He has probably counted every stitch and every flower in the canopy above him.

The wound has healed well, and he no longer needs bandages. He still gets headaches and has a persistent itch on his wound.

He lets out grunts when he sits on the bed. With deep breaths he grabs his cane and gets up from the bed. He walks out, ignoring the guard stationed at his door.

“A small walk, Ser.” He said, waving his hand when the knight started walking behind him. “I will be back before you know it.”

Baelor wished to know how much had changed in four years, and the cloak of the knight was perfect for it. There were no Lords and Ladies asking for his well-being and saying he’s in their prayers. It’s more quiet. 

He heard a babe the other day when he was strolling through the garden with Valarr. That was odd; there weren’t a lot of babies in the Keep. The noble ladies usually leave them with nursemaids in their husbands' castles. He didn’t get to see the babe, but he did hear the poor thing cry.

Not much has changed; the walls and the banners were the same, but the gardens looked different. There was a section that was full of hyacinths of various colours and an orange tree. It was beautiful and well taken care of. He wonders whose idea was it to plant them. There was also a bench in there; maybe he should sit there and rest for a bit.

When he arrives at the garden and hears a woman humming. He wonders if his brother’s hit was strong enough to make him see the ghosts of the keep.

 He rounds the corner, and he sees a Lady sitting on the bench. He doesn't recognise her. She’s quite pretty. Her expression was calm and serene. In her hands was a handkerchief with peeled orange slices. The moon shone on her beautifully. He tried to look for clues of her house with her clothes, but she wore a plain white nightgown and a dark robe.

Why is there Lady alone in the gardens in the middle of the night? He wondered.

Should he join her? Or should he let her be in her own peace?

Before he could decide, a wave of nausea hit him, making his body brush against the leaves of the bushes.

The lady stopped humming.

...

"Who's there?!” You shouted when you heard something rustling in the bushes and the sound of a man groaning. “Show yourself before I scream for the guards!”

You get up from the bench and try to see between the gaps who this person is.

You hear a cane tapping against the stone floor path, and a person clad in a dark robe appears. Your heart skips a beat when you see Baelor coming out.

“Forgive me, my lady.” He starts. “It was never my intention to frighten you.”

“Bae… your grace.” You collect yourself and bow before him. “I’m happy to see you recovering well. Are you here by yourself?”

“Yes. I appreciate everyone has made sure I'm comfortable, but I needed time for myself.”

You look down at the orange peels in your handkerchief because you fear if you look at him, you’ll say something you shouldn’t. “Then I’ll let you be, my prince.”

You turn around, but he speaks. “Wait.” You look over your shoulder.

“Please don't let my presence disturb you, and I hope it’s not too much to ask; could you join me? "

How long have you waited for his invitation? It made you feel like the first months you knew one another when you didn't know how to act around him.

You nodded and sat on the bench again. He joins you soon after, groaning as he plops down the hard bench. Maybe you should ask a servant to bring a cushion for him.

You remained silent and so did he.

The silence did not feel tense. It felt familiar. Like the days you got to know each other, where you used each other's presence and didn't need words to pass time. You simply relished being together.

“The song you were humming.” Baelor said, gently breaking the silence. “I recognised it. A High Valyrian song about a daughter asking her father to collect a star for her; he tells her he’ll ride his dragon as high as he can and collect all of them for her. And when he does, the daughter gets sad because the sky is no longer shining, so the father puts her in his dragon, and they put the stars back in the sky.”

“Yes.” You confirm. "Unfortunately I don't know how to sing the words; I just know the rhythm.”

“Where did you hear it from?”

The truthful answer would be. ‘You sang to our daughter ever since she was in my womb. You were so sure it was girl just by the way she kicked against your hand.’

“I heard it from a volantis singer that was passing by.” You said. “It’s my daughter’s favourite song. I hummed it to her when putting her in her cradle."

The more truthful answer would be. ‘She doesn't like it when anyone else but you sings it. She once placed her hand in the King’s mouth to shut him up.’

“How old is your daughter?”

“A year old.”

“What’s her name?”

“Hyacinth.”

Baelor looked around the garden at the various hyacinths surrounding you and him and chuckled.

“A beautiful name.”

You named her, you thought bitterly. “Thank you.”

Baelor shocked his head. “Forgive me, my lady. I just realised I haven't asked your name.”

You answer him.

“Does your husband know you’re here alone?”

“I don't have a husband.” You say it almost bitterly.

It might as well be the truth. Your husband is sitting right next to you like a stranger.

Baelor noticed the tension in your body. “The hour is getting quite late, my lady.” He gets up from the bench and extends his hand towards you. “Allow me to escort you to your chambers.”

You accept his hand and you feel your whole body shivering when you feel Baelor’s skin. “Thank you, your grace.” You reluctantly pull your hand away. “But I have to refuse; my chambers are from yours, and I don't wish for you to exhaust yourself.”

“It would be no trouble.” He tried to argue.

“Please, my prince," You pleaded, exhausted yourself. “I wish to be alone.”

He nodded and stepped aside. 

“I would like to thank you, my lady.” You looked at him confused. “It felt nice to have a conversation with someone that didn't involve my injury or matters of the realm.”

“You’re welcome, my prine.”

You bowed and left the garden, and you could feel Baelor’s eyes on you as he watched you disappear from his view. You put your hand in your belly as you feel a small flutter. As if a feather were caressing your skin.

When you were far away from him, the guards, or any living soul, you stopped and collapsed to your knees and started crying. 

You tried to be strong. For your daughter. For your baby. But when Baelor gazed at you and the warmth and love weren't there, it was painful and heartbreaking. You felt like you were a little girl again being told to pack her things because she was leaving. Because she’s not wanted. You thought you would never feel like that. That Baelor would not let you feel like that ever again. He promised! you know it’s not his fault. That your Baelor would rather forfeit his crown than let you or Hyacith feel like that. A burden.

...

Baelor can’t help but feel like something is missing. Not just his memories but also someone.

At first he thought it was Jena he was missing. It wasn't a love match, but they had respect for one another, and he felt genuinely sad to hear of her death. She was not only his sons’ mother. She was his friend and someone he felt he could rely on when his time came to be King.

When he woke up, his hand, without thinking, went to his side of the bed, expecting to feel another body. He and Jena slept in separate chambers. When he looks to his side, he expects someone to be there, but there’s only an empty space.

He also hears the sound of a babe crying. When he’s in his study, he swears he hears a child crying. He would step into the corridor, but he would see nothing. He asked the guards if they heard a child, and they told him ‘no’. Baelor thinks he’s losing his mind. When he finds a small doll in his drawer and he smells the faint scent of baby powder, he knows that this child is real.

...

Baelor is on another nightly stroll when he hears once again the sound of a child crying, and this time he knows he’s not imagining it when he hears another voice speaking to the babe.

He follows the sound, and he’s surprised to find himself in the royal nursery where he and his brothers spent the first years of their lives. This section is reserved only for the children of the royal family. 

He looks through the gap of the door and sees a small child, a girl, sitting on top of a rug surrounded by pillows. The child was crying almost hysterically. A young nursemaid stood next to her holding a bowl of porridge. She tried to give the baby a spoonful, but the baby turned her head stubbornly and continued to wail. The young nursemaid looked worried sick for the child in her care.

