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You walk closer. The floor underfoot whispers softly, worn stone protesting beneath your boots. He must hear you, but he doesn’t shift. His hands rest on the window ledge, fingers spread, knuckles pale where the skin stretches over bone.

“Did they?” you ponder absently. “Grow shy.”

A breath that almost wants to be a laugh huffs out of him. “No. They multiplied.”

Up close, he looks worse. Not in any way that will set the court whispering; they only see the careful surface. You see the exhaustion soldered into the set of his mouth, the fine cracks at the corners of his eyes, the way his breath sits high in his chest. His shoulders are doing that thing they do when he’s worn the prince too long—held a touch too square, like armour he forgot to take off. There’s ink on his thumb, and a faint tremor in the hand braced on stone.

“Baelor,” you say, soft but steady.

He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, lashes a dark fan against his cheek. When he opens them again and looks at you over his shoulder, one pale eye, one dark, are rimmed red with tiredness.

“You should be abed,” he tells you. “You have your own wolves to worry about, without fretting over tired dragons.”

“Unfortunately for you,” you reply steadily, “I’m very bad at leaving things I care about unattended.”

Something flickers in his gaze. His mouth almost curves. Almost. Then it falters, the attempt dying before it can become a smile. “I’m fine,” he says instead. “It’s just—” His jaw locks around the rest.

You hate that word in his mouth. Fine. As if he isn’t already halfway drowned. You step into his reach, into his heat. Up this close, you can smell the day on him: parchment and wax and the faint sting of wine, overlaid with leather and steel and the warm, familiar note that’s simply him.

“Turn around,” you murmur.

His brow creases. Habit makes him hesitate; you can see the reflexive refusal, the protest that he has work, that there are letters, that he shouldn’t—can’t—stop. Then some stubborn shard of your stubbornness catches in him. Slowly, as if wading through his own instincts, Baelor turns.

Now you see all of it: the fine fatigue around his eyes, the careful way he’s holding himself together, like glass soldered at the seams. He’s still braced, as if waiting for the next blow—a message, an argument, a war.

You don’t offer words. You just open your arms. It’s not a grand gesture. Your hands simply lift, palms bare, a quiet invitation drawn in the small space between you. For a breath, he only gazes at you. Duty and pride and a lifetime’s habit of standing alone all fight in his eyes. The Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms does not sag into anyone’s arms like a tired boy.

Then something in his face loosens. It’s small: the easing of a line between his brows, the way his mouth softens, the brief, almost frightened flash in those mismatched eyes.

He steps forward.

The first touch is careful. His hands come up to your upper arms, fingers light, as if you’re fragile and he’s not sure he remembers how to hold anything that won’t break under him. You close the distance the rest of the way, rising onto your toes, and wrap yourself around him—arms sliding around his ribs, hands linking at his back. You press your cheek to his chest.

He folds.

There’s no princely grace in the gesture. It’s like watching a tree finally admit to the wind. All that height, all that iron composure, just… gives.

His head tips forward until his brow rests against the crown of your hair. His arms come around you properly this time, sweeping low and sure, banding across your back. He drags you in with a small, helpless sound, something half-swallowed and raw. It rumbles in his chest beneath your ear.

You feel the exact moment he stops holding himself up and starts letting you do it with him. His weight settles, not crushing but real, the full truth of him—broad shoulders, tired spine, all those invisible crowns stacked along it—leaning into you. His fingers fist in the wool at your back, knuckles digging in as if he needs the anchor. One hand slides higher, palm spreading between your shoulder blades, warm and large and shaking just a little.

He breathes.

Not the shallow, measured breath he uses in council, all tight control and careful distance. A real breath. In, slow and ragged, drawing in the scent of your hair—winter air, smoke, the faint clean sting of your soap. Out, hot across the side of your neck where his mouth has ended up, the exhale shuddering like a thawing river.

You feel each one, every breath a long, dragging pull, as if he’s been living on half-measures and suddenly remembers what it is to fill his lungs. With every exhale, his shoulders drop a little, as if something heavy is being unhooked, link by link, from his bones.

“Gods,” he mutters, barely audible, the word a warm vibration against your skin. “I didn’t know I was that tired.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” you announce fondly into his collar. Your voice comes out softer than the words despite it. “Hold on properly, Baelor.”

He makes a noise that might be a laugh, ragged around the edges. Then he obeys.

His grip tightens. One arm wraps fully around your waist, hauling you flush against him until there’s no polite distance left at all. The other curls higher, forearm braced along your shoulders, his hand cupping the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with careful, trembling reverence. He cradles you to him like something precious and irreplaceable—or like he is the one being cradled and hasn’t realised it yet.

You can feel his heart hammering under your cheek, too fast at first, like a caged bird. Slowly, inexorably, it steadies. Yours calms to match it, two rhythms folding into one.

“You smell like home,” he says suddenly, rough and bewildered.

“Like wet dog and pine pitch?” you suggest mirthfully.

“Like cold air,” he corrects, breath catching. “And stone that doesn’t move. Like… quiet.” His fingers flex at the back of your head, as if to make sure you’re real. “I forget what quiet feels like.”

“So remember,” you tell him. You shift, settling more comfortably into his chest. “Right now. Here. This is quiet.”

He huffs another small sound, somewhere between agreement and disbelief. His nose buries a little deeper in your hair, tracing a slow, soothing arc, like a man who has just discovered how to rest and is terrified someone will take it from him.

For a while, that’s all there is. The fire pops; the city mutters beyond the stone. His breath fans warm and steady against your neck. His hands stay on you like a promise he doesn’t know how to phrase—clinging without clutching, possessive without pressure. Every time you shift, even a fraction, his arms tighten instinctively, as if his body has decided on its own that letting go is no longer an option.

“Am I crushing you?” he asks at last, words muffled against your shoulder.

“Yes,” you lie. “Stay where you are anyway.”

He laughs then, properly, low and disbelieving and utterly undone. It shakes through both of you. You feel his mouth curve against your skin. His arms, impossibly, pull you closer.

“All right,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay.”

Now, as the Red Keep’s gates yawn open ahead of them, the word tolls through Baelor’s skull like a bell.

—

They thunder into the yard a mess of dirt and steel and torn white cloaks.

The city’s stink still clings to him—river and tanneries and hot stone—but the keep has its own smell: smoke, old rushes, the faint tang of oil on the hinges of the great doors. Grooms and guards scatter as the party crashes in under the arch. A stableboy drops a bucket; water fans across the cobbles, turning dust to mud that splashes up the legs of the nearest horse.

Baelor swings down before his gelding has fully stopped.

Pain lances up his left thigh as his boot hits uneven stone; he realises distantly that at some point in the chaos, something has wrenched, that his knee is swelling under his boot. It doesn’t matter. The leather of your bridle burns his palm as he catches it when your mare dances, eyes rolling white at the sudden dark of the gate. You’re still slumped forward over the saddle-bow, arm hanging limp.

“Easy,” he murmurs to the gelding, not looking at his own horse at all. “Stand.”

Maekar hits the ground beside him with a thud. There’s blood on his cheek that is not his own, drying in a flaking streak from hairline to jaw. His mace hangs heavy in his hand, crusted dark. One of the Kingsguard is missing a piece of his cloak; another’s shield looks like someone took a bite out of it.

“Clear the yard!” Maekar roars, voice cracking across the stone. “Make way for the maesters—move, damn you!”

Servants freeze for a fatal fraction. Then the shout penetrates; they scatter, pulling benches away from the path, grabbing at startled chickens, dragging a cart back by its wheels. Gold cloaks pour in from the walls, some wide-eyed, some already reaching for swords, faces sharpening as they see the limp, grey-clad figure draped over the northern saddle.

Baelor reaches up.

Your body is dead weight in his arms as he lifts you down, cradling you to his chest. Your head lolls against his shoulder; your hair is stuck to your neck with sweat and blood. The arrow is gone now, but the tear in your gown gapes, dark and wet around the ugly puncture of the wound. The flesh around it is starting to discolour—angry red spiking outwards into a faint, sinister shadow under the skin.

Poison, one of the knights had said.

Baelor holds you tighter.

“Prince Baelor.” A maester shuffles at his elbow, breathless, his chain clinking. It’s not the old man from Summerhall, nor the thin crow Daeron keeps in council; this one is thick around the middle, hands surprisingly steady. “We must get her to the healing rooms. I’ll need light, hot water, and my stores. That wound—”

“Then move,” Baelor snaps.

He is aware, dimly, that he almost never speaks like that to men of learning. Maesters are his father’s favoured tools as much as his own; he’s learned to husband their goodwill. Right now, he does not care. The world has shrunk to the weight in his arms and the way your breath catches in shallow, uneven pulls.

“Your Grace!”

The voice cuts through the yard like a trumpet.

King Daeron is already striding down the steps from the keep, cloak thrown back, a pair of white cloaks flanking him. He must have been told at the gate, or perhaps he heard the yard erupt and came of his own accord. Either way, he looks nothing like the gentle scholar most of the realm names him when they think he can’t hear.

There is fury in him, banked and sharp.

Baelor has seen his father angry before. At lords who played too freely with peasant lives, at Blackfyre pretensions, at his own father’s, Aegon’s, old ghosts. That anger has always worn the civilised face of statecraft: clipped words, cold decrees, ink that might as well have been blood when it dried on parchment.

Now, for the first time in many years, Daeron the Good looks very much like a dragon.

“What happened?” he demands, voice ringing off the stone. His gaze flicks over the yard in one sweeping cut: the torn cloak, the dented shield, Maekar’s blood-streaked face, the way Baelor clutches you like a man afraid someone will try to take you from him. His eyes narrow, settling on the black smear around your wound. “Is that—”

“Poison,” the maester confirms grimly. “A slow one, by the look of it, Your Grace. Not the Stranger’s kiss, but not kind either.”

Colour drains from Daeron’s cheeks, leaving his skin waxen around the mouth.

“In my own Kingswood,” he says softly. “An arrow for the heir of Winterfell. In sight of my city walls.”

One of the courtiers hovering at the edge of the yard opens his mouth—some platitude, some coward’s suggestion about bandits. Daeron does not look at him, does not raise his voice. He simply says, very clearly, “If the next man who speaks the word ‘bandit’ in my hearing is not carrying a bow and a deer, I will have him flogged.”

Silence slams down.

Then Daeron’s gaze comes back to Baelor. For a heartbeat, prince and king look at one another over the curve of your body. Baelor feels it—the old, familiar weight of expectation, the question without words. Are you hurt? Are you whole? Can you stand?

“Yes,” Baelor forces out, though his throat feels tight enough to strangle him. “We were ambushed, Father. Blackfyre sympathisers. There were… there were sigils. Inverted dragons. They knew our route.”

Daeron’s jaw clenches. “We will speak of that. Later.” His eyes drop to your face—the pained tightness, the sheen of sweat on your upper lip, the way your lashes lie too still against your cheeks. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “For now, get her inside. Quickly. Every moment we waste talking in this yard is a moment that poison has to root itself deeper.”

Baelor shifts his grip, ready to carry you himself.

The maester steps in. “My prince—let the porters—”

“No.” The word comes out raw, so sharp the man flinches back, startled. “She—”

A hand clamps on his arm. Maekar’s fingers are like iron bands around his bicep, biting through the leather of his sleeve.

“Bael,” his brother says under his breath. “Let them work. You’ll slow them, and you know it.”

He does know it. That’s the worst of it. He can see, in some cold, rational part of his mind, the path: maester, table, knives, clean cloth, tinctures. Yet his arms will not give you up. The porters hover at the edge of his vision, faces tense, hands empty and ready. The maester watches him with professional impatience, poorly masked as concern. Over all of it, Daeron’s gaze, heavy and intent on his brow.

“Baelor,” his father says, quieter now. “Son. Give her to them.”

The plea in it nearly undoes him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder; your lips part on a tiny, unconscious sound. He feels it more than hears it, a little vibration against his collarbone. The skin around the wound is darkening further now, the veins radiating out faintly like ink drawn through paper.

If he hesitates any longer, he will be the one doing harm. Baelor swallows, feeling something in his chest crack, and forces his hands to loosen.

“Careful,” he grinds out as he transfers your weight into the porters’ arms. “If you drop her—”

“We won’t,” the maester assures him. There is none of the usual obsequiousness in it; only a man sworn to save lives speaking to another who understands that oath. “I swear it, my prince.”

They bear you away at a near-trot, the maester bustling ahead, shouting for hot water, clean linens, wine, willowbark, the pale blue vial he keeps under lock for snake-bites. The little procession disappears under an arch, swallowed by the keep’s shadow.

Baelor’s body sways after them.

He takes one involuntary step, then another. The need to follow is a living thing under his skin, clawing at his ribs. It wants him moving, wants him in that room, wants him between you and everything that might hurt you further—including the maester’s knives.

Maekar’s grip tightens.

“Leave them to their work,” he growls under his breath, digging his fingers in harder. “You’ll be in their way.”

“She—” Baelor hears his own voice and hates it. Thinned, frayed, too close to breaking. “Maekar, I—”

“I know,” Maekar cuts in, and there is something rough in his tone that catches Baelor’s attention through the fog. “I know. But unless you’ve suddenly taken the chain, you’re no use in that room. Here—”

He shifts his stance, subtly angling his bulk between Baelor and the door through which they carried you. It’s not much—he’s not their father, he cannot command with a glance the way Daeron can—but it creates the smallest of barriers. Enough for Baelor to smash himself against instead of the wall.

He realises his hands are shaking. Baelor curls them into fists at his sides, flexing until his gloves creak. The yard is full of eyes; he can feel them crawling over him. Gold cloaks. Grooms. Courtiers. The lords who happened to be close enough to come running when the shouts started. All of them, watching the king’s heir with the wolf’s blood on his hands.

He drags in a breath that tastes of horse and iron and panic and forces it back out slowly.

Control, he reminds himself. You cannot lose it here. Not in front of them. Not while Father is watching.

Daeron has not moved far. He stands a little way off, conferring in a low, tight voice with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, eyes still cold as the Narrow Sea in winter. As Baelor watches, a page sprints up, white-faced, stammering something. The king’s head snaps toward the gate.

Northern banners.

The direwolf on grey comes into view a moment later, wind-snapped and grim, followed by a column of riders splashed in road-dirt and sweat. Barthogan Stark had ridden for the Kingswood as soon as the first rider reached the city with the news, but even a northern horse can only eat so much ground. They have arrived too late for the fight.

Not too late for the aftermath.

Baelor feels the temperature in the yard drop as the Stark column pushes in. It’s not the wind; the day is still southern-hot, the stone still radiating heat. It’s something else. The way the air changes around certain men. Daeron’s anger burns. Barthogan Stark’s wrath chills to the bone.

He swings down from his horse in one smooth motion, barely waiting for the animal to stop. There is dust in his beard and at the hems of his cloak; his hair has come half-loose from its tie, silver and dark hanks falling around a face set in a line that looks carved from rock. His eyes—those cold, north-sky eyes—go at once to the blood on the cobbles.

“Where is she?” he snarls, without preamble, voice low and dangerous.

“Inside,” Daeron answers, stepping forward to meet him. There is an entire history in the way they stand facing one another: Aegon on the Neck, dragonfire over the Wall, oaths sworn and kept. “My maesters have her. An arrow—”

“An arrow,” Stark repeats, gaze snapping to Baelor, taking in the torn state of his armour, the smear of your blood on his hands, the pallor under the summer tan. “In your king’s own woods. On your watch.”

The words hit like blows. Baelor feels each one land. “I was there,” he says quietly. “I pulled her away. I—”

“Not fast enough,” Barthogan cuts in, his voice cold as river ice. “Not hard enough. You were meant to keep her safe, dragon. Not give the realm a story about how Stark heirs bleed so prettily for your family’s quarrels.”

Heat flashes up Baelor’s spine. Guilt rears, teeth bared, eager to agree with every syllable. It was his ride. His road. His failure to see the crack before the river gave way. He opens his mouth—he doesn’t even know yet if it’s to apologise or to promise, either way, to accept the blame—but Daeron speaks first.

“Take care, Barthogan,” the king speaks, voice gone very soft. It’s the softness that makes grown men flinch. “You speak of my son and my Hand.”

Stark’s head turns toward him slowly. For a moment, Baelor thinks he will push it anyway; northern tempers are headstrong things, not easily soothed. Then something in Daeron’s face—the iron under all his good-natured courtesy—registers, and Barthogan reins in with visible effort.

“My pardon, Your Grace,” he grinds out. The words are ice, not warmth. “Grief makes my tongue jump the leash.”

“It has every right to strain it,” Daeron allows. A flicker of something like old friendship passes between them, quickly drowned by the moment’s immediacy. “But remember also who stands before you. Baelor did not put that arrow in your daughter’s flesh. He threw himself between her and the worst of it.”

“He should have thrown himself in front of the damned shaft,” Stark snarls.

“He tried,” Maekar interjects flatly.

All eyes swing to him.

Maekar’s face is bare of courtly compromise. There is blood on his jaw and a fresh cut along his forearm; his leathers are scored and dark in places where something splintered too close. He looks like he’d rather still be in the trees, swinging his mace.

“Your daughter,” he goes on bluntly, ignoring the attention, “showed more courage than half the knights sworn to our house today. She sank her teeth into the hand of a man who came for her, then stepped into the path of an arrow meant for Baelor. If you’re set on blaming someone, Lord Stark, don’t start with the one whose life she’s already bled to keep out of the Stranger’s reach.”

It is as close to praise as Maekar Targaryen ever gives anyone. The fact that he offers it now, blunt and unadorned, drops into the silence like a stone into a well. Something flickers in Barthogan’s eyes at that. Pride and terror, twisting together. The idea of you, teeth bared, blood in your mouth, stepping into the path of a shaft meant for a prince—it is clearly both exactly what he would have expected of you and the very thing he has dreaded since you were old enough to hold a knife.

His hand flexes at his side, fingers digging into his own palm.

“The best maesters in the Red Keep are with her,” Daeron says, more gently now. “And I’ve already sent for my son Aerys. No man living in this castle knows more of poisons than he. If anyone can unmake what those bastards meant to do, it’s him.”

Baelor clings to that as if it were a rope thrown to a drowning man: Aerys, with his ink-stained fingers and his quiet, unnerving knowledge of plants that kill as easily as they heal. Aerys, who prefers books to blades and will, for once, be the weapon they need.

Barthogan’s jaw works.

“If she dies,” he growls at last, “no song in the realm will sweeten this alliance.”

“If she dies,” Daeron replies, grim and tired and furious all at once, “it will not be at my son’s hands. Nor mine. It will be at the hands of men who think the realm is a board they can upset at will. And those men will learn that even a good king has teeth.”

For a moment, the two of them stand in that cold, shared understanding. Then Barthogan turns on his heel, cloak flaring, and strides for the arch where they took you. The guards there begin to move to bar his way, then think better of it when they catch the look in his eye. Wolves on a scent. Only fools and dead men try to stand in front of a father desperate to see his daughter safe.

He disappears into the keep, following the trail of your blood. Daeron watches him go, shoulders tightening under his cloak. Then he looks back to the yard; it’s already filling again with people who smell opportunity the way hounds smell meat. Lords. Courtiers. Men who will want reassurance that this is not the first move in some wider war.

“I must speak with them,” he says, weary certainty in every syllable. “If we don’t seize this tale now, others will. Maekar—”

“I’ll see the men sorted,” Maekar answers at once. “We’ll have every survivor questioned before dusk. And the bodies—”

“Drag them into the throne room if you have to,” Daeron mutters. “Let the realm see what comes of loosing Blackfyre arrows at my guests.”

He moves away then, already gathering lords and captains into his wake, his voice dropping into that measured cadence Baelor knows so well: the tone of a king shaping a narrative before the chaos can. The yard begins to empty around them as people pull into the orbit of duty. Grooms lead horses off, clucking. A Kingsguard limps away toward the armoury with his dented shield. Servants squabble quietly over the best way to scrub wolf-blood from stone.

Baelor stays where he is.

His hands are still sticky. He looks down and sees the stains on his gloves—rust-dark, drying. The knowledge that it is your blood turns his stomach. Maekar doesn’t let go of his arm. Not until the last of the crowd has thinned enough that the yard feels almost, if not private, then at least less full of mouths. Only then does he release his grip, flexing his own fingers as if they’ve cramped.

For a moment, he merely studies Baelor’s profile.

Baelor can feel it like touch, that familiar, infuriatingly thorough assessment. Maekar has never needed words to take a man apart; his gaze does it for him. It ticks from the rigid set of Baelor’s jaw to the hollows bruised in under his eyes, to the way his shoulders hold a fraction too square, too high, as if he’s holding himself together by keeping everything clenched. It catches on the minute tremor in his right hand where it hangs at his side, fingers flexing against ruined leather as though they still remember your weight.

There is blood on Baelor’s neck too, he realises distantly—tacky where it has dried, a thin crusted line running from just under his ear to the collar of his doublet. It flakes when he swallows. He doesn’t know whose it is. Yours, probably. It always comes back to that.

“Well,” Maekar says at last, voice dropping into that heavy, disgusted fatalism that usually precedes him breaking something. “Seven bloody hells.”

Baelor huffs out a sound that might, in kinder light, pass for a laugh. Here in the bright, pitiless yard, it feels more like air escaping a cracked vessel.

Maekar scrubs a hand over his face, palm rasping against stubble, smearing the half-dried streak of blood on his cheek into a wider, uglier smear. He stares at his own hand for a heartbeat, as if surprised to see it shaking, then curls it into a fist.

“I thought—” He stops, grimaces, the words catching on something sharp on the way out. Starts again, rougher. “I thought you’d have more sense than this.”

Baelor turns his head, sharply enough that his neck protests. “Than what?”

Maekar meets his gaze without flinching. In this light, one of his eyes is deep violet, the other a softer lilac, the colours Daeron passed to his sons like odd little curses. Right now, they are both as hard as cut stones. There’s no mockery in them, no easy brother’s baiting. Just a tired, furious sort of knowing.

“Not the she-wolf,” he mutters. “Anyone but the gods-damned she-wolf.”

Baelor goes very still.

Still in that way he learned as a boy at court: no visible flinch, no outward recoil, just every muscle tightening by a hair, as if bracing for a blow. He feels the words slot into place between his ribs with obscene precision. Not because they’re wrong, but because they land so close to a truth he has been circling for days without daring to look at it head-on.

Images rise, unbidden, with horrible clarity. Your waist under his hand in the corridor, the warm give of you through wool. Your voice in his ear on the Wall, low and wry and entirely too steady for the height. The exact shape of your mouth when you said, My Lord Prince. The way your body twisted between him and that arrow in the dappled green of the Kingswood, as if the most natural thing in the world were to make yourself into a shield for him. He remembers the feel of you hitting him—shoulder to ribs, breath knocked out of him, his world lurching—and then the sound of you being hit in turn. That awful, wet, muted thunk. The way your eyes went wide, then dazed.

His stomach turns over.

He does not deny it.

Baelor feels his throat work once, twice, swallowing down the first instinctive rush of words: protest, excuse, minimisation. She is a guest. She is our ally. I would have done the same for any lord’s daughter. All of them lies, or half-lies so thin they might as well be.

There’s no point. Maekar has eyes. Maekar was there when Baelor’s mind blanked to a screaming white the moment your body jerked with the arrow’s impact, when for one terrible heartbeat all the careful discipline in him blew apart and left nothing but a man on his knees in the dirt with his hands slick in a woman’s blood.

Instead, Baelor drags in a slow breath that tastes of dust and iron, and lets it out through his teeth. He feels the air scrape his lungs raw on the way.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, and the lie tastes like dirt between his teeth. “What matters is this: they knew where we would be. When. How many men would ride with us. That is not luck. That is not some farmer’s son with more courage than sense. That is treachery.”

Maekar’s expression shutters, the flash of brotherly exasperation folding neatly away under the weight of something more familiar: the prince, the soldier, the man Daeron calls for when he expects to need steel, not speeches.

“Aye,” Maekar says, voice gone flint-flat. “I figured as much, too.”

Baelor nods once, the movement small, controlled. “We left by a gate we weren’t supposed to use. Our route was decided late, after the council. The timing was tight. And they still managed to be waiting in just the right stretch of road, with just the right number of men, with sigils they were arrogant enough not to fully hide.” He flexes his hand again, feeling the grind of dried blood tightening the leather over his knuckles. “Someone talked. Someone inside these walls.”

Maekar’s mouth goes thin. “Could be a servant,” he suggests. “Loose tongue in a wine cellar. Stableboy trying to impress the wrong ears.”

“It could,” Baelor concedes. His voice has levelled out now, losing the ragged edge it held in the yard, taking on a different quality altogether. Calm. Measured. Cold. “Or it could be a lord with a Blackfyre cousin and more ambition than caution. A squire with the wrong father. A guard who’s been bought thrice over. I intend to find out which. And when I do—”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He lets the thought hang there between them, heavy as a hanging chain. No threats. No bright promises of dragonfire. Just the simple, unadorned certainty of a man who has given the realm his whole life in careful, bloodless inches—and is now, finally, prepared to take something back with all the ruthless precision he’s spent years using on its behalf.

Maekar watches him for a long moment.

He’s seen Baelor angry before—sharp flashes, quick to bank. This is something else. This is ice over deep water, cracked clean through.

“Father will want to proceed carefully,” Maekar says at last, a half-warning, half-reminder. “He’ll talk of proof. Of not feeding Blackfyre tales of persecution.”

“I know,” Baelor says. “And he will be right. We cannot afford to punish the wrong man in our haste and drive the right ones deeper underground.” He looks back toward the archway where they took you, to where, somewhere inside the keep, your blood is seeping into white sheets and maesters’ hands. His throat works once. “But understand me, Maekar: I will not let this pass. Not when they aimed at the North to strike at us. Not when they turned their swords on us this brazenly. Not when she—”

His voice trips, catches; he rides over the stumble by sheer force of will.

“When she lies in there with poison working through her veins because some coward thought cutting down our ally’s heir would weaken the king’s hand.”

Maekar’s gaze darkens, something vicious flickering up through the soldier’s calm.

“That,” he says slowly, “sounds a great deal like you planning to tear the castle apart with your bare hands.”

“If I must,” Baelor replies, and the quiet of it sends a small, involuntary chill up even his brother’s spine. There’s no heat in it at all, only intent. “But I would prefer to start with questions. With records. With Aerys’s lists of men who’ve been writing too many letters to the wrong corners of the realm. With the names of every guard and scribe and groom who knew about our ride, who shouldn’t have.”

His eyes lift, meeting Maekar’s squarely. “Help me.” It isn’t a plea. It’s an invitation, laid between them like a drawn sword, sharp edge up.

Maekar’s jaw works once. Twice. Baelor can almost see him turning it over: the insult to their house, the sight of your body hitting the ground, the memory of your teeth in a man’s hand and your shoulder jerking as the arrow struck, the knowledge that if you hadn’t moved, he would be standing here without a brother at all.

Then he gives a short, savage nod.

“Always,” he answers, voice gravelly. “You think I don’t want those bastards’ heads on spikes as much as you do? They made me call that girl brave.” His mouth twists as if the admission is both bitter and oddly satisfying. “I don’t hand that word out lightly.”

Baelor’s lips twitch, the ghost of a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. There’s gratitude in it, and something rougher; a shared, silent promise.

“Then we start,” he says. “We wait for word from the maesters. We pray to any gods who will listen that Aerys gets here before the poison does what it was meant to. And in the meantime, we pull every thread we can find. We tug until something gives.”

He looks back at the arch once more.

For a heartbeat, the yard seems to tilt around him. He sees, overlaid on the sun and stone, the Kingswood again: shafts hissing through leaves, your body jerking, your hand leaving a smeared print of your own blood on his cheek as you shoved him out of the arrow’s path. The look on your face, shocked and stubborn all at once, already fading as the poison bit.

Baelor sets his shoulders.

Whatever waits beyond that door, whatever news the maesters bring—good or ill—he will meet it. And then he will make sure that somewhere, in some cold cell or shallow grave, the man who loosed that poisoned shaft—and the one who put the bow in his hands, and anyone who whispered the time and place into their ears—understands, down to their bones, what it means to strike at a dragon through a wolf.

Maekar’s hand comes down on his shoulder once, hard, the weight of it more vow than comfort.

“Come on, then,” he says gruffly. “Let’s see which of these bastards flinch when we start asking the wrong questions.”

Baelor nods.

He casts one last look at the doorway where they took you—at that shadowed threshold between the world where you stand at his side and the world where you might not—and then turns away, his face smoothing into something colder and sharper than any helm.

—

By the time the castle goes quiet enough that he can hear his own thoughts, the light has gone.

Not wholly—King’s Landing never truly sleeps—but the day’s harsh brightness has bled out of the corridors, leaving only pockets of lamplight and the odd guttering candle in a niche. The sounds have changed, too. Less clang of armour, more the muted shuffle of servants, the distant clatter of pots from the last of the kitchens. 

Baelor realises, dimly, that he has not eaten since dawn.

He cannot bring himself to care.

He climbs the last flight of stairs to the healing tower with his hand on the wall more from habit than need, fingertips brushing the cool stone. It steadies him in a way his own legs no longer do. His knee aches fiercely now that the day’s work is done, swelling against the confines of his boot, but he keeps his stride even. The guards outside the maesters’ door straighten as he approaches.

“Your Highness,” one calls out promptly. “Lord Stark is within.”

“Good,” Baelor replies.

He means it. He would rather face a dozen Blackfyre men in the trees again than walk into that room empty of anyone who loves you.

The healing chamber smells of vinegar and old stone and crushed herbs.

It is not large, but the maesters have made it feel crowded. Tables bristle with glass and clay: vials, bowls, little pots of salve. A brazier glows low in the corner, its heat pushing the air heavy and close. Wisps of steam curl from a basin of water gone pink at the edges. The narrow window is cracked open just enough to let a line of cooler night air lick at the ceiling.

You lie on the bed nearest the fire.

The arrow is gone now. In its place: bandages, tight and clean, white now but already bruised by the faint seeping of red at their centre. Bruises are blooming along your collarbone and shoulder where the impact tossed you. Someone has washed the blood from your face and neck; your hair is damp at the temples, laid back in heavy strands around your head. A sheen of fever-sweat shines at your throat.

Your chest rises and falls. Not easily, but it moves. That is enough to make his knees want to give.

Barthogan Stark sits at your bedside like a carved thing.

He has taken off his cloak and sword-belt, but nothing about the man looks less armed. His hands are braced on his knees, big and scarred and too still. The lamplight hollows his weathered face, carving the lines around his mouth deeper, turning the streaks of silver in his hair to threads of dull iron. His gaze is fixed on your face with an intensity that could melt metal. It is not the wild rage of earlier. This is something colder. The fury of an old wolf who has spent all day not tearing out throats, but only because there were none here he could reach.

A maester sits at a table a little way off, bent over notes. Another dozes in a chair by the fire, head lolling, hands still curled loosely around a cup of some dark infusion. Baelor recognises Aerys’ hand in the clutter: the fine glass phials, the bundled sprigs of plants from the east, the faint metallic tang in the air of an antidote already brewed.

They say the poison has been checked, for now. That much, at least, they have bought her.

Baelor pauses just inside the threshold.

For a beat, he can do nothing but look at you. Everything he has been holding at bay with tasks and questions and rage presses up against his ribs at once, clamouring. He feels it in his throat, behind his eyes, in the tremor that threatens his fingers.

Barthogan’s head comes up, dangerously slow.

“Your Highness,” he says.

The title lands like a thrown spear, perfectly aimed. Polite. Icy.

“Lord Stark.” Baelor’s voice is hoarse; he does not clear it. “How fares she?”

“Alive.” Stark’s gaze slides back to you, then to him, as if he is weighing how much information he’s worth. “Your brother’s pet maester thinks the worst of the poison has been drawn.” His mouth tightens. “He also says the next two days will decide whether she keeps the life she has or slips it.”

The words sink into Baelor like stones into deep water. Two days. As if your fate could be measured in something as small as that.

“The arrowhead was barbed,” the maester at the table explains without looking up, voice thin with fatigue. “They had the cruelty to roughen it, too. It tore more than it need have.” He makes a small, helpless gesture. “But the venom was not as quick as some. We had time to bleed it, and Prince Aerys sent instructions for a counter-draught. Her blood takes it, for now.”

Stark’s jaw clenches at the mention of the arrow; Baelor sees his fingers curl briefly into fists on his knees.

“Give us the room,” Barthogan orders without turning.

The maester blinks. “My lord, I should—”

“I am not asking.” Stark’s eyes remain on Baelor, but his voice carries to the corners of the room. “If she worsens, you’ll hear me shout from the yard.”

There is a heartbeat of hesitation. Then the maesters bow themselves out, gathering notes and cups, casting quick, assessing looks at Baelor and the old wolf at his daughter’s bedside. The door shuts behind them with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.

Silence settles.

Baelor takes a few steps closer, until he is near enough to see the way your lashes throw faint shadows on your cheeks, the way your fingers twitch now and then against the linen, as if chasing something in a dream.

“Was it worth it?” Stark asks.

Baelor looks up. The northern lord has not moved, but his eyes are on him now, stormy and merciless.

“She dragged you out of the way of that arrow,” Stark goes on, voice low, every word honed to hard ice. “Took it in her own flesh. I rode south with a daughter and an heir, dragon. You would tell me if that bargain was worth the cost?”

There is no good answer. Only the truth.

“I would have died,” Baelor admits quietly. “If she hadn’t moved me, I would not be standing in this room. That is not conjecture. The angle, the distance—” He forces himself to swallow. “It was meant for me. She interposed herself.”

“And you call that worth it?” Stark’s mouth twists dangerously. “My daughter’s life for your hide.”

Baelor takes the hit. Lets it land. There is no point ducking what he already believes.

“No.” The word is soft, and it is the hardest thing he has said all day. “No life is worth hers in that calculus. Least of all mine. But she chose to move. I do not have the arrogance to decide she was wrong.”

Stark’s eyes narrow a fraction. “So you’ll put the blame on her shoulders, then,” he says. “Convenient.”

Baelor’s temper flares, quick and hot, then is banked again by sheer habit. He makes himself breathe in and out.

“I will wear the blame for this until the day I die,” he responds, and the steadiness in his voice surprises even him. “I brought her into those woods. My men rode with us. My guard failed to catch the cracks in our line. Whatever she chose to do once the arrows flew, the fault that there were arrows at all is mine. I will not pretend otherwise.”

He takes another step until the end of the bed is a bare arm’s length away.

“But hear me, Lord Stark,” he says, and this time there is something harder under the words. “What she did there—the courage she showed—is not a weight I will ever set on the wrong side of the scales. That arrow changed the shape of my debt to your house. It is not one I mean to forget.”

Stark watches him for a long, measuring moment. He looks very tired, Baelor realises. It sits under the anger like an old wound. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper tonight; his shoulders sag a fraction, though his spine remains straight.

“She is my only child,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Did you know that?”

Baelor looks at you. At the way your hand lies open on the coverlet, palm up, as if reaching for a sword hilt that isn’t there.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

“She has no brothers,” Stark goes on. “No pack to lose her in or to guard her. Just me, and a keep full of men who think they know what’s best for her.” His jaw ticks, a shadow passing over his rugged face. “I would mourn every man who rides under my banner, if I lost him. But she—” he looks down at you, and something in his face loosens, raw and unguarded, “she is my heart made flesh. You have younger brothers, Baelor. You’ve watched your mother look at you boys as if the whole world could fall and she’d still be holding it by the scruff for you. You ought to understand.”

“I do,” Baelor says again, more quietly.

Silence stretches. The fire pops. Somewhere below, a bell chimes the hour.

“The crown,” Barthogan says at last, “brought her south. The crown promised this was a visit for peace, for closer ties, for some bright tale about wolves and dragons not tearing at one another’s throats. The crown owes me an accounting for why my girl lies full of southern poison on a Targaryen bed.”

Baelor meets his gaze. Does not look away.

“Then let me start paying,” he says.

The words come out before he can overthink them, clear and absolute.

“I swear to you, my lord, this is a debt I will never forget. The crown will stand with House Stark until I am gone and my bones are ash. As long as I draw breath in this castle, there will be no hand raised against the North that does not find mine raised against it in turn. What she has done—what you have risked by sending her here—binds me.”

Stark’s eyes flash, something like grim satisfaction sparking under the ice, and something wary.

“You are bold,” he voices, and there is a faint rasp of impatience in it now. “But you are not king. Not yet. You cannot speak binding fealty for your father, not in those words. I will not have you swearing oaths that do not belong to you to give.”

“I know my place,” Baelor replies.

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he steps to the side of the bed, turns, and drops to one knee.

The stone is hard under him, his bad leg protesting, but he barely feels it. His hand finds the familiar curve of his sword-hilt and rests there, not drawing, simply anchoring himself in the old forms.

He looks up at Barthogan Stark from his knees, the old wolf’s shadow falling long across him in the lamplight.

“I do not speak now as Hand.” His voice is low but sure. “Nor as Daeron’s heir. I speak as Baelor, son of Old Valyria, man of this house.” His fingers tighten on the leather-wrapped hilt. “Whatever kings decide, whatever storms the realm walks into, I will watch over your daughter until the day I die. In court, in council, in whatever field the gods are cruel enough to throw us onto—I will stand at her side. You have my word on that, and if there is any worth in my name at all, I lay it here.”

The words leave him feeling strangely lighter and more burdened all at once. It is, in truth, only the shape of what has already settled in his bones. Saying it aloud feels less like an oath and more like admitting something he has been carrying for longer than he knew.

Stark looks down at him.

For an unnerving moment, his face is unreadable. Then something in it shifts—a tiny softening around the eyes, a fraction’s easing of the hard line of his mouth. The old wolf’s gaze flicks from Baelor’s face to yours and back again.

“You’d make that vow,” he says slowly, “for any highborn girl with a good sword-hand, would you?”

Baelor holds his stare. “No,” he says simply.

The admission hangs in the air, stark as winter sky. Something like understanding passes through Barthogan Stark’s eyes. A grim amusement, perhaps, or resignation, or the bitter, reluctant recognition of a pattern: Targaryen princes and Stark girls, always drawn like storm and snow.

“You look at her like your father once looked at Dorne,” he mutters. “As if you’ve seen the piece you were missing and now can’t imagine the board without it.”

Baelor’s breath stutters, just once.

“I look at her,” he says carefully, “as a woman who saved my life at the cost of nearly losing her own. As a lord’s daughter who walked into dragon country with her head high. As someone, the realm will be the poorer for if we let her slip away.” His gaze drops to your face, the sheen of fever on your brow. “As someone I would rather not have to learn to live without.”

A corner of Stark’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite a snarl.

“Then you had best speak with your father,” he says, a weary glimmer in his gaze. “Plainly, for once. About the true nature of this visit. About what kind of bond the crown intends to forge with the North.” His eyes narrow. “If Daeron means for my girl to be a southern pawn, he can say so to your face. If he means her to be more, he can stop playing at shadows and put the truth on a page.”

Baelor thinks of the half-said things in council; of the way Daeron’s gaze had lingered on you over supper in the hall, watching you speak plainly of winter roads and lean harvests with a small, approving tilt to his mouth; and of the ride, when you’d almost told him what your father had laid on your shoulders and then swallowed it back, right before all hells broke loose.

“I will,” he says. “He owes you that honesty. He owes her more than this.” His hand tightens reflexively on his sword again. “And so do I.”

Barthogan studies him for another heartbeat, then nods once, curt and decisive.

“Good,” he grunts. “Then we understand one another.”

He pushes to his feet with a faint grunt, old joints complaining. He stands looking down at you, the lines of his face softened by something that has nothing to do with Baelor or crowns—just a father watching his child breathe.

Then he turns.

“You have ten minutes with her,” he tells him, voice back to that rough, practical cadence. “No more. After that, I want you gone out of my sight for the night, prince or no. If I see you again before dawn, dragon, we may say things we can’t take back.”

Baelor inclines his head. “Ten minutes,” he agrees.

Lord Stark gives him one last, long look—as if fixing the sight of a prince on his knees beside his daughter’s bed into memory—and then strides past him, out into the corridor. The door closes with a quiet thud.

The room feels larger and smaller all at once. Baelor exhales, only then realising how tightly he has been holding his breath. Slowly, he rises from his knee, his bad leg complaining in earnest now. He steps closer to the bed until he can rest his hand lightly on the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch you if he dares.

For a moment, he simply stands there, looking down at you. The lamplight paints your skin and shadow. Your lips are parted just enough for breath. He can see the flutter of your pulse at your throat, a frail, stubborn drum beneath the smear of salve.

“Ten minutes,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

He reaches out and, very carefully, takes your uninjured hand in both of his. The bones of your fingers feel small and strong against his palms. Your skin is hotter than it should be.

“I am here,” he says, barely louder than the crackle of the brazier. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since the arrow flew, the knot in his chest loosens by a fraction.

For a while, Baelor only sits. The chair at your bedside is hard and too low; it puts a kink in his bad knee and a twinge in his back. He doesn’t move. His whole world has shrunk to the strip of mattress where your hand lies and the narrow rise and fall of your chest.

He traces the lines of your fingers with his gaze, the way other men might trace maps—learning them, committing them to memory. The callus along your forefinger from a bowstring. The faint, jagged scar at the base of your thumb that he’s never noticed before. The way your nails are cut, blunt and neat, fit for leather and reins rather than courtly embroidery. He swallows and shifts, just enough to bring your hand closer. Very carefully, as if afraid you’ll break, he cups your fingers between his palms and lifts them. Your skin is hot, fever-bright, but the weight of your hand is its own kind of anchor.