“Should we call the maester?”

An older nursemaid sighed. Baelor recognised she's the same one who took care of his sons. “Don't bother. She'll cry herself to exhaustion very soon.”

The Young nurse maid put the bowl down. “I feel so horrible for her.” The nursemaid wipes a tear from her. “Poor little Hyacinth."

Hyacinth?

The daughter of the lady in the garden. 

“Poor little Hyacinth, indeed.” The older nursemaid repeated. “I recognise that cry. I have taken care of children for almost twenty years and recognised the meaning of every cry they let out. This one is ‘I miss my father’ cry.”

Hyacinth sniffed, agreeing with the nurse maid's conclusion. The girl turned her head and made direct eye contact with Baelor.

Hyacinth stops crying and her body goes stiff. Then she let out a happy shriek. The girl got up and walked towards him. Baelor took a step inside the nursery just as she collided against his leg.

“Your grace!” The nurse maids quickly bowed.

Baelor was more focused on the child in front, who clung to his trousers like it was a lifeline.

He crouched down and picked her up. He hoped his body would not betray him, not while he was holding something so frail.

“Hyacinth.” He called her softly. 

Hyacinth smiled, revealing two teeth on her upper gums, and buried her face in his neck.

Baelor was shocked that the child who was crying hysterically a while ago had calmed down as soon as she saw him.

“Whose child does she belong to?”

One of the nurse maids stammered the name of the lady in the garden, just like he suspected, but there's no mention of a father.

He was about to ask about him when the child pulled her face away from him and pointed at the bowl of porridge while babbling. 

The nursemaid that tried to feed her let out a relieved sigh and quickly picked the bowl. She put the spoon in front of her mouth, but to the dismay of everyone in the room, she turned her face away.

“May I?” Baelor asks, lifting his hand.

The nursemaid passed him the spoon, and he put it in front of the child's mouth. The baby girl chased the spoon and ate the porridge. She opened her mouth wanting more. Baelor scooped another bit of the porridge and repeated the process.

Baelor hummed at her.

“Can I… can I have a moment alone with her?”

“Of course, we'll be in the room right next to you.”

The nursemaids left, and it was just him and her.

Baelor sat himself and Hyacinth on the rug and continued to feed her. She happily took every spoon without hesitation. Once in a while she would stop and smile at him. And Baelor couldn’t help but smile back at her.

When there's nothing left, he gets out his handkerchief and wipes the remaining porridge stuck to her mouth. The handkerchief has hyacinths embroidered on it. He found it inside his pockets when departing Ashford. 

He takes a closer look at the child.

He couldn't help but think she looked familiar. 

She has mismatched eyes like him and Valarr. Her hair was jet black, curled in a way that reminded him of his mother's hair.

Hyacinth got up and walked to him. She placed her hands on his shoulder and looked at him expectantly. 

“What is it that you want, little lady?” 

She huffed.

Then Baelor remembered what the lady in the garden said about her daughter. 

He started singing quietly. 

Hyacinth relaxed and laid her head on his shoulder. Baelor put his hand on her back and laid her on his lap. She was so small. He continued to sing. He liked this song. When he was a tiny lad, the maesters would give him and his brothers songs to translate. This one became his favourite. He liked the story behind it, the love a father had for his child that he flew higher and picked all the stars in the sky for his daughter.

Hyacinth was sleeping peacefully.

Baelor carefully laid her in the cot and looked at her, not knowing how to feel. His mind was reaching an horrendous conclusion. 

...

“And he stayed?”

“For a bit, my lady.” The nurse maid explained. “After he tucked her in and called us back inside, he left but not before telling us to call for him if little Hyacinth needed a Prince to feed her porridge again.”

The nursemaids laughed, and you laughed as well. You could cry from happiness. 

You looked at your daughter, who was in your arms munching on her doll. She looked well rested and happy. 

“And you took your first steps, my little princess?” You laughed. “Of course the first person you would walk to was your papa.” 

You brought her closer to you. You could smell Baelor on her. The familiar scents of ink and parchment. 

“My cheeky little girl. Maybe it's you who is going to bring him back to us.”

...

Baelor paced back in and forward in his study.

A headache was going through his head worse than the others.

He did not know how to feel. Anger? Disappointment? Disgust? All of it?

Why did he do it?

How could've he done it?

Where did he fail?

Baelor thought Valarr better than this!

He was a small child when the Blackfyre 

Valarr was a young child when the Blackfyre Rebellion happened but old enough to remember the reason for why his father was fighting. 

So, why did he sire a bastard? 

And why are you here walking around the castle like you belong to House Targaryen?

Baelor understands Valarr’s need for wanting his daughter nearby, but his mistress? 

Has he gone mad? 

Why would he do this to his wife? 

Does he go to her chambers in the middle of the night and sneak into her bed?

Baelor takes a deep breath and asks the guard to get his son.

✴︎ 209 AC

THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.

You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.

But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.

“I am to be married,” you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.

“Who,” she asked carefully, “would marry you?”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. “A prince of fire and blood,” you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.”

She snorted. “You make him sound like a savant.”

“He is not a savant,” you replied with mock offense. “He is a prince.”

“Yes, but is he aware we are poor?” she asked flatly. “Truly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “That is beneath his concern.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.” You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.

The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.

Then, very quietly, she said, “Prince Aerion?”

You smiled wider. “Yes.”

“The Targaryen prince?”

“Yes.”

“From Westeros.”

“Yes, from Westeros.”

The color slowly drained from her face.

“The ravens arrived this morning,” you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. “Mother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in King’s Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” You clasped your hands together. “Doesn’t it feel strangely destined?”

“No,” she answered at once.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. “You are determined to ruin this for me?”

“They do not even have dragons anymore,” she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. “The last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the prince…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard things.”

“From whom?”

“Merchants. Sailors from King’s Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.”

You brushed past the warning without care. “Sailors invent stories for sport.”

“They say he’s cruel.”

“And people said Father was clever,” you replied lightly. “The world exaggerates.”

She looked unconvinced.

You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.

“If there are no dragons left,” you mused, “I suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.”

She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.

“You cannot hatch a dragon.”

“Why not?” You asked ridiculously.  

“Because dragons are dead.”

You shrugged. “So were we, practically.”

For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.

“I am finding Mother,” she muttered under her breath. “She has completely lost her mind.”

Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.

He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.

Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.

A marriage.

No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crown—but there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason. 

A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable. 

It was not sentiment. It was sense. 

His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.

He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornament—pretty, perhaps, but wrong. 

And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.

You walked into the hall looking pleased with life. 

No!

Absolutely not!

Gods… you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him. 

Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.

Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both. 

You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.

“You look taller in your portrait,” Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet. 

“Oh.”

Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. “Send her back. Find me a tall one.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazily– “See? Funny.”

You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.

“I see.”

“I’m kidding,” Aerion said. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.” 

“Oh,” you said politely. “Very amusing.” It was not convincing.

The maester—Gladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.

“Prince Aerion, may I present Lady—”

“Yes, yes, the bride,” Aerion interrupted. “I gathered.”

You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.

“I wished to bring something from Lys,” you explained warmly. Aerion’s mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worse—poetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.

But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig. 

You held it out to him with both hands.