He bends his head and presses your knuckles to his forehead.

The contact is small, almost nothing, but it cracks something in him wide open.

“I am sorry,” he breathes, and the words scrape raw on the way out. They hang in the quiet room like smoke. “Gods forgive me, I am so damned sorry.”

He doesn’t know who he’s apologising to, exactly. To you, for bringing you into his father’s woods with only a handful of white cloaks and a promise. To his own gods, perhaps, for being foolish enough to think he could braid peace out of old grudges without anyone bleeding for it.

He breathes in, your hand still at his brow, and lets it out slowly.

“The Mother,” he begins, because that is where everyone begins. “You have sons enough across this bloody realm. One more will not strain you. Watch over her. Ease the pain if you can. Give her… give her back to her father with breath in her lungs and that tongue still sharp.”

His mouth twitches, despite everything, at that.

“The Father,” he goes on, quieter. “Judge me for this if you must. I will not argue the sentence. But judge her kindly. She came south in good faith. None of this was her doing.”

His thumb strokes absently along the back of your hand, feeling the fragile hammer of your pulse.

“The Warrior,” he murmurs. “Stand at her bedside for a while. You know she’d hate lying here helpless. Lend her some of your stubbornness until hers wakes up again.”

He hesitates over the next.

“The Stranger…” His jaw tightens. “You keep away from her. Do you hear me? You’ve had enough Starks these past years. Go haunt the bastards who loosed the arrow instead.”

It feels blasphemous to speak to the gods like recalcitrant children. It also feels, inexplicably, right. If any man in this realm has earned the right to talk back to heaven, it is one who has spent half his life trying to keep it from falling on people’s heads.

Baelor exhales and shifts your hand in his grip, turning it so that your fingers rest more easily against his mouth.

He kisses your smallest knuckle first, a ghost of a touch. A rite whispered into skin instead of stone.

“Forgive me,” he breathes against it.

He moves to the next. The third. Slow, reverent, the words unspooling in time with the soft press of his lips.

“For the road I chose.”

“For the guards I trusted.”

“For not seeing the crack until it broke under us.”

He kisses the line where your fingers meet your palm, eyes closing for a heartbeat.

“Forgive me,” he breathes out, “for thinking, even for a moment, that my life was worth the risk you took.”

He feels ridiculous and utterly sincere all at once.

If you were awake, you would probably roll your eyes at him, make some cutting remark about Targaryen theatre and the way dragons like to wrap guilt around themselves like cloaks. The thought nearly makes him smile. Nearly.

By the time he reaches your thumb, his mouth lingers.

“And forgive me,” he says softly, “for wanting things it is not my place to want.”

The admission hangs somewhere between you and the rafters. Baelor does not unpack it, even in his own head. It is enough that it has been given shape. Slowly, reluctantly, Baelor lowers your hand. He smooths the blanket beside you and lays your fingers there, arranging them with a care that would seem absurd to anyone watching. Thumb tucked just so, palm relaxed. As if you might wake and be irritated to find it cramped.

For a long moment, he simply looks.

He tries to fix the sight of you in his mind—not as you were in the wood, bloodied and reeling, nor as some court painter might one day try to catch you: all heraldry and poise. Just you. Hair damp and messy against the linen. Brow furrowed faintly even in sleep, as if arguing with someone in a dream. The set, stubborn line of your jaw.

He takes it in like a man drinking before a long march.

As he watches, something else loosens and shifts inside him, like a stone turning over at the bottom of a river.

He thinks of his father’s face these past weeks; the way Daeron’s eyes have flicked between you and him in council. The careful questions about northern customs. The way talk of marriages has crept closer to the Stark name each time the subject returns, always from some lord’s lips, never the king’s, and always redirected with a mildness that leaves too much unsaid.

He hears again Barthogan’s words: You had best speak with your father. Plainly, for once.

He has been telling himself, until now, that this visit was about trade and peace and the pleasant fiction of tours and hunts and unity. That his father’s silence on betrothals has been courtesy rather than calculation. That he, Baelor, could stand between you and any bargain he did not like simply by refusing to give it his name. Now, with your hand still warm from his lips and your blood still seeping into his father’s sheets, he allows himself to see it as it is.

Daeron means to bind wolf and dragon with more than ink.

It hits him, then, what he has been pretending not to see: that when his father looks at you, and then at him, he is not only thinking of peace and grain tithes. He is seeing a future drawn sharp as ink—you at Baelor’s side, not as a guest, not as negotiated ally, but as wife. As queen.

The shape of his life tilts beneath that thought.

For the first time, he lets himself follow it out fully: you in crimson and black at his right hand, your voice at his shoulder in council, your hand resting casual and steady on his arm at court. The two of you riding out from this keep side by side. Your laughter off the stone of his solar, your wolf set loose in the dragon’s den and utterly unafraid. It is dizzying, how easily the picture comes once he stops fighting it.

And under all of that—hot and startling and entirely, selfishly his—the sudden, treacherous awareness of what it might be like to kiss you without restraint or fear of consequence. To feel your mouth open under his, not in some fevered, guilty imagining, but as a right given and returned. The idea burns through Baelor so sharply he’s abruptly glad he is sitting; if he were standing, he thinks, his knees might have betrayed him.

His whole life, he has trained himself not to want. Want makes princes careless; it makes kings cruel. He has been content with duty, with the clean, cold satisfaction of doing what is needful.

Now, for the first time, he wants so much that the wanting itself feels like a living thing in his chest—and the cruellest part is how possible it suddenly seems.

It terrifies him.

It steadies him.

“Of course,” he whispers, more to himself than to you, “this is what he meant.”

He sits back slightly, drawing in a slow breath, feeling the contours of this new certainty settle around his ribs.

If you live—and the thought is a hard, unforgiving if—the path ahead has changed. Not in some hypothetical, distant way, but in the precise angles of conversations he will need to have with his Father, with Lord Stark, with the realm. He is his father’s Hand. He has spent years shaping other people’s futures in small, careful increments. He has never truly let himself consider the shape of his own.

Now, holding your hand print still faint on his lips, Baelor begins to.

“Wake up,” he says gently, leaning forward, his voice barely more than breath. “We have work to do, you and I. Deals to make. Old ghosts to settle. My father to needle.”

He allows himself one last touch—his fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair back from your forehead, careful not to disturb the bandages at your shoulder.

“Just… stay,” he adds, so quietly he is not sure whether even the gods can hear it. “Stay, and I will make the rest of it right. As much as any man can.”

Outside, somewhere in the depths of the castle, a bell tolls again, marking the passing of another hour.

His ten minutes are nearly gone.

Baelor sits there a moment longer, fixing the sight of you, the feel of your hand, the shape of his own resolve in his chest. Then, with a reluctance that aches in his bones, he eases his fingers from yours and rises to his feet.

He looks down at you once more.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he says softly. “Try not to terrify too many maesters in my absence.”

Baelor turns toward the door, his knee complaining, his shoulders set. 

His father waits. 

—

Daeron’s solar is still lit when Baelor finds his way there.

The torches in the corridor outside have burned low; their light throws long, wavering shadows over the dragon-carved door. Two white cloaks stand guard, helms under their arms, expressions carefully blank. Baelor nods to them; one reaches for the handle at once.

“His Grace is—”

“Awake,” Daeron’s voice calls from within, dry and precise. “Let him in.”

The solar smells of ink and cooling wax, with a lingering thread of something softer—citrus and myrrh, the scent of Dorne.

Maps and ledgers litter the great table in the centre of the room, pushed into uneasy heaps. A decanter of wine stands half-empty, two cups beside it. One of them is clearly Daeron’s: smudged where ink-stained fingers have gripped the stem. The other is untouched, its surface unbroken, catching firelight in a dark, garnet gleam.

By the hearth, in a tall chair pulled close to the warmth, sits Queen Myriah.

She has shed her courtly armour for the night: no jewels, no stiff brocade, only a deep red gown that falls soft over her, silk sleeves pushed to the elbow. Her dark hair is braided loose over one shoulder, a few silver threads winking where the light catches. A piece of embroidery lies forgotten in her lap, needle still caught in the half-finished spray of orange blossoms. Her bare feet rest on a low stool; she looks, for a moment, less like a queen and more like a tired mother sitting up too late.

Her head comes up as Baelor steps in. “Bael,” she breathes, the syllable soft with relief.

Daeron stands with his back to the room, hands braced on the stone sill, looking out at his city. He has shed crown and cloak; only the simple chain at his throat marks him as anything but a thin, weary man of middle years. The lamplight picks out the streaks of silver in his golden hair, the familiar line of his shoulders. His reflection in the glass is more dragon than scholar tonight—hard mouth, hard eyes, a contained fire.

“Busy day,” he notes without turning. “I’ve just spent an hour assuring half the realm’s loudest lords that the North is not about to rise in open rebellion because we let their wolf princess get shot on our doorstep.”

Baelor closes the door behind him. The sound clicks into the quiet.

“How did they take it?” he asks. His voice comes out steadier than he feels.

“In the way of men who would like something to be frightened of,” Daeron replies. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, then finally turns to face his son. “Half of them smelling opportunity, half of them smelling doom. All of them, for the moment, leashed.” He studies Baelor’s face for a heartbeat; his gaze catches on the smear of dried blood still at his collar, the hollows under his eyes. “How is she?”

“Alive,” Baelor replies. The word has become a litany. “For now. Aerys believes the worst of the poison has been checked. The next days will decide how much of her the venom tried to take with it.”

Something in Daeron’s face eases. Not much. But enough that the lines at the corners of his mouth soften.

“Good,” he says quietly. “The realm is fragile enough without us murdering our guests, however accidentally.”

Behind him, Myriah lets out a breath she’s been holding since he spoke.

“Thank the gods,” she murmurs in her lilting accent. She rises from her chair with the easy grace that never quite left her, even as the years piled their small indignities onto her joints. Crossing the room, she reaches Baelor in a rustle of silk.

Up close, she smells of sun-warmed fruit and smoke from the fire. Her hands come up to his face without hesitation, thumbs brushing the edge of the dried blood at Baelor’s jaw, as if reassuring herself that it is not his.

“My son,” she says softly, Dornish vowels smoothing the words. “You are whole.”

“For now,” he echoes, and tries to smile for her.

Myriah’s mouth trembles. She leans in and kisses his cheek, just below the smear of red, as if staking her own claim over the mark. Her fingers rest a moment against his jaw, warm and firm.

“I have sent prayers for her every hour,” she tells him. “For the wolf-girl. The one who dragged you out of the path.” There is a fierce gratitude in her eyes now, brightening the tiredness. “I will send more.”

“Thank you, Mother. Lady Stark will appreciate all the help she can get,” Baelor says, and his voice comes out rougher than he meant.

Myriah’s gaze lingers on him, searching, weighing. She has always been better than his father at seeing the spaces between what he says. Daeron clears his throat lightly.

“Myriah,” he prompts gently. “Baelor and I need a moment.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, one brow lifting.

“Alone?” she asks. There is a wry aside in it: as if the last time she left the two of them alone, they were boys with stolen lemons.

“This time, yes,” Daeron answers. “We won’t be long.”

She looks back at Baelor. “Then I will go and sit with the girl’s father,” she decides. “He looks like a man who might snap if left alone too long with his thoughts. I know something of those.”

Her hand squeezes Baelor’s cheek once more before she lets him go.

“Do not stay on your feet all night,” she chides gently. “You walk like your grandfather when the rains come. Rest when you can. She will not wake faster for you wearing yourself to bone.”

“Yes, Mother,” Baelor says, because it is easier than promising anything else.

Myriah smiles, small and sharp and achingly fond. Then she pivots on bare, ring-gleaming feet and crosses back to the door, gathering her shawl from the back of a chair as she goes. The white cloaks outside straighten as she passes; she nods to them as if they are old acquaintances.

The door closes behind her with a soft thud. The room feels different without her—the warmth she carries gone in an instant, leaving ink and wax and dragonstone chill. 

Daeron gestures toward the table.

“Sit, if you can stand to,” he says. “You look like a man who’s been dragged behind a horse all day.”

Baelor almost laughs at that. Almost. Instead, he stays where he is, just inside the room, fingers flexing once at his sides, as if testing whether they will obey him.

“There is something I need to ask you,” he says tightly.

Daeron’s brows lift a fraction. “Only one thing? Either you are merciful, or you are very focused.”

“I’m trying to be,” Baelor answers. He draws in a breath that tastes of old smoke and wine. “What are your intentions toward House Stark?”

The question hangs in the air, blunt as a hammer. Daeron regards him for a long, silent moment.

“Specific,” he hums thoughtfully. “You must be very tired indeed.”

Baelor doesn’t look away. “Father.”

“Very well.”

Daeron exhales and pushes away from the window. He moves with that deliberate, unhurried gait that always makes courtiers forget how quickly he can strike if he chooses. The hem of his robe whispers over the stone. He comes to a halt on the far side of the table, resting his hands against the scarred wood where a hundred other arguments have been fought and settled.

“You are not a fool,” he begins. “You have seen the talk circling. You can likely recite by rote half the arguments I would make about glaciers and dragonfire and what it means, symbolically, to yoke North and South in marriage rather than war.”

“I have,” Baelor admits. His voice feels thick in his throat. “I would rather hear you say it plainly.”

Daeron inclines his head, the motion small, the chain at his throat catching the light.

“Plainly, then,” he says. “I have proposed a match between our houses. A formal alliance. Blood for blood. Wolf and dragon, bound by law and gods both.”

Baelor’s heart beats once, hard, like a fist against his ribs. Heat and cold wash through him in the same breath.

“And the match is?” he asks. The words feel strange in his mouth, as if his tongue has forgotten the shape of them.

Daeron’s gaze sharpens, weighing him with new care.

“To Maekar,” he answers calmly. “Stark’s girl for my youngest son. The North for the steel in our hand, not the quill in it.”

Everything inside Baelor goes very, very quiet.

The solar doesn’t spin, the floor doesn’t drop; there is no shock like an arrow’s impact. It is slower than that. A steady, inexorable tipping somewhere deep behind his breastbone, as if someone has taken the board of his life and leaned it, letting all the neat, ordered pieces tumble into a new pattern he doesn’t recognise.

He feels the words hit, one after another.

To Maekar.

Stark’s girl.

Not you.

The dragon in him—coiled so long under iron discipline it has almost forgotten its own name—unfurls in a sudden, searing lash of instinct.

Mine, something in his blood whispers, hot and ugly and very old. She stood between us and death. She bled for us. She walked into our fire and did not flinch. Ours.

He clamps his teeth on it, jaw aching. Across the table, Daeron is still speaking. The words come from a long way off, as if through water.

“—a practical match,” his father is saying. “Maekar is a soldier; the North understands that kind of strength. They will trust him to hold a line with them, to bleed with them if need be. It gives him a power-base that is his, not mine, which he will need when you wear the crown, and he has to reconcile himself to standing a step below you. It tells the realm that we value the North for more than its spears—that we are willing to give them a prince and not some third cousin with a dragon on his cloak and nothing behind it.”

He’s thought this through. Of course, he has. Baelor can see every tidy line of logic, laid out like a game of cyvasse already half-won. Black and white, glacier and dragonfire, all in their proper places.

Under it, his own need prowls, furious and bewildered.

He thinks of Maekar, broad-shouldered and blunt, sitting at your bedside trying not to look worried. Maekar, who grumbled and swore and then called you brave, as if the word had been dragged out of him with tongs. Maekar, who has never wanted the crown and would take the North with grim, competent hands and never think twice about the girl at the centre of the bargain, except to be loyal in the way Baelor already knows he would.

It should comfort him. It doesn’t.

The dragon in his chest snarls again, quieter but more persistent now, pressing hot against his ribs.

He will take what you want and not even know he holds it. He will have her laugh, and her temper, and the way she looks at a man whose word she trusts. He will have the right to stand beside her when the snows come. And you will have a story about peace to tell yourself in the dark.

“And now,” Daeron goes on, oblivious to the stillness forming on Baelor’s side of the table, “this attack sharpens it. She has bled to keep the crown prince safe. You could not ask the gods for a more potent argument. We can take this… outrage, and turn it. Show the realm that such loyalty—standing between dragon and arrow—is honoured. We marry her into our blood, lend Stark our name, make it clear that we value this kind of courage above all else. It strengthens the story, Baelor. It strengthens us.”

He looks up, eyes bright with a tired, grim sort of conviction. He believes this. He has held this realm together with stories like this—hurt turned to heraldry, wounds turned to warnings.

Baelor hears his own voice break the air.

“No,” he says.

The word falls into the room like a dropped blade. Baelor doesn’t recognise the sound. It is too flat. Too hard. There is none of his usual careful tempering in it. No softening for his father’s sake, no instinctive bend toward compromise. Daeron blinks, the flow of his reasoning checked as cleanly as if someone had knocked over all his little carved dragons.

“Baelor—”

“No,” Baelor repeats. The second time, it comes easier, pulled up from deeper. “You cannot use this.”

His father’s mouth tightens. “Use—?” There’s a flash of real offence there, under the exhaustion. “Gods, boy, I am trying to make it matter. To ensure this is not just another pointless hurt. We were struck through her. We answer by raising her. That is not exploitation; it is—”

“No,” Baelor says again, and it costs him more than any order he has ever given men in the field. “You will not bind her to Maekar. Not for this.”

The ringing in his ears is louder now than the crackle of the fire. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, his throat. His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists until the leather of his gloves creaks in protest. Every lesson of his life screams at him to stand down. To soften. To turn the word into something more palatable—perhaps, Father, or we should consider other options. To swallow the raw edge and offer it back in a shape Daeron can take without cutting his hands.

The dragon in him bares its teeth and refuses.

She is not a piece for you to move, it hisses. She is the hand that knocked the arrow aside. She is the one who bit a man’s hand to keep breathing. She is ours.

Daeron straightens fully, the years falling from him in an instant. The king is there suddenly, not just the worn man staring down an ungrateful realm. His presence fills the solar the way heat fills a forge; the air feels thinner, tighter around the edges.

“Be careful,” he says softly. “You have never spoken to me this way before.”

“I know,” Baelor answers, and that, too, is true. Every syllable feels like treason against habit, against love.

He loves this man. Loves him in that endless, bone-deep way that comes from watching him hold a shattered kingdom together for years. Baelor has built half his life on being the son Daeron can lean on without having to look, the one who does not make trouble, who smooths and soothes and mends.

And still.

“I cannot allow this match,” he forces out.

The words fall between them and stay there, heavy and undeniable. Silence stretches, taut as a drawn bowstring. In the hearth, a log settles with a soft sigh and a flurry of sparks. Daeron’s eyes narrow—not with immediate anger, but with something more dangerous: dawning comprehension. He has always been quick at reading the currents under men’s words; he would not be the king he is otherwise.

“And why is that?” The question is soft, almost gentle; the steel is all underneath. “You have spoken at length, these past years, about the value of Northern steel and the need to bring the Starks closer. You have argued for marriages with less enthusiasm than this house deserves. Now, when the alliance is all but offered, you balk. Why?”

Baelor looks away.

His gaze finds the window, the dark smear of the city beyond. The glass gives him back a ghost of himself: hollow-eyed, jaw clenched, a smear of someone else’s blood at his throat. Behind that reflection, faint and doubled, his father waits.

Say it, the dragon in him urges savagely. Tell him she is yours. Tell him you will not see her in another man’s arms while you still draw breath, even if it’s your blood.

Baelor’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“Do not make me say it,” he manages.

“A king,” Daeron replies coolly, and there is no give in him now, “does not build on what his sons cannot bear to name. You want to stand at my right hand and at my place when I am gone, you will speak plain. I will not be led by stammers and silences. Not in this.”

It is unfair. It is entirely, precisely fair.

Baelor’s breath comes shorter. The room feels too small; the walls too close. He pushes away from the patch of stone where he had unconsciously braced himself, crossing the solar in three quick strides. The map-strewn table stands between them like a painted battlefield. Little carved dragons and wolves dot its surface, marking supply lines and winter stores and levy strengths. It looks, suddenly, obscene.

He sets his hands on the wood, fingers splaying against the old cuts and ink stains. The urge to sweep it all onto the floor—to send their tidy plans flying—is a hot flash in his muscles. He masters it, straightening instead, drawing himself up as if he were armoured.

His heart is beating too fast; he can hear it in his ears, feel it in his neck and in his teeth.

“If you wish,” he says, each word chosen and placed like a stone, “to wed Lady Stark to anyone in this house…”

He steps around the edge of the table, closing the last of the distance. Now there is nothing between them but air, and blood, and the weight of the day—the memory of you crumpling in the leaves, the taste of your name in his prayers.

The dragon in him lifts its head, eyes bright, teeth bared.

“... then it will be me.”

Of course he has. A pretty picture for the court to paint stories over: dragon princes and their northern guest, out among the trees like a song about unity made flesh.

“I’ll be there,” you say.

There’s a little pause, then the soft scrape of slippers and the diminishing tap of steps down the corridor. The chamber settles back into its morning hush. Light pushes thin, pale fingers through the slats in the shutters, striping the floor and the foot of the bed in narrow bands; dust motes drift and turn like slow, trapped snow.

You sit up on a sigh, shoving your hair back from your face. The air already has that southern thickness to it, clinging and too warm. You miss the way northern mornings bite.

—

You put your knife on before your boots.

Your women flutter in like a small flock of careful birds, arms full of colour and fabric. They loosen the ties on your nightgown with quick, practised fingers and slide linen and silk over your head—southern-soft, cool on first touch, warming almost at once against your skin. The gown they’ve chosen is riding-plain by court standards, which still means fine wool and good stitching; Stark-grey, brushed and clean, with a skirt cut just wide enough for a saddle. They murmur while they work: about the weather, about the honour, about how handsomely the princes ride.

“He’s very fine on a horse, Prince Baelor,” one ventures, hands deft at your hair. “They say he trained in Dorne when he was a boy.”

“They say also,” another puts in, “that Prince Maekar broke three ponies before a maester thought to check his temper, not theirs.”

Their laughter is quick and nervous. You let it wash around you, neither feeding it nor snuffing it out. It’s easier than correcting them. They are southern girls; rumours are their morning bread.

“Hold still, my lady,” the first chides gently, tucking a loose strand into place. They plait your hair tighter than you’d choose for yourself, winding it up and pinning it in a crown that feels a touch too heavy, a touch too neat. A few short wisps escape at your temples already, stubborn as wolf fur.

Only when they step back, satisfied, do you reach for the worn leather belt laid out at the foot of the bed. The sheath’s familiar weight kisses your palm. You thread it through, buckle it, and slide the knife home at your hip. The simple act drops something solid back into you, as if your spine settles by a notch. A small, sharp reminder: you are not here only to be looked at. Boots next. Thick-soled, good leather, scuffed at the toes from Winterfell’s stone. They don’t match the dainty southern slippers lined up like sugared sweets by the screen, and you feel better the moment the weight of them hugs your feet.

By the time you make your way down through the keep, the castle is properly awake. The corridors breathe heat and noise: servants darting past with ewers and folded linens, a knight pausing to adjust his sword-belt, a maid scurrying with a tray of covered dishes, crocks of some spiced porridge steaming. The air smells of bread and tallow and the faint, sour ghost of last night’s wine. A pair of court ladies drift by in laughter and perfume, their eyes sharpening as they recognise you; they dip quick curtseys, mouths already curving around whatever story this morning will give them.

Dragon and wolf, they’re thinking. And now dragons and wolf on horseback.

You keep your chin level and your pace even. Barthogan Stark did not raise you to scurry.

—

The stable-yard hits you in the face the moment you step into it.

The Red Keep’s inner walls throw the sun back in hard sheets of light. The flagstones shine slick where water has been sloshed over them; shallow puddles glint like shards of broken mirror. The smells here are a layered press—hay and warm horse, clean sweat and old straw, the sharp tang of dung and the dry, metallic whiff of shoes being checked and hammered back into place. Grooms weave between cobs and coursers, voices low and quick as they dodge hooves and swinging haunches. A farrier curses as a mare snatches her foot away mid-nail. Chickens scuttle and squabble under a cart, kicking dust up in soft explosions. Somewhere, a mule lets out an indignant squeal and is sworn at thoroughly in three different accents.

Your mare is waiting.

She stands a little apart from the sleek, high-blood royal stock, tied to a post under a sliver of shade. Her grey coat has gone darker where the groom’s brush has worked the oils up from her skin, dapples shadowing her flank like storm-clouds across snow. She lifts her head before anyone else does; her ears flick toward you, nostrils flaring. When you whistle softly through your teeth, she swings her head fully, dark eye fixing on you with a steadiness that tugs something in your chest loose.

“Good girl,” you murmur, stepping into her space the way you always do—body turned just enough to be non-threatening, hand offered flat. Her breath is warm and grassy on your palm. “Have they offended your northern dignity?”

She huffs into your fingers, then butts her head once, hard enough to rock you a fraction on your heels.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you concede, smoothing your hand down the ridge of her nose. Her skin twitches under your palm, whiskers tickling the heel of your hand.

“My lady Stark.”

You look up.

Baelor crosses the yard with that long, unhurried stride of his, the one that looks like it was trained into him along with his letters. He’s shed the trappings of court for the morning; no cloak, no glittering pins, no embroidered dragons prowling his chest. Just plain black riding leathers, supple and well-used, belted neat at a waist broader than his doublets let on. Mail glints in a dull, practical band at his throat where his doublet is left unlaced. His gloves hang forgotten from two fingers, swinging lightly.

The breeze has undone the care someone took with him earlier. Dark hair, pulled back in the morning, has slipped somewhat; a few rebellious strands have escaped to curl against his temple and the back of his neck, catching the light like threads of darker copper. Along his jaw, the short beard you have begun to know reflects a few bright hints of silver, fine as cobwebs. The sun bruises faint gold into the brown of his skin, picking out the tired grooves around his eyes and mouth. He looks less like the figure who sits at the king’s right hand and more like the man who’d laughed in the yard yesterday with his men, sweat darkening his collar. The sight of him goes clean through you, his molten gaze latching onto yours as if he’s been starved, too. 

Beside him walks Maekar.

In full daylight, he is all angles and frown-lines and unvarnished iron. His brow sits heavy over eyes that are sharper than most people give him credit for; his nose is straight, the set of it suggesting it has been broken once, badly, and reset by someone who cared more for function than beauty. His mouth looks made for flat truths rather than pleasantries. His leathers are plainer even than Baelor’s, old scars and darker stains showing where oil and honest wear have darkened them; he looks like a man who sleeps in them when he can, not like someone who wears leathers as costume. His hair is all Targaryen silver, cropped short in a style that owes more to convenience and the yard than to fashion. His gaze flicks over horse, tack, you, in one quick, soldier’s tally.

“Your Highnesses,” you say, dipping your head. Your voice lands clean, which feels like a small victory.

Baelor’s mouth softens at the corners. “I hope you’ll forgive my father’s fondness for early hours,” he says. His tone is easy, wry. “He decided a ride would do us all good and sent the steward to order us about before we could protest.”

“Very generous of him,” you reply. “To gift you both a morning in my company.”

Maekar snorts before he can stop himself.

The sound is small but startling, a rough, honest little huff that seems to surprise him as much as you. It cracks his face open for an instant, revealing something younger, almost boyish, under the permanent scowl. Then he remembers himself—your sex, your title, the whole delicate dragon’s nest of courtesy between North and Crown. His spine snaps a touch straighter; his jaw clamps, his expression shuttering with all the grace of a door slammed by a tired man.

“I only meant—” he starts, stiff.

“It’s all right,” you cut in, the corner of your mouth tugging. “You’re not the first man to greet the day’s orders with a noise like that. You should hear the kennelmaster when my father says, ‘we ride at dawn.’”

Baelor’s eyes glint, pleased; a line at the edge of his mouth relaxes. Maekar’s shoulders ease by a hair.

“The king thought you’d prefer trees to stone,” Maekar offers, seizing on formality like a safer road. “The Kingswood’s less of a… pit than the city.”

“Maekar,” Baelor chides mildly.

“What? It is.” Maekar’s mouth twists; his glance skims the yard with clear distaste. “Pardon. I speak too freely in the yard and forget myself.”

“I’m northern,” you remind him. “I grew up in a yard, Your Grace. I’ve heard worse from boys who still had milk teeth.”

He blinks, wrong-footed, then huffs a short, grudging laugh that tugs one corner of his mouth upward. It looks more like a muscle pulled wrong on his stern face.

“Well,” he allows. “Saves me strangling on my own tongue.”

Baelor gives you a quick look—approval and gratitude and something warmer, all tangled together. It lingers a heartbeat longer than courtesy strictly demands.

“Shall we?” he prompts.

They saddle Maekar with a big bay stallion that looks like it wakes up angry and goes to bed in the same mood.

The beast’s coat shines a deep, healthy red-brown, dapples hidden under the sheen of good care. Even so, there’s a tightness to him—a coiled, restless energy. He rolls his eye at everyone within range as a groom leads him forward, teeth worrying at the bit, neck bowed like a drawn bowstring. His hooves ring harshly on the stone, iron on stone, a sharp punctuation in the morning’s noise.

Maekar swings up with the easy, practised economy of a man who’s spent more of his life in a saddle than in a chair. The stallion immediately sidesteps, stamping, tossing his head toward a hapless groom who throws himself flat against a post.

“Seven hells, you bloody ox,” Maekar growls, shifting his weight without thinking. He sits deep, knees tightening, hands firm but not cruel. You can tell—this isn’t a man being taken by surprise; this is a man who knows exactly how his horse likes to dance and is willing to argue about it. Hooves clatter; a stableboy squeaks and hops out of range. “Stand.”

The swearing earns him a couple of strangled looks from younger stablehands. Maekar notices their reactions and grimaces.

“Apologies, my lady,” he calls out, flicking a glance at you. He does not sound remotely apologetic. “He brings out my better words.”

“If those are your better words,” you say sweetly, catching his eye, “I’d hate to be in earshot when you drop something on your foot, Your Grace.”

One of the Kingsguard coughs pointedly into his hand. Baelor looks down, as though studying his gelding’s mane, but his shoulders shake once, betraying silent laughter.

“My mare’s seen men lose half their fingers to frostbite and invent new curses on the spot,” you add, tone light. “I promise you, my ears will survive the odd ‘bloody ox.’”

Maekar gives you a look that is very nearly a grin—quick, crooked, gone again almost at once, but real while it lasts. It makes him look, for a heartbeat, like someone you might have known at home: a hard-handed cousin in the yard, a man you’d trust on a winter road.

Baelor mounts with the unthinking grace of habit. His gelding is a solid chestnut, neither showy nor meek, the kind of beast a man picks when he expects to be riding into trouble as often as ceremony. The horse stands steady as Baelor swings up, shifting only enough to make room for his weight. At the pressure of his knees, the gelding sidesteps smoothly closer into line with your mare. The horses stretch their necks to blow at one another, exchanging breath and brief, snorting greetings, then settle. Familiar enough animals, meeting over unfamiliar ground.

You feel Baelor’s presence there more than you see it: a line of warmth at your right side, the faint rasp of leather as he adjusts his reins, the light, accidental brush of his knee against yours when the horses edge together in that way good horses do when their riders want to be near. The contact is nothing, a ghost through layers of wool and leather and padding, but your skin registers it anyway.

Around you, white cloaks drift into their places like snow come to life.

Kingsguard form up with practised ease, bright amid the browns and blacks of the yard. Steel glints under bright enamel; their horsehair crests nod with each small movement. One takes the fore, cloak flaring as he wheels his horse and calls for the gate to open. Two flank your small party ahead, two behind, one on either side, slotting into the spaces as though you’re building a moving fortress brick by careful brick.

A little travelling keep, you think, with you as one of the stones.

The portcullis grinds upward, chains clanking, the sound a familiar, comforting scrape under the strangeness of the day. Beyond, the outer yard waits and, past that, the city itself—the river of King’s Landing’s noise and stink and life.

This is what he wants, you think again, as the first breath of hotter air rolls in, carrying the city’s stew of fish and smoke and too many bodies. Daeron. My father. All of them.

Stark grey and Targaryen black riding in easy company. The crown prince, his grim younger brother, the northern heir, laughter and light words in the air, white cloaks at their backs. A picture to be seen, and seen again, until it stops looking like a painting and starts feeling like the way of the world. A story men can repeat over their cups until the ink is dry on a betrothal contract they haven’t even announced.

They don’t know. Neither of them. Not yet.

You can see it in both their faces. Baelor’s easy assumption that this is a respite from wards and reports. Maekar’s faint bafflement at being yanked from council to play host. They have no idea their father has already set the stones of their futures clacking in motion around your name.

Baelor shifts his weight, and the gelding steps forward. Your mare flicks an ear back, then follows at the lightest urging of your heel. The Kingsguard horses move as one, the bay stallion tossing his head once as if offended at having to wait even that long. The gate yawns fully open. Sunlight floods the mouth of it, harsh and white, setting the dust motes dancing in a visible haze. Beyond, the road snakes away toward the city’s noisy maze and, beyond that, the deep, dappled shadow of the Kingswood.

You swallow down the taste of dust and duty both, square your shoulders, and ride out between dragon and dragon, knife at your hip, wolf in your bones.

The city clings to you longer than you’d like.

Even with the Kingsguard shouting “Way!” and their white cloaks flashing, the progress is more crawl than ride. You pick your way past handcarts piled with turnips (Baelor’s gaze snags there, flitting to yours an instant later, full of warmth, light with humour) and cracked crockery, past middens and dung-heaps slicked over with flies, past women with baskets hitched on their hips, shawls pulled tight against dust and staring. Boys gape openly until they catch sight of bright enamel and polished steel; then, as if some invisible hand has clipped them around the ear, they suddenly discover urgent business with the nearest wall or alley mouth.

Smells knot themselves thick in the air and refuse to loosen. The sour reek of the tanneries and river-slime near the gates; stale ale bleeding from tavern doors; yesterday’s fish gone soft in the sun; bread ovens and smoke; the acid tang of piss running in the gutters. Somewhere, a man hawks his wares in a cracked, relentless shout that rides over everything else.

Your mare’s ears flatten, then twitch, then flatten again. You can feel the tension along her neck under your palm, the twitch of muscle that wants to stretch and run and can’t. Only when the Lion Gate groans shut behind you and the iron teeth are at your back does the city finally begin to fall away. Hoofbeats find a steadier rhythm on the King’s Road; the hollow ring of stone gives way to the duller thud of packed earth.

Fields unroll on either side, raw and sun-gnawed, this close to the walls. Ragged rows of cabbage. Narrow strips of barley, green but thirsty. Scruffy sheep drift in small, dusty clouds, their bells ghost-tinkling over the clop of hooves. A boy in a torn shirt and bare feet stands in the furrow with a switch in his hand and his mouth hanging open as you pass—as if you are one of the songs, come cantering out of the verses.

You let your mare stretch at last.

A small nudge of your heel and a loosening of the reins, and she arches her neck, ears pricking forward, stride lengthening once there is room for it. The stiffness in her back melts, breath evening out. The knot between Baelor’s shoulders eases in much the same way; his seat loosens, his hands settling into that easy, patient line you’ve already begun to recognise.

“Have you hunted much, Lady Stark?” he asks after a time. His voice is idle; his eyes are anything but. “I promised my father we wouldn’t lose you in a rabbit warren.”

“North of the Neck?” you say. “You’re more like to lose a man in a snowdrift than a warren, but yes. Elk. Boar. The odd bandit who thought wolves couldn’t follow tracks.”

Maekar’s head turns at that, his stallion’s ears flicking with him. “You hunt bandits?”

“If they wander too close to our borders and don’t take a hint,” you tell him with a small dip of your chin, ignoring his brief, incredulous glance towards Baelor. “We don’t dress it in finer words. Stealing from my people in winter is a sort of murder.”

Something like satisfaction—slow, hard, approving—flares and settles in Maekar’s eyes by the time you’re done speaking. “Good,” he says simply.

Baelor glances between you, some quiet thought moving behind his mismatched gaze like a fish under clear ice.

“See?” Maekar says to him, tipping his chin in your direction. “She won’t weep if someone says ‘throat-cutting.’ You can stop talking like a septa. It pains me to hear it.”

Baelor makes a noise that’s half scoff, half laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind when I next address the court.”

“You’d clear the hall in an hour if you spoke plain,” Maekar says. “Might be worth it.”

“Tempting,” Baelor admits with a small smile.

They slip into bickering the way other men slip into a favourite cloak—without thinking about it, without checking the fit. Small things at first: who rides worse, who cursed more as boys, which of them Daeron sent, red-eared and mutinous, to apologise when they terrorised some hapless septon in their youth. You nudge and prod where it amuses you, letting the quips fall from your tongue like little stones into a river, and simply watch where it doesn’t.

The differences show themselves best in motion.

Baelor rides like a man used to long distances and longer days: seat loose, hands steady, letting the horse do the work but never so lax he isn’t ready to intervene. His gaze keeps slipping, almost unconsciously, to the line as a whole. When a Kingsguard’s gelding puts a hoof wrong in a rut and stumbles, Baelor notices first, calling a warning before the man has properly lost his seat.

Maekar rides like a man who expects to break a horse and the world with it if they push him far enough. His weight sits a hair forward, ready to go from trot to charge without a thought; his gaze rakes the hedgerows and treelines for threats more often than it does the sky. When a farmer’s dog darts too close, ears flat, teeth bared, it is Maekar who turns his stallion just enough to shoulder the beast away from the softer geldings, taking the risk of a bite or a fall for himself without seeming to think about it at all.

It isn’t hard to see why men say he’s more northern than half the South. He has the look of someone who’d be content with a hard keep and a harder border, so long as there was a good fight and a clear duty at his back.

He’d suit it, you think, bleakly. Winterfell. The North. He’d fit.

It had been so easy, last night, to let your mind stray in another direction—to see Baelor at your side instead, tall and dusk-browned in Stark grey, his strange eyes taking the measure of your halls as if they were already his to guard. To imagine his hand on the same maps as yours, his voice in your council chamber, his warmth in your bed when the storms howled. Easy, and selfish, and utterly beside the point. You are a Stark of Winterfell; you were not raised to mistake wanting for warrant. Your own heart is the smallest piece on this board. Maekar would make a good husband in all the ways that matter to lords and ledgers: hard, reliable, neither fool nor craven. He does not strike you as cruel—only edged, like a sword left too long in the cold. You could live with that. You could learn that shape, perhaps even love it one day.

Baelor glances your way again, catching some shadow in your expression you hadn’t realised had risen.

“You’re quiet,” he notes, pitched just low enough that it doesn’t quite carry to Maekar, who has edged ahead, drawn towards the first dark smudge of trees. “Are we that dull, my lady?”

“I’m measuring you against my father’s warnings,” you say. “Trying to decide if he was overcautious.”

“And the verdict?” A hint of humour warms the words; something else coils underneath, hotter, sharper.

“Undecided.” You let your gaze travel over the scrub and the budding copses, the thin green spears of new growth fighting their way out of the tired earth. “The fields are flatter than I like. The company’s acceptable.”

“High praise,” he murmurs, words warm with amusement.

He’s closer than he needs to be. Close enough that when the road dips and your mare checks her stride, your knee bumps his, leather against leather. He doesn’t take the hint the road gives him. Instead, his boot stays there, a quiet brace at the outside of your stirrup, as if he’s anchoring you both through the shift in balance.

The touch is small and slight and wholly improper for a ride with half the guard behind you, but you feel it all the way up your leg all the same.

⸻

The Kingswood gathers itself by degrees.

First, scattered trees: lone oaks and ash standing like sentries in the fields, shadows puddling short and dark around their roots. Then clumps, rough copses where underbrush thickens, and birdsong grows louder. Then, finally, the road slips under a true canopy of leaves, green just beginning to fatten on branch and twig, filtering the hard white sun into a softer, green-gold fall.

The air cools as if someone has drawn a shade. It dampens, too, the dry dust replaced by the rich, deep scent of earth and leaf-mould and old, shaded stone. The sounds change; the city-noise and field-clatter fall away behind you, swallowed by bark and moss. A jay shrieks somewhere to your right—harsh, scolding. Another answers deeper in, another harsh echo. Small things rustle in last year’s leaves. A crow croaks, unseen.

The Kingsguard tighten their ring as the light dims. White cloaks brush trunks; shields creak softly as men settle their weight. You can feel the shift without looking—their horses drawing in, steps shortening a hair, heads coming up. You’ve been watching Baelor from the corner of your eye for the last mile. The line of his mouth; the little flick of his gaze to you and back to the road; the way his jaw sets when you ride through shadow. The way his hand shifts on the reins when the undergrowth thickens.

He’s been watching you just as closely.

“Lady Stark,” he says at last, pitched for you alone. “You’ve gone a league without so much as a word. Should I be worried?”

“You’ll grow vain if I praise you too often,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving my sharpest words for when they’ll do the most harm.”

“Gods preserve us,” Maekar calls back over his shoulder, catching just enough of that to be offended. “She’s planning something.”

“Always,” you answer with a small twitch of your lips.

The jest lands. Baelor huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. The sound ruffles the tension, but doesn’t quite wipe the crease from his brow.

“You didn’t sleep,” he says, not bothering to turn it into a question.

The lie rises easily—I woke early, the city is noisy, your brother snores through stone; there are a dozen excuses, light and flimsy as cobwebs. You find yourself unwilling to pick one up.

“I had a great deal to think on,” you say tightly instead.

“Did someone give you more reasons for thought?” Baelor presses, voice mild, eyes sharp. “Or was it my ravens? They are intolerable.”

There. The question under the question at last.

You look up at him.