“I present this branch of spruce,” you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!

“It is an evergreen,” you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. “I hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.”

Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him. 

“She gave me a twig,” he observed quietly. 

Aerion tilted his head slightly. “She’s not inbred, is she?”

The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. “There has been no indication of—”

“I assure you,” you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, “I am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.” And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.

Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.

“I also wished to thank you for your letter.”

The man frowned immediately. “My what?”

“The letter you sent to Lys,” you continued. “The one speaking of devotion and companionship.” Your expression brightened almost painfully. “It was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.”

Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor. 

“Oh,” Aerion said slowly. “That letter.” 

“You wrote it, did you not?” you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Yes,” Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive. 

“I hoped,” you continued carefully, “that perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.”

Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.

“And I hope I shall make you happy,” you said sincerely.

Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. “You’re perfect,” he replied flatly. 

The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this. 

A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name was—though truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.

The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.

It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.

And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.

He still did not look at you.

One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.

Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.

“You’re pretty,” he remarked casually.

The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”

You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.

Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.

“I must tend to my whores,” he announced.

A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.

Aerion barely paused.

“…Horses,” he corrected lazily. “Horses.”

Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. “Going riding,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.

Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.

The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.

“He seems lovely,” you said softly.

Meriel glanced at you.

“Mm,” she replied carefully. “Aren’t you gorgeously optimistic?”

You laughed under your breath. “It has been said.” Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. “I simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.”

Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.

—

The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.

You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.

The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.

“Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wife—”

You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.

“It is a—”

“No,” Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. “You don’t talk, my love.”

A stunned silence followed. “Oh,” you said after a moment. “Of course.”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.

Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.

“So,” he announced, “a wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.”

The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.

The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.

Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.

“You wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.”

You stared at the beast with open amazement. “You remembered?”

“No,” Aerion answered honestly. 

The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.

You thought it was wonderful.

—

By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.

Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.

“Oh,” you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, “they’re somewhere, I’m sure.”

Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.

“Princess,” she said carefully, “where are the rest of your clothes?”

You looked around vaguely.

“An excellent question.”

Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.

“Me. A married woman.” You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. “How I dreamt of this.”

Meriel’s expression softened slightly.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Madam… if I may speak plainly.”

“You may.”

Meriel hesitated.

“You do know what to expect tonight?”

You looked up at once, mildly offended.

“You suppose me more naïve than I am.”

“She explained it to you?”

“My mother explained everything.”

Meriel looked unconvinced already.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.

You spoke with complete sincerity.

“The man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.”

Meriel blinked once.

“Your breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.”

Meriel blinked twice.

“Between your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.”

Meriel stared at you in silence.

“Your bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “You float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.”

Meriel’s face had gone completely blank.

“Your body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.” You sighed dreamily. “Then you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a… delicious sleep.”

A long silence followed.

Meriel nodded slowly.

“…Yep,” she said at last. “That’s pretty much it.”

You smiled, reassured.

Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.

You waited.

And waited.

Aerion never came.

Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.

You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and “the strengthening of the marital bond,” which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.

The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in King’s Landing that smelled faintly of death.

You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.

These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.

He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because “the bird understands him emotionally.”

The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.

You considered poisoning him on the third.

At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.

“Oh,” he’d say. “Wife.” 

Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, “Does she always sit there?”

You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply. 

And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then months– nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.

Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.

At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame. 

So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time. 

You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.

Still determined, you walked to Aerion’s chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.

And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.

And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met. 

A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced. 

“Oh,” he said.

You stared at him.

The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window. 

Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you like”

You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.

Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.

You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.

Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.

Escape, however—

Escape remained an option.

You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.

“I want to leave,” you told her quietly.

Meriel stared at you for a moment. “Leave where?”

“Away from here,” you replied. “Anywhere else.”

Meriel lowered her eyes.

“I need a large traveling trunk,” you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. “And a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.”

Understanding settled over her face slowly.

“You mean to flee.”

“I mean to survive.”

For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.

“I shall arrange it.”

But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.

She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.

“How is she?” he asked lazily.

Meriel hesitated only briefly. “Unhappy.”

“Hmm.”

“She wants to leave.”

That earned his attention. He hummed, “you want something in return.”

Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.

“My father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.” Her hands tightened together. “I have served loyally ever since.”

Aerion tilted his head slightly.

“You want your status restored.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.

“Gods,” he murmured, almost impressed. “You’re awful.”

—

The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.

Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard. 

Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.

But then the carriage stopped.

And you felt the trunk— the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.

“No,” you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. “No—!”

The trunk sank lower.

Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.

Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.

Then silence.

For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.

That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.

Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.

The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.

And then suddenly—

Aerion laughed.

“Oh, Gods,” he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. “You thought I was serious.”

The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. “Bring her back before she actually dies.”

Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.

You spilled out with it.

Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.

Above you stood Aerion.

Dry and perfectly composed.

One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.

Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.

“Come along.”

The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.

Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.

Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worse— Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.

The realization hollowed something inside you completely.

That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.

Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, “Would you like a cake with that knife, Princess?”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“Do not try to stop me,” you said quietly. “Just leave me be.”

“I would not presume to speak,” Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. “For the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.”

You looked down at the knife again.

“I am resolved.”

Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.

“Fetch a bucket for the blood.”

The poor boy blinked. “Yes, miss.”

“And towels too,” Meriel added calmly. “There may be some overflow.”

“What am I to do?” you whispered instead. “Just live forever at someone else’s whim?”

“God forbid.”

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.

“I truly believed,” you admitted quietly, “ever since I was a child… that greatness waited for me somewhere.” Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. “A great life. Something important. Like the gods Himself placed me here for a reason.” You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. “That I was meant to change something.”

Meriel was silent for a moment.

Then softly:

“Why did he make you a woman, then?”

You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.

“For comedy, I suppose.”

And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.

You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.

Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.

He stabbed violently at a pear.

“The Ashford Tourney begins next week,” he announced suddenly. “You’re coming.”

You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.

“Oh dear,” you murmured sadly. “I fear I may be terribly ill.”

Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.

“Tragic.”

You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. “I believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.”

“How brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.”

You ignored him with dignity.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.

“You do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.”

“Then tell them I died.”

“That would create paperwork.”

Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.

He glanced toward your stomach.

“You’re not pregnant yet, are you?”

Silence.

You narrowed your eyes slowly. “Aerion,” you said carefully, “you have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.”

He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.

“Annoying.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

Annoying?

Annoying?

Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.

“We should probably do something about that eventually,” he muttered distractedly.

“You think?” You shot him a sharp look across the table. “What a groundbreaking conclusion.”

Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.

“You’ve been in a terrible mood lately.”

You laughed in disbelief. “Lately?” 

“Yes.” Aerion blinked. 

“I walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.”

“And I offered to include you,” he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. “As for the lake, that was clearly a joke.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You sealed me inside the trunk.”

“You survived.”

“You watched me drown.”

Aerion frowned slightly at that. “That feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.”

You stared at him.

“And besides,” he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, “I came back.”

You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.

Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second. 

Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.

Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.

“Later.”

The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.

“I hate you,” you muttered venomously into your wine.

Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.

Aerion hosted them constantly.

The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.

They clung to Aerion all the same.

Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for that— but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.

Even when it wasn’t funny.

Especially when it wasn’t funny.

While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.

The library.

It became yours almost by instinct.

Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.

Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.

You had always loved reading.

Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.

You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.

Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.

You wanted to do something that mattered.

And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.

You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.

And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.

It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion. 

“You’re coming?” he asked.

“I would like to see the forest,” you said simply.

He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.

“Fine.”

The hunt itself was chaos.

Aerion, however, was in a rare good mood— amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.

So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.

“There is something I would like to do,” you began carefully.

Aerion did not look at you. “That sounds expensive.”

“It is not—”

“Everything is expensive,” he cut in.

You hesitated.

Then, quietly, “There is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.”

“Do what you want,” he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. “Just don’t make it inconvenient.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “It’s a cottage.”

A pause.

Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.

Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.

And just like that, it was done.

No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.

You began preparing soon after.

The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—half-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.

Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.

It almost felt possible.

Until it didn’t. 

You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.

The cottage.

Burned.

Not damaged. But burned.

Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.

You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.

It did not.

By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.

Only ash.

—

The palace was loud.

Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.

You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.

He did not look up when you entered.

You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.

“You burned it,” you said.

Aerion blinked once.

Then, slowly: “Oh.”

He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.

“You didn’t say it was for girls.”

“Women in the villages here cannot read,” he added. “They’re not taught.”

Your hands tightened at your sides.

“That is not—”

“And they should not be,” Aerion said, cutting in.

“Women are for seeding, not reading.”

Laughter rolled through the hall.

You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.

“…I told you I wanted a school,” you said slowly.

“Yes,” Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.

“And you burned it down.”

“I did,” he confirmed.

No hesitation. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Well, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“You are disgusting,” you hissed.

“You do not lie to me again.”

The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside you—but by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.

Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Ooh,” he drawled. “You’re admirably quick.”

You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.

The next day there was another feast.

Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.

Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isn’t. 

You mostly ignored all of it.

Instead, you found the bear.

It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerion’s strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.

You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.

“Maybe you’re the only one here,” you muttered softly, “who hasn’t tried to ruin my life.”

The bear shifted slightly under your hand.

For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you. 

And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.

The arrow struck clean.

Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.

You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.

Across the courtyard, laughter broke out.  “Good shot,” someone called.

Aerion’s voice followed lazily, unconcerned. “Oh, dear. Someone’s cross.” he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard. 

The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and left.

—

The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything. 

It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.

You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.

You did not expect him to follow you.

Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.

“We’ve got problems, haven’t we?” he said at last.

You did not answer.

Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.

“I suppose you are the only person in my life,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, “who has not loved me.”

A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.

“It is inconceivable to me,” he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, “and says nothing good about you.”

You looked up sharply at that.

He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.

“If you had shown me an ounce of kindness,” your face twisted as you eyed him, “I was ready with a heart full of love.”

And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, “You look really pretty when you’re angry.”

That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.

“My heart is breaking,” you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. “I miss home. I’m lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberries—”

“And I need my cock sucked,” Aerion interrupted flatly.

You froze.

“What?” you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.

“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, “we’re sharing, right? Our needs?”

“Just let me go home, please.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. “Strawberries, I’ll work on.”

Then, more to himself than to you, he added, “What happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?”

“She died,” you said immediately.

Aerion sighed through his nose. “Seems overly dramatic.”

He looked at you again, then added, “I am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?”

“I suffer the blows of your disdain daily,” you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.

Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.

“It’s not the same as actual blows, though, is it?”

“Well—”

“What, you don’t know?” he cut in.

Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and then—suddenly, sharply—he struck you in the stomach.

The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.

Aerion watched you bend forward.

“Well,” he said calmly, releasing you, “compare, and get back to me.”

You straightened slowly, shaking.

“Mother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,” he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, “I’m glad she’s not alive to see this. Not that I’m glad she’s dead. I’m not—”

He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

You were still staring at him, unblinking.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You’re a disappointment to me, too.”

Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.

“I do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.”

“You will try and fail,” you said immediately, voice raw.

“You will be happy,” he continued as if you had not spoken. “You will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.”

His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.

“I do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.

“And you will never win.”

I hope he loses.

Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him. 

I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.

Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.

Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.

He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.

Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.

You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.

You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.

Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.

Then he left.

And the gates closed behind him.

—

Days passed slowly after that.

The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.

You filled the time carefully.

The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expected—but insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.

Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.

Time passed in a strange, suspended way.

Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.

“He died!”

The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.

“The prince died!”

For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.

Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.

A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.

But then—

A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.

Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost like—

No.

Not yet.

Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.

Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.

She stopped in front of you.

And spoke clearly.

“Prince Baelor died.”

Silence.

Oh.

You felt it land slowly.

Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.

Someone else. Someone entirely different.

Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.

And for a long moment, all you could think was:

Oh.

When his lips pressed to your cheek, he should've known. All those years of being an ER attendant were ingrained in his brain, his bones. Yet he couldn't rationalize why you were so still, so cold. Panic seeped in as he began to jostle your shoulder, crying out your name in fear. He couldn't believe it. You were just here. In his arms last night, a warm body pressed against his. Footsteps bounded the stairs as his yelling grew louder, your son and daughter-in-law rushing to check what was wrong.

It wasn't until Jack, your son & daughter, their spouses, and grandkids surrounded your bedside at the hospital that reality had sunk in. It sat in his chest, heavy and aching. Cardiac arrest, the silent killer. It had taken you away from him in one swift blow. His hand gripped your hand so gently now as he pressed his lips to the wrinkled skin atop it, your ring still glinting and shimmering the way it did the day he proposed. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. Jack was the one with the terminal illness, not you. No, you were supposed to be the one who held him in the night and let him pass peacefully. It was supposed to be him who went first.

Head hurts. The jolt of what felt like a train coming to a stop made your eyes fly open. You gasped for air as you sat up, hand pressed of your heart.

Where the fuck-

"Let me guess, you weren't expecting it?"

The kid sat in front of you, swimming in a suit made for an adult.

"Who- Who are you?" You searched around in a panic. "Where's Jack?"

The kid was gone, and the aisle of the train car you were in was filled with people finding their way to an exit, many of them in nurse gowns. You contemplated staying on the train, but there was a gnawing feeling telling you to get off now. Outside the train was a platform station, with only one set of escalators that ascended to who knows where. Following the mob of people, all equally as confused and disoriented as you were.

You entered a lobby filled with people; a few were hounding you with brochures and promises of parties. A help desk was in front of a flipping marquee with times and destinations for places that made no sense to you. A young girl was working behind the desk, headphones over her ears, a white blouse, a brown skirt, her hair pulled back with a red ribbon.

"Hi.. Do you.. work here?" You approached the desk hesitantly, the young girl rolled her eyes at you.

"No, honey, I just like to sit back here and pretend I do." Great, sarcasm.

"Look I don't what I'm doing here I was just-"

"This is the junction. Now, take a seat, and your AC will be with you shortly." She cut you off with a wave of her hand.

You walked away from the desk with your tail tucked between your legs, finding the first seat. You sat there watching the room slowly dwindle in numbers. You were still in your pajamas from the night before, the soft baby blue cotton pajama, the sight of your hands caught you off guard. They were soft, smooth, with no signs of age or wrinkles as you turned them over. Your nails were even perfectly manicured with a baby pink polish, before you could even question it, when a woman in a similar suit to the young girl at the help desk called your name as she looked around the waiting room.