His back is straight, his hands easy on the leather, but the muscles in his forearm are taut, tendons standing under sun-browned skin. Both his mismatched eyes are on you now—the pale one bright as an ice-chip, the dark one warm and deep. Together, the look they make feels like standing before a good fire with a winter window open at your back.

If you told him now—

If you said, Your father means to give me to your brother—stop him. Tell him I’m yours, not Maekar’s. Claim me and be done with it, before they cage me as another man’s duty.

You don’t know what he’d do. Whether he would flinch or flame. The thought is a living thing, wild and urgent, battering itself against your ribs.

“Your father spoke with mine,” you say carefully. “About many things. I’m still… sorting which of them matter.”

His jaw tightens. It’s one of the smallest movements you’ve ever seen him make, but on a face you’ve been studying as if your life depends on it, it’s like watching a crack appear in smooth ice.

“I see,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t. Not yet. But he senses enough to be afraid of the shape of it. For a few strides, the only sounds are hoofbeats and harness and the distant, dry crackle of something small moving through the underbrush. Leaves whisper against bark. A saddle creaks somewhere to your left.

“Whatever he asked of you,” Baelor says then, very softly, the words slipping under the creak of leather and the jingle of bit, “you do not have to shoulder it alone.”

The gentleness in it undoes you more than any command could have. You look away, down at your mare’s ears flicking forward and back. Your hand has gone slack on the reins without you noticing; your fingers tremble, just enough to jostle the leather.

His gloved hand moves before you can think.

Not the obvious touch, not a grab or a theatrical sweep. Just a slow, steady slide of his gelding a fraction closer until your stirrups touch, the solid press of his leg along the outside of yours, and his right hand leaving his own reins to settle briefly over your left, where it rests on the leather. The glove covers your knuckles; the heat of him finds its way through anyway.

“Steady,” he murmurs, so low it is almost part of the horses’ breathing.

You don’t know whether he means the mare or you.

Your horse flicks an ear back, reassured by the weight and presence on both sides. Your spine straightens without your consent, some deep animal part of you settling around the fact of him there, solid and unyielding, arranging the world so that you are bracketed between him and the edge of the road.

You should pull away. You don’t.

“Baelor—” you begin.

The wood explodes.

It happens all at once.

A rustle becomes a crash, undergrowth parting in a violent, thrashing blur. Bristled hide and wild eyes burst out onto the path ahead—a young boar, shoulders as high as your mare’s chest, tusks yellow and freshly sharp. It squeals, a tearing, furious sound that rips the quiet in half, and bolts across the road. A hound comes after it, snapping, foam-flecked, both beasts blind with panic.

Horses don’t think in words. They think in fear.

Maekar’s bay screams and goes near-vertical, forelegs pawing the air. The Kingsguard to his right curses and hauls his own mount sideways to avoid taking the stallion’s hooves in his lap; his white cloak whips like a torn banner. Another horse shies hard into the brush; branches slap armour, tangle in harness. A guard’s helm clangs against a low-hanging limb.

Your mare bunches beneath you, whole body jolting with the instinct to flee. The world pitches.

Before you can throw yourself forward or grab for anything, Baelor is already there.

His heels are in his gelding’s sides, driving the chestnut in closer, crowding your mare from the exposed flank. His arm comes up and across you in a single, unhesitating movement; for a heartbeat, his forearm presses firm across your stomach as he catches your balance, hauling you back against the saddle. His hand leaves his own reins entirely to seize your horse’s bridle just below the bit.

“Whoa,” he says, voice low and edged—not loud, not panicked, but carrying an iron note you’ve only ever heard in council. “Easy there. Easy.”

The boar flashes past between two white horses, all muscle and stench and terror, close enough that you catch the reek of it. The hound nearly goes under a guard’s hooves; someone snatches it up by the collar and urges it clear with a string of curses that would blister Septon’s ears. A sapling snaps with a sharp crack; leaves shower down in a ragged green curtain.

Your mare plunges once, twice, foam flecking the bit, but she cannot go forward, not with Baelor’s gelding blocking her, solid as a stone wall. She cannot bolt sideways, not with his thigh pinning your leg against the saddle, hemming you in. The only thing left for her is to stand and shake. You feel him all along your right side now: hip to hip, knee jammed solidly against yours, the hard line of his ribs a breath from your shoulder as Baelor leans in to keep his grip on your bridle. His breath is hot against your temple. His cloak brushes your arm in small, jolting touches with every jolt of the horses underneath you.

“Look at me,” he says, close to your ear.

You do, because some part of you already was.

For a breath, the chaos narrows to his face—those odd, mismatched eyes steady on yours, jaw set, mouth firm but not tight. There is no room in him for anything now but control, but you feel the other thing underneath it all the same: a protective fury like banked fire, turned outward on the world and the moment and never, ever on you.

“That’s it,” he whispers, as much to you as to the mare. His thumb strokes once along the leather of your rein, a small, anchoring pressure. “Breathe. Let her feel you breathing.”

You drag air into lungs that had forgotten how. The smell of him floods in with it—horse and steel and the faint, clean spice of whatever soap he uses, threaded with the salt of exertion. Your mare’s ears twitch back, catching the rhythm of your breath; her muscles stop bunching for flight and start trembling instead as the fear drains away.

Around you, the commotion ebbs. Men swear as they get their mounts under them; horses snort and stamp, shaking out the last of the panic through four dozen hooves. A white cloak straightens, green leaves stuck to the wool.

Baelor doesn’t move away. Not immediately. Not as soon as he could, or indeed, should.

His gelding stands rock-solid now, taking the press of your mare’s weight without fuss, as if this is exactly what he was bred for—to be the wall others can lean against when the ground turns treacherous. Baelor keeps his arm across your front a heartbeat longer than necessity demands, his hand still wrapped around your bridle, his body a quiet, implacable barrier between you and the memory of the boar’s charge.

Only when Maekar’s rough voice comes from ahead—“Anyone dead?”—and the Kingsguard begin to answer one by one, does Baelor let out a slow breath you feel more than hear. His arm eases, sliding away from your middle, but his hand lingers near yours on the rein, fingers a hair’s breadth off, as if he isn’t ready to give you back the full weight of your own horse just yet.

“Are you hurt?” he asks then, his voice no longer edged for command but softened, honed now for you alone.

Before you can answer, the woods answer for you.

The first arrow hisses past your cheek like an angry whisper, close enough that you feel the breath of it. It thunks into a tree-trunk behind you, quivering. The second finds a Kingsguard’s shield with a flat, vicious smack. The horse beneath him startles, dancing sideways.

“Down!” someone roars. You don’t know if it’s Maekar or the white cloak on your left; everything shatters at once.

The trees vomit men.

They come out of the thick underbrush in a rush—half in patchwork leathers and half in brigandine, faces smeared, blades already in hand. No sigils on their chests, not openly, but you see a glint of black enamel here, the curve of a dragon worked in dark steel on a helm there. One man’s cloak, when he turns, shows a crude red expanse painted sloppily over with a splash of black. Targaryen dragon sigil, only inverted. 

It’s as subtle as a hammer to the teeth.

“For Blackfyre!” one of them bellows, as if anyone needed it named. The shout tears through the trees, ragged and wild.

The Kingsguard react like a struck hive. White cloaks flare as they wheel their horses, shields come up, swords leap out with the ring of steel on steel. Maekar’s bay is still half-mad from the boar; he yanks the stallion’s head down with a snarl that’s almost as feral as the animal’s, drives his heels in, and hurls himself toward the nearest knot of men with naked delight.

“Stay with the lady!” one of the guards shouts, voice cracking across the path.

Baelor’s composure burns away like frost in a forge. His horse is already between you and the worst of it, his body a harder wall beyond that. You see it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his jaw locks, in the flash of his pale eye as an arrow thuds into the dirt where your mare’s forehoof had been a heartbeat ago.

“Off,” he snaps. His hand drops your bridle and is suddenly at your waist instead, pushing. “Now.”

You’re already swinging your leg free, dropping to the ground as your mare sidesteps, nostrils flaring. The world on foot is different—lower, closer, every sound louder. Steel meets steel in a jarring crash off to your right. A horse screams. Someone is praying in a thin, terrified voice.

You reach for your knife without thinking. The leather of the hilt is blessedly familiar against your palm as you rip it from its sheath, turning to put your back to your mare’s shoulder.

Baelor sees the blade in your hand and swears in a language that is half-Valyrian, half outrage.

“No.” He’s off his own horse in the next breath, the gelding trained well enough to stand when the reins are dropped. He steps in close, so close you can see the strain singing along the muscles in his throat. “To the trees. Now.”

“I can fight,” you snap, anger coming quicker than fear. Over his shoulder, you see Maekar drive his stallion straight into a man with a pike, knocking him flat under iron-shod hooves before leaning out of the saddle to ram his mace down. “I am not some soft southern girl to be packed in a basket—”

“I know what you are.” The words crack, low and fierce. His hand closes around your wrist—not on the knife, but just above it, where your pulse hammers. “That’s the problem.”

For a heartbeat, the mask is gone. 

The prince, the careful heir, the man who measures every word before he lets it fall—that man burns away in a blink. What’s left is dragon, unshuttered. His eyes are too wide, mismatched irises catching the shifting light; fear and fury churn there, twin storms.

“I will not be able to fight,” he says, each word carved out of something raw, “if you are here where I can see you fall. I cannot—” his throat jumps, swallowing something you are half-afraid to hear, “I cannot think, if you are in the line of it.”

A sword shrieks against a shield close enough that you feel it in your teeth. A Kingsguard’s horse crashes to its knees with a horrible wet sound; the knight rolls clear, comes up already swinging. Someone screams, “Traitors!” Someone else gurgles, choking.

He leans in, just enough that his forehead almost touches yours, his voice a rasp between you.

“Do you understand?” he demands. “It is not your pride on this road, lady. It is my mind. Go. Please.”

The please breaks you more cleanly than any order could. Fury rises hot and bright—you are Stark, you have held a blade since you could walk, you have bled on training ground stone because your father knew what danger you were in as a girl, and sole heir to a great house, and made sure, against maesters advice, to not raise a soft, pampered daughter—but underneath it, there is the colder, uglier truth: if you stay and fall, he will come apart. And if Baelor comes apart, this little, fragile circle of steel around you all will not hold.

You set your teeth so hard they ache.

“Fine,” you bite out. “But if any of your men die because you sent me from your side, I’ll haunt you.”

“Get on the horse,” he orders now that your horse is not in direct line of sight anymore, fighting having moved away, and the corner of his mouth twitches, a ghost of the man he is under all this. “Then we’ll argue about ghosts.”

You turn and run.

Your mare is only a little away from the main fray, eyes rolling white, dancing sideways as the smell of blood thickens. You catch her reins, murmur nonsense under your breath to her in the old northern cadence you’d use with a skittish hound.

A man comes out of the trees to your left like a thrown knife.

You barely have time to register more than leather, a beard, and the flash of bad teeth set in a snarl. His sword swings low toward your middle. Some old instinct drilled into you on the yard at Winterfell yanks you out of the way; you jerk the reins, the mare lunges, and the blade whistles past close enough to kiss your skirts. You slash at his arm as he passes, steel biting through leather into meat. He snarls, surprised, then turns back on you with real intent now.

“Stark bitch,” he spits, coming in fast.

Good, you think wildly, and step in faster.

This is no pretty tourney bout; there’s no space, no time. He crashes into you, heavier than he looks, boot slamming into yours as his hand clamps around your knife wrist. Pain flares white-hot when he wrenches; your fingers spasm, and the blade goes spinning into the brush with a dull flash of steel. His other hand comes for your throat, blunt and sure as a hammer.

You don’t have a weapon. You don’t have room.

So you do the only thing left.

You bite him.

You twist your head and sink your teeth into the web of flesh between thumb and forefinger as hard as you can. Skin splits. The taste of him floods your mouth—salt and iron and dirt, hot and appalling. He howls, instinct jerking his hand away; you tear a mouthful with it, spitting blood and skin.

He backhands you with his uninjured fist.

The world snaps white at the edges. Your head whips to the side. You hear the crack of your own teeth in your skull. The taste of copper blooms fuller, thicker on your tongue. You go down on one knee, your vision spinning. Your vision narrows to a tunnel with his blurred, menacing shape at the end of it, coming in again.

He never reaches you.

Baelor hits him like a storm.

Later—if there is a later—you might try to remember what he did first. Whether it was the sword, sliding cleanly under the man’s guard, or the shoulder that crashed into his chest, or the hand that caught his hair and wrenched his head back. Right now, it is all one movement: a dark shape interposing itself between you and the killing blow, steel flashing, the wet, shocking sound of a blade opening a man from gut to spine.

The Blackfyre man’s breath leaves him in a grunt that’s almost surprised. He folds over Baelor’s sword, then peels away, falling bonelessly into the leaf-litter, eyes already gone wide and empty. His blood comes after, hot and dark, splashing Baelor’s boots, freckling the hem of your gown.

Baelor stands over him, chest heaving. His sword-hand is steady. His face is not.

The fury in him is a terrible, silent thing. It has no sound, no roar; it burns behind his eyes, along the tight line of his mouth. His pale eye looks almost colourless, washed thin as ice glass; his dark one has gone near-black, swallowing what little light seeps in. The air around him feels different, thinned and sharp, as if the air itself is holding its breath. For a heartbeat, you wonder—absurdly, distantly—if this is what the dragons looked like, once, before they all fell.

You push yourself shakily to your feet, one hand braced on your mare’s withers. Something in your cheek throbs in time with your pulse. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and it comes away red.

He turns toward you, already reaching—

And you see it.

Behind him, deeper in the trees, where the light is worst. A small movement. The faint glint of metal where there should be none. A man half-concealed by a leaning trunk, one knee braced against the bark to steady himself, bow bent, the arrow already drawn to his cheek.

Baelor’s profile is a clear, perfect target. He is standing exactly where you put him by needing him.

“Baelor!” you gasp.

There is no time to explain. No time for words at all. You throw yourself at him.

You hit him high, shoulder to ribs. He’s solid as Winterfell’s walls, but you have momentum, and the ground is slick. It’s enough. He staggers, boots skidding. His sword-hand flails once for balance.

The arrow leaves the bow with a vicious, almost delicate little thrumming sound.

For an instant, you think he’s clear. Then fire lances through your shoulder.

It’s so sharp it doesn’t feel like pain, not at first—more like being struck full-force by a hammer made of ice. The impact spins you in the air. You hear yourself make a sound, thin and shocked. The world slams up to meet you, and leaf-mould and stone crash into your back.

You only realise the arrow is in you when you try to push up, and your left arm doesn’t answer, a white-hot hinge of agony locking the joint. Someone is shouting. More than one person. The clash of steel swells and recedes like surf.

Baelor is suddenly there on his knees in the leaves beside you, hands on you, everywhere at once.

“Stay—stay still, don’t—” His voice is not the prince’s voice anymore. It’s roughened, frayed to threads. His hand hovers an inch above the shaft jutting from your shoulder, fingers shaking, as if he’s fighting the urge to rip it free with his teeth. “Seven—no—no, no…”

You can’t quite focus on his face. The leaves behind him swim in and out, green and gold and uselessly beautiful. The light coming down through the canopy has gone strange and soft.

“You’re—” You try to say fine and almost laugh at yourself. The word dissolves into a gasp. “Arrow.”

“I see it,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that wasn’t there even when men were dying around him. Blood streaks his cheek in a thin diagonal line—not his, you think, dimly. His thumb brushes your jaw as if he can’t stop touching you, as if some part of him needs the reassurance that you are still real, still there. “I see it. Just—just breathe, my wolf. Do you hear me? Breathe.”

His arm slides under your shoulders, careful of the shaft, cradling you up against him. You feel the tremor in him as he lifts you, the way his whole body curves protectively around yours, making himself a shield of bone and muscle and desperate intent. Above the din of fighting, his voice rises—not as a prince, not as a commander, but as a man whose world has just been skewered on a fletched piece of ash.

“Maekar!” he roars, raw and furious. “Maekar!”

The trees blur. His heartbeat thunders where your temple presses against his chest, a wild, unsteady drum under the ringing of steel.

The last thing you feel before the darkness rushes up is his hand on the back of your head, holding you to him as if the force of his grip alone could keep the arrow from having been loosed.

The first—a proper Stark grey in worsted wool, the one your father likes on you—lasts a single hour. The weight that comforts you in Winterfell feels here like a punishment. You peel it off with clenched teeth, skin stinging where the cloth has dragged. The second, a southern silk in deep blue, slides over your shoulders like water and then, traitor that it is, refuses to hold any shape. Every step makes it cling and whisper and cling again. You feel your own sweat beading beneath it, running in fine, infuriating tracks down your sides.

The third is a compromise. A light white muslin gown that one of the queen’s ladies had pressed on you with a fond, pitying look and a “You’ll die in all that wool, my lady.” It’s indecent by northern standards, thin and fine and barely there. You add a light surcoat in Stark blue over it to soothe your conscience, but even that feels like armour in this weather. The muslin clings the instant you step into the corridor, damp at the back of your knees, your lower spine.

You crave cold the way starving men crave meat.

You drift from room to room the way the heat drifts after you. The small solar off your chambers, where the windows catch what pathetic breeze there is? Hot. The shaded gallery overlooking the training yard, where you once thought King’s Landing almost bearable? Hotter. The sept, with its cool-tiled floor and promise of marble? Stifling, the air thick with incense that seems to coat your lungs.

Your skin feels too tight. Your bones too close together. Every sound rasps. Laughter in the distance, the rolling cadences of some herald’s voice, the clatter of armour. Your own pulse in your ears. You can’t draw a full breath without feeling like the sun has already been there first.

By the time the bells toll midday, there’s a fragile, glassy edge to everything.

You snap—quietly—at a maid for fumbling your cup. You flinch away from your own guards when they shift too close behind you. You stand by the narrow window-slit in your chamber, stare out at Blackwater Bay crouching dull and brazen under the sky, and think, absurdly, of the crypts at Winterfell. Of cool stone and still air and shadows that smell of old dust and older promises. Of the breath of the earth itself under your feet—slow, steady, indifferent to heat and court and Targaryen tempers and this endless, endless summer.

You were raised to bear discomfort. To ride in blizzards, to stand in drafty halls till your toes go numb, to sleep in armour if need be. You have prided yourself on it. But this… this is something different. This is a thousand tiny needles pricking under your skin. This is wool wrapped tight around your thoughts until every breath feels like it might be your last, purely out of spite. The walls feel close, and the sky feels far, you told Baelor once, thinking only of metaphor. Today, the walls feel close in a very simple, very physical way. As if the whole Red Keep is leaning in.

Something in you bends with it. Just a little.

You strip the blue surcoat off your shoulders, leaving only the thin white muslin, and let the discarded garment fall over the back of a chair. It slides down, too heavy, and puddles on the floor. You leave it there; the sight of it makes you want to scream. Your guards straighten when you step out into the corridor. Even they look wilted. Sweat shines dark along the edges of their gorgets; one has taken the liberty of unstringing his collar a fraction, the linen beneath damp.

“My lady,” one ventures. “Shall I fetch—”

“No.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intend. You force your shoulders to loosen. “No. I just… need air.”

“You won’t find any up here,” the other says ruefully before he remembers who he’s talking to. He snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening.

He’s right, though.

Not up. Down.

You have been learning the bones of the Red Keep the way other girls learn stitches. The obvious paths first. Throne room, yards, gates. Then the quieter ways. The side galleries. Service stairs tucked behind tapestries. Once, you found an old, disused guardroom by accident and lingered there just to feel what it was like to be under so much stone, the air cool and still on your skin.

You think of that now—of thick walls that the sun hasn’t molested, of floors that remember night.

“I’ll be in the lower galleries,” you say. “You can follow if you like. Or you can find yourselves a flagon of cool ale and thank the old gods I didn’t drag you into the yard in full mail.”

“My lady—” the older begins, frowning.

“Choose quickly,” you cut in, already turning away. “Before I decide the only way to cool off is to throw a Targaryen prince into the cistern and see if he floats.”

That startles a short, incredulous huff of laughter out of the younger guard. The older looks scandalised and resigned in equal measure. They fall in half a pace behind you anyway, because they are Stark men and stubbornness is contagious.

You take the servants’ stairs, the ones that coil inside the walls themselves. Each turn feels fractionally less bright, less raw. The torches here are fewer, spaced wider along the curving stone. The air changes by degrees, enough that the difference feels like mercy. The smell of hot dust and bodies thins, giving way to cool stone and the faint, wet tang of the cisterns below. By the time you reach the lower level, the light has changed. It’s not the hard white of the courtyard or throne room anymore but the softened, filtered glow of torches reflecting off damp walls. Your skin still feels too hot, but at least the air isn’t trying quite so aggressively to sear your lungs.

You dismiss your guards at the last turning.

“There are men posted at the main cistern,” you tell them, keeping your tone even. “And half the kitchens down here. I’ll hardly be alone.”

They exchange a look. The older opens his mouth. You pin him with a stare that has cowed riverlords twice his age.