"T-That's me.." You shot up out of your seat. She approached with a soft smile.

She was beautiful, with deep skin, complemented by blonde hair pulled half up with a red ribbon. She held out her hand, long almond nails with a French tip. She shook your hand.

"Sorry about the wait. I'm Anna, your AC."

"AC? What does that stand for?"

"Your afterlife coordinator," Her voice soft, all too familiar with the typical reactions with souls who've crossed over.

"That's not.. I'm not dead! I-I can't be I was just sleeping-" Panic started to settle in. Anna flipped open the folder in her arms.

"Cardiac Arrest, in your sleep, it was peaceful. You should be lucky; most people don't get that. Follow me." She was picking up pace with her back turned now.

"Look I was at home in bed, with my husband- Oh my god, Jack--"

"And you died, hun. Look, here," She pulled out a handheld mirror, holding it up to you.

There you were but... you were 25 again. How was this possible?

"When people get here, your form reverts to the version of yourself that was happiest. That's why we get a lot of kids around here, though not many teenagers," She walks off again with the mirror

"My husband Jack, he's still on the other side I have to get back to him."

Anna keeps walking until she's lead you to a balcony overlooking what was essentially a convention center, endless booths offering various things.

"This is the junction, the trans between life and eternity. Your husband is still alive, so he is still in the life part; you, on the other hand, are here. You can't go back. I'm sorry." She's somewhat sincere, but there's a hint of exhaustion. You're sure she's had this talk numerous times. "Let's get you to your room."

She leads you to an elevator with a gentle hand on your shoulders. Your mind was reeling. In the blink of an eye, you had died in your sleep beside your terminally ill husband. You had promised to stay by his side through it all, and now here you were, in the afterlife. Your heart ached for him, hoping he was okay.

"This is where you'll be staying until you choose the right, eternity for you. We'll get into that later." The room had a queen-size bed, an upscale kind of hotel set up with a sky view.

"I'm already dead, what kind of later is there really?" You muttered looking out the window.

"Acceptance is a good step," Anna said cheerfully. "We have some of your favorite clothes in the closet for you to check out. Maybe it'll do you some good to change."

Anna had disappeared after that. You approached the closet, which was filled with your favorite clothes throughout your life. You reached for the long burgundy dress, memories flooding back of the night you wore it out for Jack on a date night. It was fitted and flattering in all the right places. You slipped it on with the black kitten heels.

You wandered out to explore the Junction. You quickly found your way to a bar; at least there was alcohol in the afterlife. The bar only had two other people sitting in the booths, and the bartender was a young woman. She was pretty, with mousy blonde hair clipped back; her bangs were perfectly imperfect.

"What can I get you, hun?" She spoke without glancing up from the glass she was cleaning.

"Vodka-anything.." You leaned over the bar top.

"First day?" She finally looks up at you. Her hazel eyes looking over you with a soft smirk.

"Yeah... So are you an angel or something?" You asked quietly, a bit skeptical of everything.

"Oh no. Just a bartender,"

"You gotta have a job in the afterlife then?"

"Only if you want to stay here," She slides the drink over. "So what are you thinking about? Where do you want to go from here?"

"I'm not sure. Somewhere sunny, maybe, then again, my husband never really liked the hotter climates. We couldn't stay there long." The bartender looks up at you with curiosity.

"Did your AC tell you the rules?"

You shook your head as you threw back the whole drink in one go; you hadn't done that in quite some time. She smiled softly watching you face twinge in disgust a bit before pouring another drink.

"There are only a few. You can only pick one eternity, no switches or visiting other eternities. Eternity is eternity. Go against the rules, you end up in the void."

"Is that hell?"

"Close, just an empty black hole of space."

You sighed, throwing back the 2nd drink, a slight but beginning.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I died in my sleep. My husband is terminally ill with cancer. I was supposed to take care of him through it till the end..."

"Sorry to hear that. The worst part of death is the guilt you have for the ones you left behind." She gives you a soft smile.

"You been here long?" You ask her. The smile never reaches her eyes, something in it.

"38 years, I think, time works kinda funny in here. Once you've been here as long as I have, you get used to it."

"You waiting on someone?" You asked, the alcohol was hitting harder now.

"Yeah... my husband." She turned back to cleaning glasses.

It had only a few weeks since you had passed, Jack's health had deteriorated rapidly. His diagnosis had predicted he had at least another year. He never left that hospital the day you passed; the stress of your death weighed too heavily on him. Your daughter held onto his hand as the stayed by his bedside,

"You can let go, Dad. Go be with, Mom. I know she's waiting there for you." Those were the last words he heard before the darkness settled over him.

Jack Abbot died approximately 3 weeks after you.

"There's no way to know, right? You're not hiding some magical time keeping clock that will tell me when my husband is gonna die just so you can get rid of me sooner?" Anna laughed shaking her head.

"No, believe me, I think something like that would make these things easier. You just gotta do you. I have no doubt he'll come find you when the time is here." Anna says sincerely with a gentle hand on your shoulder. "I think you're really gonna like this eternity, I think you'll love it even more once Jack is there to join you."

"Anna, can I ask you something?" You had grown quite fond of her company; you're not sure if this was her life's calling, but it certainly felt like it. "Is it possible to just stay one more day? I just have this gut feeling telling me he's gonna..."

She gives you that look, the same look when you initially got here, in denial about death.

"Honey, you don't want to spend your afterlife waiting for him. He will get here when it's time... Trust me when I say he will. Now, your train leaves in-"

You began to tune out her voice when you saw him. It had to be him. It looked exactly like him, 40 years younger, but it was Jack. It was him.

"Jack... Jack! Anna that's Jack, Jack!" You rushed past her.

Jack was looking around, confused, his head whipped around in your direction. He was here, really here. You pushed past the numerous people who grunted in annoyance.

"Oh my god, you're here, Jack, god I missed you so much-" You smothered him in a hug, he held you back just as tightly holding back tears as he pet your hair.

"Is this real? Is this heaven?" He mutter hoarsely into your hair, tears dripped onto your bare shoulder.

"Not exactly, but right now, close enough," You laughed into his neck, peppering his face in kisses. Anna watched, her own heart was overjoyed to see this couple reunited.

You pulled back to really take in Jack. He looked so young again, he didn't even look this young when you met him. His salt and pepper curls had been traded in for a deep auburn you only ever saw in photos. So this is what he looked like at his happiest...

"So you must be the famous Jack Abbot? Your wife here has spent every moment wondering and waiting for you to get here."

"I have, every moment apart from you felt like an eternity waiting for you to get here. I missed you... Did you miss me?"

He was taking in your appearance now. You were a spitting image of the version he met on your first day at PTMC. His hands were warm as they gripped your waist and face.

"You can't even begin to imagine. So, what is this place?"

"It's-"

"Anna, back away from my client"

"I'm not near your client." Anna bit back at the preppy man approaching.

"Back away, I've been waiting 33 god damn years for this one to show up," The man pulled Jack away by the shoulders.

"Excuse me- What are you doing?" You asked as the man led Jack a few feet away.

"That's my-" Jack was cut off.

"I'm Ryan, I'm your afterlife coordinator. I know this can be overwhelming, so just take a deep breath, and just breathe in and... out." Jack was put off by the man in front of him, who was gently nudging his head in the direction of the crowd.

That's when Jack saw her... There she was, walking steadily towards him, in a cotton sundress. Her blonde hair was perfectly tousled, and their eyes locked. The idea of ever seeing her again had never crossed his mind until now. You watched with a scowl, anxiety and confusion pumped through you. Why was the woman from the bar walking towards your husband with such determination?

And why was Jack so stunned to see her....?

She stopped in front of him, hands reaching up to his face with tears in her eyes. You approached from behind Jack.

"Isabel..." His hand cupped her face, stomach doing back-flips as he looked at her.

Your stomach dropped; it was her. The wife he lost. Here she was, more beautiful than you could have ever pictured, perfect. Her eyes shone so brightly as she looked up at Jack, like her missing piece had finally come.

"Jack?" Your voice wobbled as you spoke. He broke his grip on her face, remembering you were here too. His hands trembled as he backed away, looking at both of you. His first love and his last love.

"Jack, I've waited 33 years for you..." Your head whipped in the direction of her voice.

"Is this-"

"First wife and second wife, rough." Ryan muttered to Anna

"I prefer 'current wife', thanks." You turned to the two gossips behind you.

Jack was frozen in place, trembling, eyes flitting between the two of you. Ryan and Anna looked between the two of each other.

"I think Jack needs a breather and a change of clothes, uh, Ryan can you-" Anna spoke up as Ryan ushered Jack towards the elevator.

You turned to Isabel, the woman whose ghost you spent a chunk of your relationship with comparing yourself to, living in her shadow. She turned to you, seeing her replacement, the woman who had filled the space she had left behind when she passed.

"So... your Jack's ex wife?" You asked, unable to help size her up. She did the same to you.

"No, I'm his wife."

"I'm his wife," You said, shaking your head, laughing like a psycho. This was probably the closest to a psychotic break you'd experience.

Isabel huffed as she made her way to the elevator. You turned to Anna, a pleading look for help on your face.

"Okay... so I think we could probably work something out so you can get that extra day of stay..." She says giving you a nervous smile and nod.

The reality had hit you like a truck, knocking the wind out of you; Jack would have to choose between you and her. Who would he want to spend eternity with?

The love he lost or the love he had.

the first letter was written with tears blurring the ink, your hand trembling so violently the words were nearly illegible. it was a litany of grief and fury, a desperate plea to a sleeping god.

they have taken you. taken you from me. your father calls it a punishment, a cure. i call it a cruelty that eclipses even your own. i will write every day, aerion. i will fill the narrow sea with my words until they carry you home to me. do not let lys make you forget.

the ship sailed on the morning tide. you watched from the highest tower of maegor’s holdfast, a small, stone figure against the grey sky, until the speck of his ship vanished into the mist. the red keep felt like a tomb.

for weeks, the letters were your lifeblood. you wrote of the stifling silence of your chambers, of the cold politeness of the court. you wrote of your dreams, always of him, of his sharp, cruel smile and the surprising gentleness of his hands when he thought you were asleep. you poured all the love you had into those scrolls.

the first replies came, carried by raven, his familiar, sharp script a balm to your soul.

they were short, always. lys is a cesspit of perfumed lies. the wine is watered. the women are tiresome. i think of you.

it was enough. it was a thread connecting you across the sea, proof that the man you had painstakingly uncovered was still there, buried beneath the weight of his exile.

but the sea was vast, and lys was a paradise built to ensnare the senses. you knew what your husband was like. you knew the allure of easy pleasure, the thrill of a fight in a pleasure house, the ego-stroking adoration of courtesans who saw only a prince’s purse and not the fractured soul beneath. it was an inevitable current, and you feared he was a man who could not resist it.

the replies grew shorter. the heat is oppressive. then they grew longer, but the content changed.

i won a duel today. a braavosi with more coin than sense. he cried like a child.

he spoke of battles, of wagers, of the quality of the steel, but no longer of the quiet moments, of the thoughts that kept him awake at night.

you wrote on, your own letters becoming more desperate. and the replies that came were from a stranger.

lys agrees with me. i am thinking of staying. the climate is better for my health.

your heart froze in your chest. you wrote back, your hand shaking with a new kind of fear.

what do you mean, staying? your place is here. your duty is here. i am here.

he never answered that letter.

months turned into a season. the ravens from lys stopped coming altogether. you told yourself he was busy. you told yourself his duties kept him from writing. you told yourself anything but the truth, which was a cold, creeping vine around your heart…he was forgetting you. he was caught up in the fighting and the fathering of bastards, and he kept telling himself he would respond tomorrow, but tomorrow never came.

the quill felt like a lead weight in your hand, but you lifted it. the ink in the well was as dark as your despair. you wrote until your soul was hollow, scraped out, leaving nothing but an echoing cavern where hope used to live.

then came the spring. the spring sickness.

it started as a whisper, then a crash. it swept through the city like a scythe, reaping a harvest of the young and the old, the strong and the weak. you locked yourself in your chambers, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and fear. you had prayed for a child for so long, a living, breathing piece of the man you loved, a tie that might bind him home. and now, it seemed the gods had answered your prayer with a cruel joke.

the labor was short, brutal, and silent.

he was tiny, so terribly small, but he was perfect. a tiny, silver-haired babe, with the faintest, shimmering scales on his skin that caught the candlelight like dragon's glass. he had his nose, you thought, a small, delicate thing. and he had his father's eyes, you were sure of it, even though they would never open to see the world.

he was a poor, silent babe who never drew breath.

they took him from you, and the silence that followed was louder than any scream. it was a physical weight, a pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. you lay in your bed, your arms empty, your body aching with the phantom weight of him, and you felt as though you had been split in two. there was the you that existed before, and the you that existed now, a gaping, bleeding wound where your future had been.

and so, you wrote to him of your grief.

aerion, you began, your hand steady, betraying none of the tremor that shook your entire body. i write to you with the heaviest heart a woman can bear. the spring came, and it brought a gift, and it took it away in the same breath.

you told him about his son. you described the silver hair, the scales of a stillborn that marked him as targaryen. you wrote of the eyes that would never see his father’s face, of the tiny hands that would never grip his finger. you wrote with a cold, dead precision, as if you were dictating a report from a battlefield.

he was beautiful, aerion. he was our son, and he was gone before he could even be named. i held him for hours, waiting for a miracle that never came.

you paused, the quill hovering over the page. the pain was a physical thing, a beast clawing at your insides, trying to tear its way out. it felt as though your very bones had been hollowed out and filled with ice.

the grief is a pain so profound it has split me in two. i walk through the castle and i see his face in the flames of the torches. i hear his cry in the wind. i reach for him in the night and my hands find only empty blankets. they tell me it will get easier with time, but they are fools. it steals the memory of the warmth, the memory of the weight of him, until all i am left with is the shape of the loss.

you signed your name, the scratch of the quill the final, pathetic testament to your love. you sealed the letter, the wax a red, angry wound on the parchment. and then you waited. you waited for a reply that would never come, for a comfort from a man who had already forgotten you. you waited for a ship on the horizon, for a word, for a sign. but the only ships that came were bearing more corpses, and the only word from lys was silence. you had written to him of the greatest loss of your life, and he had been too busy, too distracted, too far gone to even read it.

the last of your strength ran out, and as spring sickness swept through the city, in your fevered delirium it took you.

you called for him. for your son. your last thought was not of anger, but of a profound, heartbreaking sorrow. he would never know.

two years later.

the ship that bore aerion targaryen back to king’s landing was a warship, sleek and black, a stark contrast to the gilded pleasure barges of lys. he was a man changed. he was harder, leaner, his face etched with new scars and a cold, cynical ennui.

lys had been a paradise, and like all paradises, it had rotted from the inside out. the fighting had grown dull, the women tiresome, a nagging reminder of a life he hadn’t truly wanted. he thought of the wife he had left behind with a pang of guilt that he had long since learned to ignore. he would see her. he would make it right. eventually.

he strode through the corridors, his purpose hardening with every step. he would find her. he would go to your rooms, and he would find you there, perhaps reading by the window, perhaps angry with him, but you would be there. he saw ser gerold hightower at his post outside the king’s solar.