“Stay at the stairs,” you tell them. “If I scream, come running. Otherwise, enjoy the blessed lack of sun on your armour.”

Reluctance wars with obedience. Obedience wins.

They take up a position where the corridor becomes a stair, clanking softly into place. You leave them there and follow the cooler draft, the sound of dripping water, the hollow echo of space.

The cistern is a long, vaulted hall of arches and shadow, the ceiling low enough that even you feel the weight of it. Pillars rise out of black water, thick and damp, banded with mineral stains where the level has risen and fallen over the years. Channels cut into the floor carry ladles and buckets of water away toward the kitchens and bathhouses. The air here is still and cool, heavy with the smell of stone and old, clean damp.

It feels, for the first time all day, like you can breathe.

You find a niche between two massive pillars, where a flight of shallow steps leads from the walkway down to the water’s lip. The stone at your back is moist and cool; when you press your palms flat against it, you can feel the deep, slow heart of the hill beneath your fingers. You slide down until you’re sitting with your knees drawn up, skirt pooling around you in a damp-edged cloud. There is a pitcher and dipper left on a nearby shelf, forgotten by some kitchen-boy too harried to remember his tools. You reach for it with fingers that tremble more than you’d like to admit. The clay is cool. Blessedly, wonderfully cool.

You pour carefully. The water is dark as iron in the dim light, but it sings over the clay lip with such a sweet, clean sound you could almost weep.

You wet your wrists first, because you remember some long-ago maester muttering about pulse points and cooling the blood. The shock drags a soft sound from you—half sigh, half strangled sob. You tip the dipper again, let a thin stream trickle over the inside of your elbow, the bend of your knee where the muslin has clung and rubbed all morning. Little runnels carve through the dust on your skin, the sweat. Each drop feels like a small absolution.

You hesitate only a heartbeat before lifting the dipper higher.

The first splash along your throat is almost painful. The second, lower, over the shallow dip at the base of your neck, sends a shudder through you that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with contrast. Heat and water. Parched and quenched.

The muslin of your gown darkens where the water soaks it. Fine cloth goes nearly translucent when wet, clinging more stubbornly to the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulders, the shape of your ribs. If you were in the great hall, you’d die before allowing it. Here, under the earth, with no one but stone and water and your own fraying temper, you do not care.

You’re on the verge of something. You can feel it.

Not just a storm of temper, though that hums under your skin. Not just tears, though your eyes burn, irritated and dry from too much light, too much heat, too much everything. Something else. A crack running down through all the duty and composure and careful northern distance you’ve wrapped around yourself since you arrived. As if the long summer has found a seam in you and is prying with slow, ruthless fingers.

You lean your head back against the pillar. Close your eyes.

You see, as you always do when it is quiet enough, the godswood pool at Winterfell, black and still and cold as old iron. You imagine, just for a moment, slipping under, letting the water close over you, all noise and heat washed away. When you breathe in, the air smells not of incense or tallow or too many bodies but of damp earth, old leaves, wolf and wet stone.

Your jaw clenches. Your fingers tighten hard around the dipper. You are so tired of pretending that this city sits easily on your shoulders. So tired of the sun pressing, pressing, pressing. Your hand shakes. Water spills, runs down your wrist, your forearm, dripping from your elbow in frantic little beads. You suck in a breath that scrapes at the back of your throat—

And feel, before you hear, that you are not alone.

It’s the faintest disruption in the air. A shift of weight on the stone. A breath that isn’t yours, drawn in and held.

Your eyes snap open.

He stands at the top of the shallow steps, half in shadow, half in the fainter torchlight from the walkway.

Baelor.

For a heartbeat, he looks less like a crown prince and more like a man who has wandered into the wrong part of a dream.

The heat of the day has not spared him. Stripped of courtly layers, he looks almost younger, more dangerous. His shirt is linen, light and loose at the throat, darkened in a wide V where sweat has soaked through at his chest. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms corded with old, familiar muscle, dusted with dark hair. There’s a faint dampness at his temples, threads of silver catching what light there is. He has left the Hand’s pin behind; there’s no emblazoned surcoat, no jewelled dragon snarling from his chest.

Without all that, the sheer physicality of him hits harder. Broad shoulders. Long legs braced on the stone. The line of his powerful throat, the hollow at its base currently working around a swallow that looks almost as if it hurts.

His eyes are on you.

On your damp, clinging gown. On the water beading along your collarbone. On the way you’re half-collapsed against the pillar, muslin plastered to the long line of your body, hair coming loose from its pins in messy, damp strands.

You think—wildly—that he looks as if he’s just been struck.

“Your Highness,” you manage.

Your voice sounds wrecked, roughened by heat and the small, private noises you have been making as cold water met overheated skin. You hear every shred of rawness in it. So does he. His fingers flex at his sides, a tiny, betraying movement.

“Lady Stark.” He says your title like he’s reminding himself of it. His voice is lower than usual, hoarser, as if the heat has burned through his practised court tones along with everything else. “I—”

He breaks off. You can see him sort, in real time, through at least three different sentences. Prince. Hand. Man.

“In the habit,” he tries again after a fraction, “of bathing fully clothed in the royal cisterns?”

It’s an attempt at levity. It lands crooked between you. There’s an edge in it. Not mockery. Something closer to disbelief.

You glance down at yourself. At your soaked front, muslin clinging like a second skin from throat to midriff, the faint outline of your stays underneath. Heat that has nothing to do with the air surges up your neck and into your face.

“Oh, good,” you say faintly. “We’ve reached the part of the day where I die of shame. I was wondering when that would arrive.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—helpless, startled, as if the reflex to be amused by you is stronger than whatever else is currently choking him. His fingers flex again. Baelor takes the last few steps down toward you, slow, careful, like he’s approaching a skittish animal or the edge of a cliff.

“I didn’t mean— I was looking for the master of cisterns.” His gaze flits briefly to the black water, to the forgotten dipper in your tight-knuckled hand, then back to your face. “The steward swore we were losing half our supply to some cracked channel. I… was not expecting to find you instead.”

“You and me both.” The pillar is cool at your back. Your skin feels feverish where your wet gown clings. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t plan on collapsing in a heap underground dressed like a drowned chicken. It just… happened.”

He stops a pace away. Close enough that you can see the pulse beating, steady and a little fast, at the side of his throat.

“You look far from collapsed,” he says quietly.

You don’t. You look undone. There’s a difference. He sees it. You see him see it.

He has seen you composed in council, answering the king without flinching. He has seen you on his arm in the great hall, under a hundred eyes, your back straight and your expression carved in good northern stone. He has heard you speak in the courtyard with your spine resting against cool pillars and your words cutting quietly to the bone.

He has not seen you like this.

Muslin plastered to your skin, hair damp and rebellious, eyes hot and a little wild. Breathing too shallow. The careful Stark mask stripped away by a foe no sword can cut—just relentless, suffocating heat.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The cistern’s distant drip-counting fills the silence. A drop hits the surface of the water somewhere out in the dark with a soft plop that echoes like a heartbeat.

Then Baelor moves. Not away. Not back. Forward, into your orbit, as if he’s been caught by some gravity he hadn’t realised was there until now.

He reaches for the pitcher.

His hand closes over yours for a heartbeat around the clay handle—cooler than you expected, calloused, sure. The contact is a jolt straight up your arm. You don’t know if he feels it too until you see the way his jaw tightens, the quick flare of his nostrils as he pulls in a breath.

“Allow me,” he says.

There is a note in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not command, though he could command half the realm with those same syllables; not princely politeness, either. Something stripped down past both. Bare.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

The words are quiet, but they land heavily between you.

He eases the pitcher out of your fingers with deliberate care, as if he’s afraid you’ll bolt or shatter if he moves too fast. He kneels—kneels, and the sight goes clean through you—on the step below you, linen pulling taut over his strong thighs, the damp edges of his cuffs dark against his forearms. The crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms, hand of the king, lowering himself to your feet in a pool of deep, cool shadow.

You stare at him, a little stunned.

“Is this…” your voice scrapes, “…part of your inspection, too, Your Highness? ‘Have the cisterns cracked? Are the wolves melting?’”

That pulls the faintest huff of amusement from him, ghost of a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it softens something there.

“Consider it… an act of selfishness,” he murmurs, eyes fixed now on the water as he pours. “The realm would never forgive me if I let the heir of Winterfell simply… evaporate.”

“You’re very concerned about my state of matter.” Your words wobble only a little. “First turnips, now this.”

Baelor glances up at that, and this time the smile does reach his eyes, a flicker of heat in both the pale and dark irises.

“I find,” he says, almost conversationally, “that I am very concerned with your state, my lady.”

The honesty in it knocks the breath out of you more efficiently than the heat ever could. Baelor doesn’t give either of you time to dwell on it. He sets the pitcher down, dips his broad hand into the water, and brings it up cupped and dripping.

“Give me your hands,” he says.

It’s more request than order. It still lands like the latter. You swallow and do as he says, lifting your hands from where they’ve curled in your lap. His fingers close around your wrists—not tight, but firm enough that you feel the steady strength in them, the quiet, absolute control there. You have seen him hold a spear with those hands, seen the calluses and the scars that map out years of obedience to duty. Now that same grip cradles your hands in place while cold water trails over your pulse.

Baelor drags his wet palm along the delicate knob of bone at the inner wrist, over the cords of tendon and vein, up into the hollow where hand meets forearm. Slowly. Thoroughly. As if he has all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a single heartbeat.

The cold bites. Your fingers twitch.

“Breathe,” he urges softly. “In. Out. Slowly.”

You realise, dimly, that you’ve been holding your breath since he knelt. You obey, because it’s easier than not. The air, still cool by comparison, fills your lungs. Your ribs hitch once and settle around it. He repeats the process on the other hand. Each pass of his palm seems to draw some of the frantic heat from you, siphoning it off into the chilly water on his skin.

“Maesters say,” he offers lightly, as if this is merely conversation, as if he is not kneeling between your knees with his hands on your body, “that cooling the blood at the wrists and throat helps in this sort of weather.”

“Yes, well,” you manage, “maesters also think lemon cakes are a good breakfast. Their judgment is suspect.”

Baelor huffs something like a laugh. You feel it where his fingers rest on your skin more than you hear it.

“Lift your chin,” he says.

You hesitate. He waits. Slowly, you tilt your head back against the pillar, exposing the arch of your throat. The air moves over damp skin; the difference is infinitesimal and immense. You feel raw. Offered. As if every inch of you is suddenly a question you are too hot and too tired to tuck away.

Baelor gazes, just for a heartbeat.

You see his gaze track the line of your neck, the hollow at its base. You see the muscle in his jaw jump, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. The way his hand, hovering for a moment above your skin, flexes like he’s having to remind it of what, precisely, it’s allowed to do.

Then he presses his palm to your throat.

His skin is damp and cool; his fingers span from just under your jaw to the edge of your collarbone. The contrast is vicious. You make a sound you don’t recognise, somewhere between a gasp and a whine, teeth catching on your lower lip.

“Sorry,” he says at once.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe. “Stop.”

Something dark and bright flares in his eyes at that. The hand at your throat stills, then moves with exquisite care, sliding down a fraction, spreading the chill along the tendons, the fragile barrel of your windpipe, the beat of your pulse.

“Better?” he questions quietly.

You nod, because words feel unreliable. His thumb rests just to the side of your artery, not pressing, just feeling. You are acutely, painfully aware of how fast your heart is pounding under that patient touch. His other hand finds the edge of your damp hair, where it sticks in curling strands to the back of your neck. He cups water and smooths it along the nape, fingertips grazing over the fine hairs there. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with temperature.

“You were right,” you murmur, because for some reason this seems important to say. “The walls are shouting. I can’t… hear my thoughts over them.”

He remembers that conversation. You can tell by the flicker of recognition in his gaze, by the way his mouth softens, pulling the severity from its line.

“Then we shall let the stone do some of the shouting for you,” he says. “You can be quiet for once.”

You snort, which turns into a half-hysterical laugh because everything is too close to the edge.

“My father would be thrilled,” you shoot back. “I think he’s been praying for that miracle since I learned to talk.”

Baelor’s eyes crease faintly at the corners.

“I doubt that very much,” he replies. “The North knows the value of a voice that doesn’t flinch.” His thumb moves, a bare sweep against your pulse. “I’ve been… grateful for it.”

There’s that word again. Grateful. As if your existence in his overheated, overburdened orbit is some kind of relief he didn’t expect to find. He doesn’t say the rest of it aloud. He doesn’t have to. You see it in the way Baelor’s gaze roams, just once, more freely than he usually allows himself: over the damp line of your cheek where a stray droplet has escaped, down the column of your throat, across the way the wet muslin clings to your sternum. It’s not a hungry look, not exactly. It’s… startled. Reverent. As if some part of him, long starved, is aware that it has, quite without warning, been sat down in front of a feast.

“This is foolish,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“The heat?” you ask. Your lips feel slow around the words.

“Among other things.”

He draws his hand away from your throat, leaving a cold imprint behind that throbs with the echo of his touch. For a moment, you think he’s going to stand, put a safe, polite distance between you, cloak himself back in Hand and heir and duty. 

Instead, he dips his hand back into the pitcher, then reaches lower.

Your breath stalls.

He hesitates for the first time, fingers hovering near your bare ankle where your muslin has hiked up when you slid down the pillar. Your slippers have long since been toed off; your feet are pressed flat to the cool stone step, toes curling reflexively against it.

“May I?” he asks.

The question is ridiculously formal for what he’s actually asking: whether he can touch a part of you no one has any business thinking about, let alone a crown prince on his knees in a cistern.

You should say no.

You should remember all the reasons this is wrong. That you are here as your father’s heir, a piece on the board. That he is the king’s eldest son, his father’s finest work, the one who has been taught since boyhood that duty comes before desire, every time. That the heat is making you foolish.

You don’t.

“Yes,” you hear yourself say. The word comes out rough. “Please.”

His eyes darken at that. There is something almost feral in the way his fingers curl, as if that single syllable has loosed a chain he’s been winding tight around himself for years. Baelor cups your heel in his palm, large hand swallowing the fragile bones easily, and draws it gently forward until your calf rests along his thigh, the sole of your foot braced against his hip. It is a scandalous intimacy, one that would make the court scream itself hoarse if they saw it. Here, under stone and shadow and water, it feels like the only thing in the world that makes sense.

He runs his wet fingers along the arch of your foot, over the sensitive skin there, then up over your ankle bone, tracing the delicate joint slowly, firmly. Cold water tracks his path. You shudder helplessly, fingers digging into the stone at your sides.

“Sorry,” he says again, though he doesn’t stop.

“You keep saying that,” you grit out. “And yet.”

“And yet,” he echoes softly.

Baelor slides his hand higher, skimming over the curve of your calf, spreading chill along overheated skin. Your knee falls a fraction more open, not entirely of your own volition. His gaze flickers there for a heartbeat, then back to your face, as if he’s reminding himself that he’s here to tend, not to take.

He swallows. You see his throat work, the small clench of muscle in his jaw.

“This summer,” he says quietly, as if talking will keep him steady, “has the smallfolk muttering that it will last into my grandchildren’s time. That Maekar will grow old under the same sun that saw him born.”

“Optimistic of them to assume you’ll let him live that long,” you say through your teeth, because humour is the only blade you have left to hold. “You looked ready to throttle him last night over supper.”

The flash in his gaze at the mention of his brother is brief and complicated—fondness knotted with exasperation and something else entirely when he glances up at you.

“I wouldn’t throttle him,” Baelor says. “There are more… creative ways to make a younger brother suffer.”

“Like arranging his betrothals for him?” you mutter.

His hand tightens, just a fraction, midway up your calf. Both of you feel it.

“That,” he says, voice suddenly very flat beneath the surface, “would be cruel.”

The word hangs there, shaded by more meaning than the stale, hot air should be able to carry. He exhales, slow. His fingers move again, gentler. You feel him wrestle whatever storm that thought brought with it back down, tamping it into the same deep place where he keeps everything else that doesn’t serve his father’s peace.

“This summer,” he continues, almost as if he hadn’t paused, “has laid the whole city bare. Every crack. Every fault. You see what can’t endure once the comforts are stripped away.”

“And what endures?” you wonder. Your voice is steadier now, the cold burrowing in enough to ease some of the fever.

His gaze finds yours, holds therefor too long.

“You,” he says simply.

It shouldn’t be a declaration. It feels like one.

“This place gnaws at you,” he goes on, tone still low, steady. “It shouts when you need silence. It presses when you need space. And yet here you are, down in its bones, spine against its stone, refusing to be moved.”

“You found me half-melted and swearing at a pitcher,” you point out. “That’s not exactly heroic.”

“Stones crack from heat,” he says. “You bend. There’s a difference.” His thumb makes one last pass along the inside of your ankle, right over the pounding little vein there. “If the gods had meant you for crypts, they would have left you in the snow. They sent you here instead. To my halls. To my—”

Baelor cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut on whatever word had been fighting its way out. His nostrils flare. His hand stills on your skin, fingers pressed white-knuckled to your calf.

You hear the unspoken syllable anyway, loud as if he’d shouted it.

To my side.

To me.

Something in your chest lurches, ugly and glorious all at once.

“Baelor,” you say, and it’s the first time you’ve used his name aloud without title, without the soft cloak of “my Lord Prince” you once offered as a compromise. The sound of it in your mouth feels different down here, bare as your throat under his hand. 

He flinches, just a fraction. The movement is small, but you feel it through the contact of his palm on your skin, the way his shoulders shift.

“That’s irregular,” he says. The words are roughened; the joke doesn’t quite land.

“Nearly everything worth doing is,” you echo him back his own phrase before you can stop yourself.

At that, something gives way behind his eyes.

You see it. The moment he stops fighting quite so hard against the shape of what he wants. The moment some deep, stubborn part of him, forged in fire and duty, in Blackfyre blood and the weight of a realm, simply… accepts a truth that’s been stalking the edges of his mind since you first walked at his side through that roaring, suffocating hall.

This. You.

Damp and furious and half-undone, back pressed to the bones of his ancestors’ fortress, breath stuttering under his hands. Not anything any careful, sensible prince would have gone out looking for. How wonderful, he thinks—wildly, helplessly—that he hadn’t had to. That you were sent to his front door under the safe name of alliance, and he has still managed to trip over the one person who looks at him and sees a man before a crown, who curses his court and still lets him cup cold water to her throat.

His fingers flex on your calf.

Your own hand moves without permission.

You reach down and catch his wet wrist, your smaller fingers wrapping just above the bone. His skin is cooler than yours, but not by much now; some of your heat has leached into him, as his steadiness has leached into you. Slowly, you draw his hand upward, over your knee, back to the solid, pulsing line of your throat.

Baelor’s breath leaves him in a rough exhale when his palm meets that spot again.

“You said I was on the brink of evaporating.” Your words are soft, but they don’t wobble. “That the realm would never forgive you if you let me. So don’t let go.”

It’s an outrageous thing to say to a man who has spent his entire life being asked to do nothing but let go—of his wants, his comforts, his sleep, any small, selfish yearning that doesn’t serve seven kingdoms.

He doesn’t.

Baelor’s hand cradles your throat more fully this time, thumb resting in the hollow under your jaw, fingers spread along the sides. Not choking. Just… holding. Feeling. Claiming, in a way that no one in the hall above would ever understand, because there is no politeness in it, no calculation. Only this: the quiet, feral decision not to step back. His eyes search your face like he’s afraid he’s misunderstood, that any second now you’ll come to your senses and flinch away.

You don’t.

You lean into his touch, just enough that your jaw settles more firmly against his palm. Your lips part on a shiver of a breath. Your eyes are fever-bright, pupils wide in the dim.

“Careful, Your Highness,” you whisper. “People will say you’re staring.”

“Let them,” he answers, and this time there’s no courtly smoothness left at all. Just a low, dangerous certainty.

Baelor looks at you like a man who has been lost in the desert for years and has finally staggered into shade and water. His thumb swipes once, very gently, along the edge of your lower lip where a drop of water has gathered without either of you noticing. The touch is so light it might as well be imagined, but your whole body clenches around it like a fist.

He is inches away from you. Inches from disaster. From salvation. From something that would alter the shape of both your lives more than any war.

His gaze drops, inevitably, to your mouth. You feel, very clearly, the moment his control frays.

It’s in the way his hand tightens just slightly at your throat, the way his shoulders hunch as if against a blow, the way his own lips part, breath ghosting hot across your face. You don’t move. You could. You could tilt your chin that last, lethal angle up. You could close the distance and let whatever this is devour you both.

You don’t.

Not because you don’t want to. Gods, you want. The want that has been building under your ribs since that first quiet walk through the hall rears up now, a wolf made of hunger and heat and the memory of his careful hand at your waist. You don’t move because you feel, under your palm on his wrist, the way his pulse stutters and then steadies, the way he pulls, from somewhere deep, a last, fraying length of restraint.