"ser gerold," aerion bit out. "my wife. where is she?"

the lord commander of the kingsguard was a statue carved from stone and duty. his grey eyes met aerion’s without a flicker of emotion. "prince aerion. you have returned."

"do not mock me," aerion snarled, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "where is my wife?"

ser gerold’s expression did not change. "i serve the king, my prince. and the king has no daughter-in-law."

the cold dread turned to ice in his veins. this was not just a lie…it was an erasure. were they pretending she never existed? playing a stupid joke? he turned on his heel and marched towards your chambers, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. he remembered the way perfectly. third floor, overlooking the godswood, the door with the carved silver dragon on its surface.

he reached the corridor. it was just as he remembered. but the door was wrong. it was plain, unadorned dark oak. the dragon was gone.

he threw it open.

the room was not yours. it was a generic, sterile guest chamber, smelling of beeswax and disuse. the furniture was all wrong. the bed where you had lain together, where he had held you, where he had woken from nightmares to find your hand in his, was a plain, four-poster monstrosity. the tapestries you had chosen, the ones depicting the conquest of old valyria, were gone. the desk where you had written your letters was missing. the scent of you—of lavender and skin and home…was gone, replaced by the stale air of a room long abandoned.

he took a step inside, his boots loud on the stone floor. he ran a hand over the mantlepiece. it was bare.

"where is it?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "where are her things?"

he spun around and stormed back into the hallway, his eyes wild. he saw a chambermaid, linens piled in her arms. "you!" he roared, grabbing her by the shoulders. "the woman who lived in this room! where are her things? her gowns, her books, her jewels! where did they go?"

the woman looked at him with genuine pity, and that was somehow worse than the fear. "my prince," she said softly. "no lady occupies this room. this room is kept for visiting lords!"

the pity in her eyes was the final straw. he shoved her away, her pile of linens tumbling to the floor. he didn't care. he was already moving, his long strides eating up the stone corridor, his mind a maelstrom of denial and fury.

his father, maekar, stood by the map table, his back to the door. he didn’t turn. "is she at her family’s home? she would never go there without word from me. she would never abandon me. you will not lie to me. where. is. my. wife?"

maekar turned slowly. his face was a mask of grim resolve, his eyes tired and heavy. "she is gone, aerion. she is gone, and you will let her be."

aerion stared at him, his chest tight. he wanted to believe it was a lie. "gone?" aerion advanced into the room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "you erased her! you took her room, you have everyone in this cursed castle lying to my face! what did you do? did you have her killed? did you ship her off to some silent sister convent to be rid of her? answer me!"

the control he had been clinging to shattered. the rage he had felt in the empty room, the fury at the chambermaid’s pity, the cold fury at aegon’s lies, it all coalesced into a single, white-hot inferno. he slammed his fist down onto the map table. the intricate carved wood of the westerosi map splintered under the force. he grabbed the heavy iron figure of the iron throne and hurled it across the room, where it crashed against the wall with a deafening clang.

he swept his arm across the table, sending scrolls, maps, and inkwells flying. a pool of black ink spread across the floor like blood. he was a whirlwind of destruction, a dragon loosed in a stone cage, smashing and tearing at everything in his path. he stood in the center of the wreckage, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. he stared at his father, his vision blurred with a haze of tears and fury.

maekar had not moved. he had simply watched his son’s rampage, his expression unreadable. when aerion finally fell silent, the king spoke, his voice quiet, but carrying the weight of absolute authority.

"she is gone, aerion," he said, his voice heavy with a sorrow so deep it was almost worse than anger. "you will accept this, as you accept my command. it is done."

he saw it then, in his father’s eyes. it wasn’t just command. it was pity. and it was the final, cruelest blow. "where did she go then? taken her things with her?"

"no," maekar said, his voice dropping to a low, solemn tone. he took a deep breath, as if the words physically pained him. "she is dead, aerion."

the world tilted on its axis. "what?" he whispered, the word barely audible. "dead? what nonsense is this? she was…she was healthy when i left."

"the spring sickness," maekar said, his gaze unwavering. "it took her last year."

aerion stared at his father, his mind refusing to process the words. last year. she had been dead for a year. while he was drinking and whoring and fighting in lys, she had been dying. the guilt he had so expertly suppressed came rushing back, a tidal wave of crushing, suffocating force. he felt the air leave his lungs, his vision swimming.

"no…" he choked out, shaking his head in denial. "no. i would have known. i would have been told. the letters…"

"the letters stopped, aerion," his father said softly. "she wrote to you every day. until she couldn’t."

he couldn’t breathe. he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his chest as if to physically hold his heart together. he remembered the letters. he remembered the stack of unopened scrolls on his desk, the ones he kept telling himself he would get to. he remembered the last one he had received, the one he had thrown into the fire without reading, her frantic script a tedious reminder of a life he was eager to escape.

"i have to…i need to see her things. i want to have my wife’s things…" he rasped, turning and fleeing the throne room, not caring about the protocol, not caring about the shocked whispers of the court.

maekar only nodded and provided aerion with the location of where your things were stored, up high in a cellar with all of the past heirlooms of the targaryen wives and husbands.

he threw the door open. he searched through the room and found your desk and a carved wooden box that belonged to you. his hands trembled as he opened it. it was filled with letters. dozens of them. all in her elegant, familiar script.

he sank to the floor, pulling them into his lap. he read them one by one, his vision blurring with tears he hadn’t shed since he was a boy. he read of her loneliness, her love, her desperate hope. he read of the child he had never known about, a son, lost to the fever. he read of her final, heartbreaking plea for a word, any word, from the husband who had abandoned her.

he reached the bottom of the box. there was one last letter. it was thicker than the others, sealed not with her personal sigil, but with the official wax seal of the red keep. his heart hammered against his ribs as he broke the seal.

it was not a letter. it was an invitation—a notice to attend the funeral services for prince aerion targaryen’s late wife.

he couldn’t breathe. the words on the page swam before his eyes, the elegant, formal script blurring into a meaningless smear of black ink. the invitation was dated from over a year ago. it was an invitation to her funeral. a funeral he had missed, because he hadn’t bothered to open a letter with the king’s landing seal.