Baelor exhales slowly. His eyes close for a heartbeat. When they open again, they are still dark, still burning, but something has resettled behind them. Not denial. Not dismissal. A decision. To want, and to live with wanting, and not—yet—destroy the world that hangs on his shoulders for the sake of one kiss in a cistern.

“Lady Stark,” he says, and the title sounds, in this moment, less like distance and more like a vow.

His hand eases from your throat, one finger at a time, as if prying himself loose from something that has grown around him of its own accord. The air rushes in, hot and heavy, but you can still feel the ghost of his touch, a cold brand over the frantic beat in your neck.

He presses his wet palm briefly to your brow, like a benediction, smoothing a few limp strands of hair away. When he draws back, the air feels emptier than it has any right to.

“I’ll have more water brought down,” he says promptly. The prince is creeping back into his posture, into his words, but the man hasn’t gone; you can hear him under every syllable. “And someone will find fans and ice, if there’s any to spare from my father’s solar. You’ll stay down here until the worst of the heat has burned itself out.”

“Ordering me about, Your Highness?” you rasp, because if you don’t say something sharp your throat will close on everything else.

“Indulge me,” he returns quietly, repeating the words he once used when he asked to see you safely to your chambers. “Consider it a selfish request, again. I find I… prefer you solid.”

You huff a sound that’s very nearly a laugh. It comes out shaky. He looks at you as if the sound is a treasure he intends to count later, somewhere quiet, where no one can take it from him. Baelor stands at last, movements slower than they need to be, as if his joints have to remember how stairs work now that they’ve learned how kneeling feels. For a moment, his hand hovers as if he might reach to steady you as you shift, then he seems to think better of it and curls his fingers into a fist at his side.

“I should go,” he says. “If my father notices the Hand has disappeared, he’ll assume I’ve been assassinated and call a council. You don’t wish to be responsible for that noise.”

“You say that as if I’m not half-tempted,” you mutter.

The smile that flashes across his face at that is quick and almost boyish, shattering the last of the oppressive weight between you for one brief, glorious breath.

“No more talking,” you add, closing your eyes again and letting your head rest back against the stone. “Go. Before I drag you into the water just to see if it shuts you up.”

He laughs. Properly. The sound rolls through the cistern, low and disbelieving.

“As my lady commands,” he says.

His footsteps retreat up the stairs, each soft thud a small wrench in your chest. At the top, he pauses. You don’t open your eyes; you feel him looking back all the same.

“Try,” Baelor speaks into the dark, “not to dream too kindly of our heat.”

Your lips quirk. “I shall do my best,” you murmur. “Though I make no promises about the ice.”

He makes a strangled sound that might be another laugh, might be something else entirely, and then he’s gone, leaving only the cool stone at your back, the ache of his fingerprints along your throat and calf, and the knowledge, sudden and enormous, that whatever lay between duty and desire in both your lives has just shifted.

You ride just behind your father and the banner, framed on either side by Stark men-at-arms. For a moment, he thinks someone has thrown a bolt of northern sky into the procession—your cloak is that particular grey, the colour of clouds over Winterfell in the stories, softened at the neck by a collar of pale fur that looks like snow caught in moonlight. You sit on a rangy, grey gelding as if you were grown there. No decorative side-saddle nonsense, no squire with a leading rein. Your hands are easy on the leather, fingers relaxed, letting the horse pick its way through the churned mud and old straw of the yard. The beast tosses its head once at a shouted order from a gold cloak; you answer with a shift of your weight and a soft word—he can’t hear it, but the horse does. It settles at once, huffing once.

You look up as you pass under the shadow of the gatehouse.

Not in wide-eyed awe. Not in the sly, assessing way some lords do, tallying where the murder-holes are, how many guards stand within arrow range. You look like a woman standing in the doorway of someone else’s hall for the first time—cataloguing, weighing, perhaps already rearranging it in your mind.

Your gaze travels along the inner curtain wall, lingers a fraction on the height of the towers, the angle of the arrow slits, the thickness of the gate. Then it moves past, toward the sprawl of the city beyond. The roofs tumbling down to the glitter of the river, the smoke from a dozen chimneys, the faint haze where the Street of Steel always works. The horse shifts under you as the host checks and bunches. You post lightly, knees bending, body moving with the animal’s balance without seeming to think about it. Your cloak, caught by the same wind that whipped your banner, flares open just enough for him to see the Hardened leather and wool beneath: riding gear, well-used but well-kept, a far cry from the jewelled cages southern ladies wear.

Maekar, braced beside him on the parapet, snorts. “Another wolf in the dragon’s den,” he remarks dryly. “Do you think Father will start a menagerie?”

Baelor makes a quiet, noncommittal sound. His eyes don’t leave you.

Below, the herald’s voice booms out, solemn by long practice. “Lord Barthogan Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, come to answer the summons of King Daeron, Second of His Name—”

Barthogan swings down from his saddle with more grace than a man that size should have. He is as expected: broad-shouldered, plain-faced, hair gone iron at the temples, eyes like chips of winter sky. He passes his reins to a waiting squire with a grunt and turns toward the inner yard.

You dismount a heartbeat later.

You don’t wait for someone to help you down. You swing your leg over, drop lightly, boots landing sure on the cobbles despite the churned mess. You release the reins and the horse stands, blowing, as if you’ve already trained it not to fidget.

For the first time, he sees your face straight on.

You are not beautiful the way southern songs mean it. No rose-petal softness, no doll-precise prettiness. There is too much structure in your bones—jaw a touch too firm, nose a fraction too strong, mouth too ready to harden. Your eyes, though—those are striking. Piercing and steady and very, very awake, taking in the courtyard, the dragons on the banners, the gold cloaks, the stone.

You stand there amid the heat and noise and smell of King’s Landing, and you do not look impressed.

You look… braced.

Something curls low in Baelor’s chest, weirdly satisfying.

The Hand in him notes the rest: the way you stand slightly to your father’s left but not behind him, your hand near but not on the hilt of the knife at your belt, the way the Stark men glance to you as often as they do to their lord. The man in him, annoyingly, notices the curve of your mouth, the smudge of dust on the hem of your cloak, the way a stray lock of hair has escaped your knot and frames the curve of your temple.

Baelor tells himself it’s simply that you are new and unfamiliar. New pieces always draw the eye on a board you’ve been staring at too long.

He holds onto that for as long as he can.

—

He sees you everywhere and nowhere for the first week.

In the throne room, standing at Barthogan’s shoulder as Daeron formally receives you both. You move with the measured economy of someone who hates being watched but refuses to show it. When the king asks after your journey, your answer is short and dry, and Baelor feels a pulse of wholly inappropriate amusement when you say, “Long, Your Grace. But the road did not bite,” as if you’d half expected it to.

In council, where you sit behind your father instead of at the table. Many heirs chafe at that distance; you seem to use it. You watch the map, not the men. When the talk turns to northern grain levies and shipping, you lean in to murmur something to Barthogan. The old wolf relays it without claiming it as his own.

“My daughter notes, Your Grace,” he broaches gruffly, “that if the ice comes early, the east branch of the White Knife will harden first. If the southern ports want their grain, best get it moving before then.”

Daeron’s gaze flicks to you. So does Baelor’s. You do not preen. You simply incline your head once, as if acknowledging a weather report, and look back at the map.

In the training yard, you appear one morning in the shade of the colonnade as he is running a spear drill with Ser Robyn of the Kingsguard. The sun is already high, heat beating down on sand and stone. Baelor feels it sliding over his bare forearms, soaking his linen, tugging sweat down his spine. The spear sits comfortably in his hands; his world has narrowed to weighted wood, the timing of his breath, the subtle readjustments of his boots as he circles his opponent.

Then, at the edge of his perception, he feels your gaze.

He catches you on a turn. A figure in grey lingering in shadow, hands folded, face intent. You are not dabbing yourself with a scented cloth like one of the court ladies, not whispering behind a fan. You’re watching the lines of the movement—feet, shoulders, the angle of his hips when he lunges. When Baelor lands a light, clean tap to Ser Robyn’s pauldron, turning the thrust at the last moment so it whistles past the knight’s throat instead of taking it, you… nod. Once. To yourself. As if a small question has been answered satisfactorily.

When he looks up fully, intending to incline his head as courtesy demands, you are already gone.

He spends the rest of the morning annoyed at how aware of the empty archway he remains.

He sees you again in the godswood-that-isn’t, the little grove Daeron had insisted on within the Red Keep’s walls to soothe northern pride. The thin-blooded weirwood’s bark is pale but its face is uncarved; its red leaves whisper faintly over the trickle of a fountain. You sit with your back against the young tree, eyes closed, hands resting palm-up on your knees. The city noise comes here only as a muted rumble; the air smells of damp earth and leaf-mould, a strange, cool pocket in the middle of all this heat and brick.

For a moment, you look almost… at home.

He leaves you there. Whatever prayers are being said between north and old gods, they’re not for a dragon’s ears.

Baelor tells himself he is paying attention because it is his duty to know every major lord’s heir, to take the measure of those he may one day need as allies—or must face as enemies. He would believe himself more easily if his heart did not give that faint, treacherous jump of recognition every time he glimpsed wolf-grey at the edge of his vision.

—

The night of the feast, the Keep feels about three degrees shy of the hells.

Heat pools under the rafters and hangs there, trapped by banners and carved beams. The torches spit greasy light; the hearths roil, roasting meat and men alike. Sweat glosses the back of Baelor’s neck under his collar, trickles between his shoulder blades under good red cloth.

The hall is a blur of movement and noise: lords and ladies in their house colours, servants weaving through with brimming platters, minstrels elbowing one another for space by the musicians’ dais. The smells are thick and layered—roasted boar, herbs, wine, perfume, smoke, that inevitable edge of bodies pressed too close for too long.

Baelor sits in his place at the king’s right and does his work.

He listens to grievances and flatteries, offers measured words where they will do the most good, and lets the rest drift by on the stream of talk. His cup refills itself when he isn’t looking. His plate is never empty, though he rarely tastes more than a bite or two. He keeps his back straight, his face composed, his attention moving.

He does not look for you.

He knows where you are. The pattern has already written itself in his head. When you’re here, you gravitate toward the outer edges. Close enough to your father to be proper, near enough to a door or a wall to make the chaos of the hall bearable. Wolves like walls, he thinks, mildly dazed by the thought. So do dragons, when they are not being watched. He catches glimpses of you in the press: a strip of grey at the edge of his vision, the line of your throat when you tip your head back to drain a cup, the way you fold your hands to keep from fidgeting when the talk swells too loud.

Baelor wonders, idly and then not-so-idly, what you sound like when you’re not weighing every word before you speak it.

He gets his answer later than he expects.

The crowd after the feast is worse than the feast itself.

The corridor outside the throne room is choked with people spilling out—bright cloth and heavier bodies funnelled through stone that was never meant for this much finery. Torches gutter in the narrower space, making the air thick. The stone at Baelor’s back radiates the day’s heat; breaths puff within inches of his face as he moves. He steps into that crowd the way he always does. A prince’s pace, steady and unhurried, shoulders level, eyes ahead. People see him, recognise him, part without even thinking about it, their bodies already trained to shift for the crown.

Halfway down the corridor, something prickles the back of his neck. A wrong note in the hum. A small, soft sound cut short. He glances sideways.

You are pinned against the red stone, halfway between pillars, the tide of silk and metal pressing past. A lady’s jewelled sleeve has hooked somehow into the embroidery at your wrist; a knight’s gilded shoulderbell cuts off your angle to step around. Someone’s cloak has swung wide and boxed you in. Every time you try to edge sideways, the current of bodies shoves you back. Your jaw is tight. Your eyes are narrowed, calculating, a wolf fighting not to bare her teeth. There is no panic in your face, but your breath looks caught high in your chest, your hand flexing once at your side as if measuring the wisdom of elbowing someone very important in the ribs.

The corridor surges as the great doors boom again behind, spilling another wave of guests.

Baelor does not think. He moves.

The dragon-walk comes back to him like instinct—spine straight, stride unbroken, gaze unfaltering. The crowd yields a fraction even before people register who he is; when they do, it yields more. He comes up behind you in the thick of it and reaches. His hand finds the curve of your elbow first. Your skin is warm through cloth; the bone under his fingers feels solid and fine. You start—he feels the little jerk of surprise—but you don’t jerk away. There isn’t room.

He doesn’t stop there.

His hand slides down, fingers skimming the seam of your sleeve, his palm mapping the outer curve of your arm, the flare of your hip, like a man tracing a known route in reverse.

It settles at your waist. Not a rough grip. Not a snatch. A sure, decisive claim.

His palm spans the narrowest part of you, fingers finding the line between your ribs and your hip, thumb resting along the seam of your gown. He squeezes once, very lightly, to say: here I am, here you go. You fit against his front for one brief, burning heartbeat—your back almost but not quite touching his chest, the heat of you a distinct, living thing in this boiling crowd.

Baelor steps forward.

You move with him.

The corridor opens as if cut.

Men glance back, see the crown prince, and flatten themselves to the wall, pulling companions with them. Ladies draw silk skirts in, fans snapping closed as they turn to create space. Someone actually bows, nearly headbutting another man’s shoulder in the process.

Baelor is aware of all of it and none of it. The whole of his attention, embarrassingly, has narrowed to the feel of you under his hand.

The slight stiffness in your muscles at first, as your body prepares to fend off another shove. The moment that stiffness eases when you register who holds you. The way your steps adjust to his stride without faltering, the two of you falling into a shared rhythm as if you had done this a dozen times before instead of never. You smell of smoke and wool and something faint and clean underneath, like cold air left on clothes too long. His own scent—steel, leather, a trace of wine—closes around you in that tiny pocket of space his body buys in the crush.

Baelor should not notice these things.

His dragon blood, in its unhelpful way, notices everything. It flares up in him, not all heat this time, but a heavy, possessive satisfaction at the way the crowd bends around you when you are in his orbit. Mine, it hums, disquietingly pleased. Under my hand, under my protection.

He tightens his grip infinitesimally as someone stumbles near, using that as an excuse to keep his palm right where it is.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he murmurs, his mouth close enough to your ear that his breath stirs the small hairs at your nape. “There’s more room this way.”

Your pulse flutters under his palm. Baelor tells himself it’s just the press, the heat, the surprise. He does not let himself imagine it’s anything else. By the time his thoughts catch up with his body, he has already steered you through the worst of the crush and into the side gallery.

The air changes like a dropped curtain.

The roar of the corridor falls to a muffled roar behind. The stone here is cooler, the torches fewer. Ahead, the archway opens onto a balcony overlooking the dark sweep of Blackwater Bay. Night pours in through the open arches. Salt-cool wind slides through heated hair, brushing damp skin, carrying the far-off slap of water against stone and the distant creak of ships at anchor.

He lets his hand fall away. For a breath, Baelor feels the echo of your shape in his palm as strongly as if you were still there. The absence of your warmth hits like stepping out of a bath into cold air. He takes a half step back and inclines his head, something in him scrambling for the familiar brace of formality.

“My apologies,” he says. His voice sounds a touch rough to his own ears. “The crowd was… overzealous.”

You stand there for a moment, breathing a little deeper now that you have space. Your gown is slightly skewed at the waist where his hand had settled; your fingers smooth it down automatically. There’s still an unease to be found in your expression from the crowd and the heat, but your eyes are clear, cutting.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you manage. “I was managing well enough.”

Baelor’s mouth quirks before he can help it. “Were you?”

You face him squarely, chin set, refusing to be cowed. You are stern in the torchlight, eyes unblinking and sharp as wet stone. The wolf in your banner is there in your jaw, in the way you refuse to yield ground even after being scraped along a wall. He has been looked at a thousand ways in this castle: hungrily, fearfully, calculatingly. You look at him like a problem you intend to solve and a storm you intend to outlast.

He likes the mixture far too much.

Later, when he tries to trace the exact moment it started, he keeps coming back to the feel of your waist in his hand.

Not the sight of you—though that had lodged under his skin from the first: a wolf in grey riding through a red-stone gate as if it had no teeth worth fearing. Not even your voice, dry and precise in council, cutting straight to the bone of a problem others had worried at for an hour. It is that half-breath in the corridor. Crushed bodies, hot torch-smoke, the slam of the great doors, a brief flash of your face gone tight as you’re pressed back against the wall. And then his hand sliding down your arm, fingers closing around the narrow span of you, palm finding your waist.

Only later does Baelor notice all the other things.

How your back was nearly to his chest for that one heartbeat, almost resting against the solid warmth of him as the crowd heaved. How you braced, then adjusted—spine straightening, balance shifting to match his stride so you didn’t stumble as he steered you out of the worst of it. How you didn’t clutch at him or go limp, just… moved with him. The way your breath fluttered under his palm. The way some deep, restless part of him went quiet at the shape of you fitting there, as if a piece had finally clicked into a place he hadn’t realised was empty.

He gets you to the gallery before he has time to be embarrassed by how reluctant he is to let go.

He speaks because he must; it’s either that or stare at the place his hand was, like a fool. Apology, a little tease, something light to put your hackles down. But under the practised cadence of polite words, he’s watching you with a different eye.

When you say you’re not used to so many people, that Winterfell is quieter, there is a note beneath it he recognises instantly and painfully: the ache of someone far from the shape of their own sky. Baelor nudges, prods, half out of duty—he needs to know what kind of steel the North is sending south—and half out of something more selfish. He wants to hear you speak of home. You give him snows over men’s heads, wolves sized by drink and memory, forests where the monsters often walk on two legs, not four. You give him Winterfell’s silence: a good quiet, you call it, so you can hear your own thoughts. Here, you say, they drown before you have them.

Something catches on that word. Drown. He feels it snag in his chest. Baelor knows what it is to stand in a hall so loud with other people’s wants that his own thoughts feel like pebbles dropped into a flood. When he tells you your thoughts won’t drown—that they’ll learn to swim, that people will have to listen—he hears the weight in his own voice. Hears how badly he wants that to be true, not just for you but for himself.

As you walk back together into the noise, his interest doesn’t ease; it seems to accumulate.

Every time you choose honesty over flattery, even when it makes you wince. Every small, revealing admission—yes, you’re homesick; yes, it’s loud and hot and too much; yes, you’re trying very hard not to be foolish about the chance you’ve been given. Every time you look at him and clearly see more than his titles.

Baelor tells you, almost idly, what King’s Landing feels like to him: a room where everyone shouts in a language he learned late. The confession slips out more easily than it should. He rarely offers people that kind of truth; here, in this cramped corridor with your hand steady on his arm, it feels… possible.

You admit you know something of being two things at once. Stark and heir. Daughter and… placeholder and future both. You miss making mistakes where fewer people see. He wants to laugh when he tells you they’re all still making mistakes, just better at pretending they’re plans. The sound that comes out of him is lighter than it has any right to be, warmed by your prim little “that sounds very southern,” by the way your mouth fights a smile and loses.

By the time you reach your door, his interest is no longer a neat, assessable thing. It’s messy, layered, physical and not. He is aware of your hand on his sleeve, of the faint tug of fabric against his skin every time your fingers adjust. He is also aware that you’ve given him, in a single walk, more plain truth than half the lords who’ve supped at his table this month.

Baelor wants more. More of your iron-tasting honesty. More of your dry little barbs. More of that expression you get when you’re bracing to stand your ground. More chances to see your shoulders ease in his presence, to hear that small huff of almost-laughter that feels like a reward wrung out of the weather.

So he tests the boundary and offers you his name.

Not his title. Not Your Grace or my prince or Hand of the King. Baelor. A sliver of self, risky and bare. He expects you to refuse; you do. Politely and sensibly. You’re too aware of eyes and mouths in this place to take that step after one borrowed quiet. But you offer something in return—a compromise that shouldn’t mean much and somehow means too much.

Good night, my Lord Prince.

It hits with the force of an axe into seasoned wood.

Formal, yes. But there is a warmth braided through it that no one else puts there. You wrap his rank in your recognition of the man who carries it, and the words settle on Baelor’s shoulders like a cloak cut to fit him for once, not his office. He smiles without planning to. Really smiles. He feels younger, dangerous, lighter and more unsettled all at once. You look startled by it, as if you hadn’t expected to be able to pull something so unguarded out of him.

He walks away because he has to. The castle is still hot and loud and full of need. The king will want him; the council will want him; tomorrow the realm will want him again.

Later, in his own chamber, the air still hot and stale even with the window cracked to the night, Baelor lies awake, haunted by recollections behind his eyes.

Your back pressed against the red stone, and his hand on your waist. The way you breathed when the air finally opened. The taste of pine and smoke and rot and roses in your words. The feel of your fingers on his arm. Your voice in the dim corridor: Good night, my Lord Prince.

His interest, Baelor realises, isn’t a passing curiosity. It has teeth. It hooks into him and holds. It is the way the dragon in his blood quiets, just for a moment, when you stand beside him.

He should be thinking of Blackfyre loyalists and border disputes. Of Daeron’s latest negotiation with the Dornish. Of what Storm’s End’s mood will be once Lyonel Baratheon arrives.