a sound tore from his throat, a guttural, animalistic noise of pure agony. it was the sound of a man being ripped in two. he dropped the invitation as if it burned him, his hands flying to his hair, his fingers tangling in the silver strands as he rocked back and forth, a meaningless, desperate rhythm.

the box of letters lay scattered around him on the floor, a paper graveyard of her love, her hope, her pain. each one was a knife twisting in his gut. he had replaced her memory with cheap wine and the hollow laughter of courtesans, with the fleeting thrill of a duel and the meaningless siring of bastards who would never carry his name. he had traded his wife, his child, his honor, for a gilded cage of hedonism, and now the door had slammed shut, and he was trapped inside with nothing but the echoes of his own colossal failure.

he had chipped away at the fortress he had built around himself, and she had been the one to do it. she had endured his rages and his coldness, had seen the monster and loved the man trapped within. she had dismantled his walls, brick by painful brick, and he, in his infinite arrogance, had walked out of the ruins and left her there, alone. he had been so desperate to prove he didn’t need her love that he had thrown away the only thing that had ever made him whole.

the silence in the room was a physical weight, pressing down on him, crushing him. it was the silence she must have felt in her last days. he remembered her voice, the way she used to whisper his name in the dark, the way she had defied him, her eyes flashing with a fire that matched his own. he remembered the feel of her hand in his, the scent of her hair, the way she looked at him as if he were not a monster, but a man worthy of being loved.

he found the last letter she had written, the one about their son. his hands shook so violently he could barely hold it. he had a son. he had a son, and he had let him die without ever knowing he existed. he had let his wife face that alone.

he was a monster. not the one people whispered about, the arrogant, cruel prince. this was something far worse. he was a man who had been given the greatest gift in the world, love, and had thrown it away for nothing.

he stayed there on the floor of the desecrated room, surrounded by the evidence of his love and his loss, until the sun rose and set, and rose again. he did not eat. he did not sleep. he simply held her letters and read them, over and over, until the words were seared into his memory, a permanent, painful brand on his soul.

he would read them for the rest of his life. he would carry her words, her memory, as his penance. it was a punishment, his father had said. and now, finally, he understood. it wasn’t the exile to lys. the punishment was this. the punishment was coming home to find that the only person who had ever truly seen him was gone, and that he had no one to blame but himself.

he gathered the letters into his arms, clutching them to his chest as if they were her. he pressed his face to the parchment, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of her perfume, a ghost of a scent that was already fading.

It had been a little over two years since his wife's death when he decided that maybe he was ready to get himself back out there.

He met you at a restaurant where you were waiting tables as a way to have some extra money while you finished college.

You were beautiful, always had this bright smile on your face, even if you were tired, and the light in your eyes hadn't been dulled by years of loss.

After a few weeks of talking and sharing small talk whenever the restaurant wasn't busy, Jack asked you out.

Dating you was easy.

You always listened to him when he talked about his job, old army stories, and you were understanding when he told you about being a widower. You paid attention to the stuff he liked and the ones he didn't. You always brought him a little treat or some random thing that made you think of him when you two saw each other.

You were the perfect girl, sweet, giving in a way that you don't see often.

He remembers the first time he got you flowers. 

His wife's favorites used to be tulips, and as he made a quick run by the flower shop before heading to see you, that's exactly what he grabbed.

When he handed them to you, you were over the moon. You kissed him and told him how much you loved them.

He knew your favorite flower. Pink carnations. You had briefly mentioned it one day as a lady carrying a bouquet of those same flowers walked past you on your way to a coffee shop.

But Jack didn't even think of them until you came back from the kitchen with the flowers put into a vase and placed it on the center of the table. “There. They look perfect.” You'd said with a smile.

“You really like them?” Jack asked from his spot on the couch.

You turned to look at him, the words leaving your mouth quickly, “Of course I do.”

“They're your favorite?” He pushed.

Something small flickered in your expression. You lowered your head for a brief second to cover it, but Jack saw it.

“I love all flowers” You answered lightly, shrugging. “I just like that you thought of me.”

You deserved so much better than him. You deserved someone who would love you with the same intensity and thoughtfulness you loved him with. Because even if you hadn't said those three words to him yet, he knew how hard you were falling.

He knew he had to tell you, but he didn't know how he'd be able to look at you and break your heart. He'd seen you cry a few times when you saw an emotional video online or a sad movie, and the sight always made his chest tighten. 

He did care about you after all.

Jack's head was buried in the crook of your neck, kissing and nipping on the skin there as he thrusted into you. Your legs were locked around his hips, wanting to feel as much of him as you could, your nails dug into his back every time the tip of his cock brushed against your sweet spot.

Jack was so drunk in the feeling of your pussy clenching around his cock and the warmth of your skin that he didn't realise what was slipping from his lips.

“Lisa,” his voice came out almost as a moan, breathing fast and uneven.

Your small, confused “what?” Was what let him know of his mistake.

Your body went limp under him, your legs loosening around his hips before you let them drop to the bed again.

He raised his head from your neck.

Your eyes had started to well up with tears, your bottom lip trembling as you tried to not let them fall. Your hands pushed his chest. “Please get off.”

You pushed yourself up with your elbows once Jack pulled out and sat on the edge of the bed. You covered your body with the soft sheets. 

Jack picked up his boxers from the floor, sliding them on before he scrambled for an apology. “Hey–I’m so sorry– I didn't–”

Jack knew you had had some bad experiences surrounding sex, you talked to him about how some of your ex boyfriends made you feel insecure and like you weren't pretty enough. Sex was a vulnerable thing to you and it had taken a while before you told him you wanted to have sex. 

“Don't.” You cut him off, shaking your head as you wrapped the sheets around you tighter.

The air in the room felt so thick it could be cut with a knife, all that you could hear was the sounds of your sniffles.

He wanted to say something, but nothing would come out. Nothing was good enough. Nothing could repair what he had done. Nothing could make him go back in time and make him communicate with you the way he should have.

“Is this the first time you've thought of her… when we…” You asked, looking at him through wet eyelashes.

He exhaled deeply, bracing himself for your reaction. He shook his head. “No.”

“Oh.” You whispered, squeezing your lips together as the tears finally started slipping through your eyes. 

“Baby, please don't cry.” He spoke gently, like he was talking to a scared animal. He tried to reach for you but you only moved away from him.

You shook your head. “I feel so stupid.”

He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself when he saw you get up from bed and pick up your clothes from the floor with shaking hands.

“Wait– what are you doing?”

“I'm going home.” You didn't look at him as you began dressing yourself. A part of you felt dirty, used.

“Let me drive you at least.” He said, voice tight with emotion. He didn't like hurting you and he didn't want to be back to being all by himself in his house. Even if he didn't love you, he cared about you and he enjoyed your company. “It 's late.”

“I really don't want to be around you right now, Jack.” Once you finished putting your clothes on, you turned to look at him. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I didn't want to hurt you.”

You let out a broken, humorless laugh. “Wow. Great answer.”

Jack ran a hand through his face, forcing back his own tears. “I'm really sorry. You're wonderful, you really are… It's just… you're not her.”

You nodded quietly, and Jack thought that you slapping him in the face would've hurt less than seeing you look so defeated.

You bent down to grab your bag from the floor and slung it over your shoulders. “Goodbye, Jack.”

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