Instead, his mind keeps circling back to a brief stretch of corridor, your back almost against his chest, his hand firm on your waist, your breath and his moving in time through a crush that suddenly felt oddly bearable.

Baelor flexes his fingers once against the sheet, remembering the exact curve of you, the way you fit his palm.

Dragon blood, he thinks, disgusted and uneasy in equal measure. It always wants. Fire always wants to devour.

He has spent his life learning how not to burn the things he is meant to protect.

Now he has to add one more thing to that list.

Steam curls from bowls of porridge and thick barley stew, carrying the smell of oats and onions and last night’s bones boiled down to something serviceable. Fresh bread sits between you and your father, dark-crusted, scattering crumbs onto the pale cloth. Salt-cod, glistening in oil, sweats brine onto a silver plate; the tang of it cuts through the heavier smells of grease and smoke. Your own gown itches between your shoulder blades, where the southern wool sits too soft and too close, heat gathering there despite the hour.

Your father eats like a man who trusts his jaw more than his tongue. Slow, methodical, knife rasping against bread in even strokes. He looks as he always does: hair bound back, the grey in it more iron than ash; beard trimmed short enough you can see the battle-scar that cuts across his chin. But his eyes are not on his trencher. They keep skating the room, measuring, counting watchers, cataloguing every angle like he would a battlefield.

“Daeron keeps a closer family table than I expected,” Barthogan says at last, as if he’s commenting on the bread. He saws through a heel, crust cracking under the pressure, crumbs jumping. “Less pomp. More eyes.”

You can feel those eyes. The king’s, weighing you from the high table last night. The queen’s, calm and still as water over deep currents. Baelor’s—

You tear your thought off before it can finish, rip bread into smaller quarters than strictly necessary.

“For counting pieces,” you say, arranging the fragments on your plate in a small, neat pattern. Your fingers are steady. You’re absurdly proud of that.

“For measuring loyalties,” your father corrects, swallowing. He wipes a crumb from his beard with the side of his thumb, the gesture rough, familiar. “Yours. Mine. His sons’.”

“And what did he measure?” you ask.

Your father chews, the working of his jaw slow and heavy, like he’s grinding the question down along with the bread. He swallows. Ale and porridge steam in the air between you; someone laughs too loudly three tables over, a sound with a sharp edge.

“That you don’t scare easily,” he replies at last. “That you don’t simper. That you can talk your way through a question without saying more than you intend.” One corner of his mouth lifts, a reluctant crack in winter ice. “He looked pleased.”

Some knot under your ribs loosens a fraction—only to cinch tight again when your mouth betrays you.

“And Baelor?” you ask, the name out before you can bite it back.

Barthogan’s eyes flick to you, grey and clear as a sky about to harden before snow. “Baelor,” he says slowly, “looked like a man standing on a frozen river and listening for cracks.”

You see it at once: the line of his shoulders last night, the flex of his hand at your waist. The way his gaze had dragged down to your mouth and back, like he’d had to force each muscle to obey. Heat banked under layers of duty and self-control, held tight as a dam in thaw.

“Most men don’t hear the cracks until they’re already in the water,” you murmur, rolling a crumb between thumb and forefinger until it smears.

“Most men aren’t meant to be king,” your father replies.

You don’t answer. The hall feels smaller than it did yesterday, the ceiling lower, the press of voices thicker. Metal scrapes on pottery; somewhere a child squeals and is hushed; a serving boy’s tray rattles as he hurries past. Your gown is suddenly too heavy. The air smells of porridge, smoke, people, and whispered futures.

Dragon and wolf, they think.

You swallow dry bread and pretend you don’t hear them.

—

The training yard is hotter than the hallways, which feels both impossible yet somehow true.

The sun sits high and pitiless above the Red Keep, white glaring light pouring straight down into the open square of the yard. It makes the red stone blaze, turns every strip of metal into a thin, searing line. The sand underfoot has gone cracked and pitted, kicked up into fine dust that hangs in the air and clings to damp skin, to lashes.

Down below, knights move through the heat in rings and pairs, steel flashing. The clang of sword on shield rings sharp enough to make your teeth hum, threads of sound thrown back and forth off the surrounding walls. Squires dart between them with water and spare weapons, tripping over their own too-large boots, earning laughter or curses. The smell of it all rises up: hot metal, old leather, salt-slick skin, the faint tang of oil and horse-sweat. Now and then, a ghost of sea-breeze sneaks over the walls, carrying salt and something faintly rotten from the bay, and is swallowed whole by the stew of heat below.

You stand in the deep band of shadow along an upper gallery, stone cool and solid at your back. Your palms rest lightly on the rough lip of the parapet; grit bites your skin where the stone has crumbled with age. Your hair prickles at the nape of your neck, trapped under southern pins and braids; sweat gathers in the small of your back, a tacky patch where gown and skin protest together.

From here, the yard looks like a game board. Men as pieces. Lines of force running invisibly between them.

Baelor is easy to find.

He’s towards the centre, where the sand looks most churned and treacherous, the colour of ground bone. No embroidered surcoat today. Just a padded gambeson gone darker at the throat and under the arms, sleeves rolled to bare forearms corded with muscle. The leather clings to his shoulders, pulls taut and releases with each shift, mapping out the long, lethal play of his body as he moves. You can see the darker patch on the linen at the back of his neck where water—or sweat—has soaked through.

He’s sparring with three men at once.

No shouts. No grand declarations. Just the steady, relentless rhythm of foot on sand, of sword against sword. His shield moves like a living thing—turning, catching, glancing blows away. He wastes nothing. Every step is measured, every swing designed to do exactly as much as it needs and no more.

You’ve watched boys show off in Winterfell’s yard, trying to impress the kitchen girls and each other. Wild swings, too loud laughter, the dull thunk of steel biting practice shields more by chance than design.

This isn’t that. This is a man who knows exactly how close lines can come to breaking, and exactly how not to let them.

Your heart has migrated somewhere higher than is comfortable, beat throbbing against your collarbones. Every time Baelor pivots, digging a heel into the sand to anchor his weight, you can feel something under your ribs twist in answer.

One of his opponents—a Kingsguard, identifiable by the sweat-stained edge of a white cloak flung back and tied out of the way—feints left, then comes hard at Baelor’s right with a short, vicious stab. The prince meets it without a flicker of alarm, shield snapping up, the impact ringing all the way up into your teeth. Sand kicks up around their boots as they lock together. Strength into strength, shoulders knotted, faces close. Then Baelor adjusts. Not a dramatic turn, just a clever little twist at the waist. His shoulder angles, his hip shifts; his leading foot draws a tight half-circle. The Kingsguard’s balance betrays him by a hair. He stumbles, sand sliding, and finds the blunt point of Baelor’s practice sword at the hollow of his throat.

“Yield,” Baelor orders. Quiet. Certain.

The knight does.

The tension breaks like a wave a moment later—grins, breathless laughter, hands clapping shoulders. Someone says something that makes the Kingsguard roll his eyes and snort. Baelor’s answering smile is quick, small, there and gone. He’s good, you think, fingers digging into stone. Gods, he’s good. And he wears that skill the way he does his title, like a weight he’s used to, not a trinket.

He strides to the water barrel. You track him like prey might track a predator, unable not to.

The barrel’s rim is scuffed pale from years of use; his knuckles brush it as he dips the ladle. Baelor drinks, throat working, jaw flexing under that dark scruff, and then tips the remaining water over his head. It cascades through hair, down the back of his neck, in slender lines along his throat. A droplet clings for a heartbeat at the notch of his collarbone before vanishing into the dark V of his gambeson.

Your grip on the parapet tightens until your knuckles ache.

From below, it’s nothing. A prince drinking in the yard, cooling off. No one pays him more mind than they have to. Knights are catching their breath, squires are wrestling with helmets and straps; the lady in the shade has given up the pretence of not watching and is fanning herself while staring openly.

You feel it, though—the moment Baelor’s gaze lifts and catches on the gallery.

On you.

It hits like a thrown hook that finds purchase on first cast.

Baelor goes still in a way no one but you, watching this closely, would notice. The set of his shoulders changes, just a shade. His mouth softens, not into a smile, not quite, but into something that looks dangerously like acknowledgement. Warmth. Heat slams through you, sudden and total. It rushes into your ears, the world going momentarily fuzzy at the edges. Yard, knights, sun, all receding under the thud of your own pulse. You straighten, because every instinct you have screams at you not to flinch under that look. The stone is firm at your back; you wonder, absurdly, if you’d topple backwards without it.

He hands his sword off to a squire with a few low words, rubs a sleeve over his face, and starts for the archway that leads up towards you. There’s another staircase at the far side of the gallery. You could go. You could slip away ahead of him, disappear into some cool corridor and breathe there until you feel like a person again.

You don’t move.

His footsteps reach you before he does, echoing off the stone ceiling of the covered passage: steady, unhurried, the faint jingle of metal fittings tapping at his side. The air carries his scent a breath before the man himself: clean sweat, worn leather, a ghost of sandalwood and steel. You make yourself watch the yard a heartbeat longer. Two knights circle below, shields up, their swords drawing lazy arcs in the air as they test each other.

Only when his shadow merges with yours on the floor do you let yourself turn.

“Lady Stark,” Baelor greets.

Up this close, his voice has texture—roughened by exertion, by use, low enough that it seems to land more in your chest than your ears.

“My Lord Prince.” You incline your head, grateful you don’t have to attempt a full curtsey on unsteady knees. “You train hard for a man who already outmatches most of his guard.”

Baelor lets out a breath that might be a laugh, shoulders easing a fraction.

“The day I stop training hard,” he informs you ruefully, “is the day one of them stops bowing and starts testing.”

“That sounds very southern,” you answer. “In the North, we throw each other in the snow and settle it with broken noses. Less elegant, but much clearer.”

His mouth curves properly at that, teeth flashing quickly and white in his sweat-damp face. The expression carves younger lines into him, pulls at something loose in you.

“You were watching,” he says.

Not accusing. Not quite teasing. Just… setting the fact between you and seeing what you do with it.

“It’s more interesting than listening to Lord Borrell argue with your steward about how much saltfish counts as a ‘reasonable’ gift, and the view is better.”

For an instant, his brow twitches as if he’s surprised you said it out loud. Then amusement deepens, warm and dangerous.

“Is it?” he murmurs, stepping up beside you. He leaves a decorous handspan of empty space between your bodies, but heat is not that easily fooled; you can feel him like a banked fire at your side. He sets his hands on the stone, fingers splayed, knuckles nicked and scarred in the way of a man who has met steel with his own. A pale line cuts diagonally over the back of his right hand, disappearing under his cuff. “And what did you make of it?”

“That your footwork is better than your brother Maekar’s,” you say promptly. “And that you favour your left when you’re tired.”

His brows climb. “Do I?”

“You did just now,” you say with a nod. “You shifted your weight too far when the Kingsguard feinted. You only made up for it because you’re stronger than he is.”

As you speak, you see Baelor’s gaze drop, almost helplessly, to your mouth—as if the words are something he can only track by watching them form. He catches himself a heartbeat later, hauls his eyes back to yours, and clears his throat.

“Most people watching from the shade see only that I didn’t fall,” he says. “Or that I disarmed him.”

“I’m not most people,” you hear yourself say.

“No,” he agrees quietly. “You are not.”

The yard below wavers in the heat, figures rippling like reflections in disturbed water. A gull wheels overhead and shrieks, ugly, and the sound skitters away over stone. Somewhere deeper in the keep, a bell tolls, the notes dulled by distance and walls. The awareness of how alone you are up here settles over your skin like another layer of heat. No father. No king. Just you, and the man who will one day sit on that “prettier chair” you mocked to his face, wearing a crown that would break lesser necks.

“You carry it well,” you note thoughtfully, nodding down at his still-sheathed sword, at the yard. “The blade. The… weight.”

Baelor glances at his own hand as if surprised to find it there. Turns it palm-up. Calluses cross it like old maps, intersecting lines of labour and battle.

“It’s lighter than the other,” he says.

“The other?”

“The one they expect me to carry without ever setting it down.” His gaze flicks up to meet yours and holds. “The realm. The name. The fear.”

It’s not a complaint, just truth, laid bare as steel on a table.

“Do you ever set it down?” you ask, your voice softening before you can stop it. 

“Sometimes,” he answers, after a beat. “When I am very tired. I put it on the table, look at it, and think: this will outlive me. This crown. This house. This realm.” His mouth twists. “Then I pick it up again.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” he says simply, but the edge in his tone softens. “At least it keeps me fit enough to impress northern ladies from balconies.”

“Is that your aim now?” you ask teasingly, some of the tension ebbing. “Impressing northern ladies?”

Baelor tips his head, considering, the light catching fine threads of silver at his temple. A droplet of sweat slides from his hairline down past his ear.

“It’s a pleasant consequence,” he decides lightly.

Before you can formulate something that doesn’t sound like an admission, footsteps echo down the gallery. Two men come into view around the far curve, robes brushing the floor, rings flashing as they gesture, voices low but urgent.

“…—Baelor would never—”

“—too beloved for Daeron to—”

“—Blackfyre sympathisers in the Reach, I tell you—”

Baelor’s body reacts before his face does. You feel it rather than see it: a tightening through his shoulders, a brief stillness in his breath, fingers pausing on the stone. They haven’t seen you. Their focus is turned inward, all sharp whispers and tight mouths. They’re headed straight your way. You shift back automatically into the deeper shadow of an alcove, skirts whispering against stone. The courteous, obvious thing would be to step out, clear your throat, let them see the Crown Prince and Lord Stark’s daughter together so they can paste polite masks back over their words.

Baelor does not choose the polite thing.

“Come here,” he says.

The words are low-pitched, for you alone. Not a barked command, not throne-room steel, but there’s a new edge to them, a quiet insistence that runs under the soft tone like a current under river-ice. It’s not just move. It’s to me. As if there is nowhere else in this moment you ought to be standing. It feels like a palm at the small of your back, urging you forward without ever quite touching.

Your toes curl inside your boots. Your body moves before your mind catches up.

One step, then another. You let Baelor draw you deeper into the alcove, into the narrow pocket of shadow, until the world beyond the arch is a slice of glaring light and moving colour. Baelor steps with you, turning smoothly so that he’s between you and the hall.

He still doesn’t quite touch you.

He plants his left hand on the stone beside your head, palm flat, fingers spread; the tendons stand out in his wrist, knotted with control. His arm forms a warm, solid bar above your shoulder. His body fills the narrow space in front of you. Broad chest, damp gambeson, the faint, clean bite of soap and steel and salt-sweat. His right hand hangs loose, but you can see the tension wound through it, the way his fingers flex once against his thigh, as if he has to keep them there by force.

The lords pass the mouth of the alcove without slowing. One’s perfume—cloves and something overly sweet—catches in your nose for a moment, unpleasant after the honest smells of the yard.

“…if Daeron trusts him more than his own blood—”

“—Baelor’s loyalty has never been in question—”

“—loyal men are dangerous when their king stops deserving it—”

Their voices fade into the curve of the corridor, swallowed by other sounds. The distant clang of practice swords, the murmur of courtiers, the harsh caw of some unseen crow. You realise you’ve stopped breathing. You drag air into your lungs just as Baelor waits out another heartbeat. Two. Only when the footsteps have disappeared entirely does he ease back half a step.

His arm stays where it is. His body is still close enough that the front of your gown picks up the warmth radiating off him. Your back presses into cool stone; the contrast makes every inch of you, from front to back, feel oversensitive.

You look up.

Up close, he’s almost too much detail. The dark scruff roughening his jaw, flecked with stray sparks of silver. The faint line between his brows, carved by years of maps and councils. The fine creases at the corners of his eyes, deepened today by heat and strain. A single bead of sweat tracks from his temple down along the edge of his cheekbone, catching in his beard.

And his eyes—

You’ve noticed them before, in passing. A strange trick of the torchlight at the feast, you’d thought; the sun in the yard this morning. Now there’s no distance, no glare, no convenient excuse.

One iris is a clear, unsettling blue, bright as lilac petals iced over, a pale ring catching the light. The other is deep brown, gone near-black, warm and dark as turned earth after rain. Dragon and Dornish. Fire and shade. Two different storms set side by side on the same face. The joining of them snags your attention like a burr. You can see where the lashes cast their small shadows, where the pale eye seems almost to glow against the gold of his skin while the dark one drinks the light instead. It feels indecent, somehow, to stare—but you do, because you can’t not, because something in you wants to know which one gives him away first when he lies, which one warms when he laughs.

You realise, mortifyingly, that you’ve leaned in a fraction. As if an inch more would let you see how far that bright ring goes, what colour lives around his pupil as if you can’t quite get close enough.

He’s looking at you like he’s not quite certain what he’s done.

As if some part of him that is always measuring—cracks in the river ice, knives under words, dangers in the room—has gone momentarily quiet, leaving only the man standing in front of the woman he just told, softly, come here.

“Is eavesdropping part of northern diplomacy,” he asks, voice pitched low in the pocket of space between you, “or are you simply fortunate in your hiding places, my lady?”

“Fortunate in my company,” you tell him, because your good sense has clearly melted with the rest of you.

Something flares in Baelor’s mismatched eyes, fast and bright. You feel the reaction through his frame more than you see it. How his shoulders loosen by a barely-there degree, the line of his mouth tipping, breath leaving him in a soft, surprised huff. He laughs. Not loud. Not court-bright and performative. A low sound that lives mostly in his chest, reverberating through the small space, humming in your bones.

“You shouldn’t have had to hear that,” he says.

“Why?” you ask. “You think we don’t whisper in Winterfell? We don’t scheme?”

“I think,” he says slowly, measuring his words, “most people would prefer their future king to be an uncomplicated story.”

“And you’re not,” you state.

“No,” he answers, gaze flicking briefly toward the empty stretch of corridor where the lords vanished before returning to you. “I am a man who lords would rather see married to their daughters than for the good of the realm, and enemies who think killing me would solve a great many of their problems.”

“That sounds like a very complicated story.”

“It is,” he agrees. Baelor’s hand drops from the wall at last, falls to his side, fingers flexing like they ache to close around something that isn’t there. Around you. “I’d spare you the worst of it, if I could.”

“Why?” The word pushes out, insistent. “Because I’m more useful to you unsoured? Because the North is easier to hold if the wolf likes the dragon?”

“Because,” Baelor says, and this time your name sits unsaid but heavy in the air between you, “you look at me and see the man before the crown. And I am selfish enough to want to keep that gaze unclouded for as long as I can.”

Your breath catches on the way in, snagging somewhere high and fragile. Baelor looks away, jaw tightening, eyes tracking some point down the gallery that only he can see.

“They are not wrong,” he says. “Loyal men are dangerous when their king stops deserving it. So are loyal kingdoms. I would rather never test which I am.”

You think of frozen rivers and cracks you hear too late. Of crowns that outlive the men who wear them. Of your father’s hand tightening around his knife at supper when Blackfyre was mentioned without being named.

“You’re not alone,” you say.

The words fall out of you without consultation, small and plain and too big all at once. Baelor turns back, slowly, as if he’s wary of frightening something off.

There it is again. That small, almost imperceptible giving way inside him—a brace unhooked, a line slackened. For an instant, all the layers peel back: prince, Hand, heir. What’s left is simply a man who has been standing on a frozen river so long he’s forgotten what it’s like not to listen for cracks, hearing someone say I’m here.

“No,” he says softly. “Not at this moment, at least.”

Somewhere in the shuffle of all that, you’ve moved. You don’t remember deciding to. Your hand has found the front of his gambeson, fingertips brushing the laces where leather and linen part. The material is warm and slightly damp under your touch; you can feel the heat of him through it, the rise and fall of his breathing. Some treacherous, curious part of you has leaned back into that nearness, greedy for one more look at the strange twin-coloured pull of his gaze, for one more breath where those mismatched eyes are this close and this unguarded.

You barely touch him. It’s the lightest contact, nothing more than the ghost of a hold.

Baelor inhales sharply anyway, like you’ve laid a brand to his skin. You yank your hand back as if you have. Heat crawls up your neck unbidden. 

“I should—”

“Yes,” he says at exactly the same time. “Of course.”

The words collide and tangle between you. Silence comes after them, thick and ridiculous, full of the echo of that quiet come here and your body’s instantaneous obedience. He clears his throat, reorganising himself back into something safer.

“There is to be a council this afternoon,” he says, trying for conversational. “Your father will attend. I expect talk of Blackfyre and Dornish borders and half a dozen other matters that will make me long for snow and broken noses.”

“You’re always welcome to visit,” you say, trying to match his ease. “We have an excellent selection.”

Baelor’s mouth twitches again.

“Walk with me after?” It comes out gentle, but there’s that same quiet gravity in it as there was in come here, like he’s laying a choice in your hands that he very much hopes you make in his favour. “There’s a place along the wall where you can see the city and the sea both. For a little while, you can pretend you belong to neither.”

Your chest twists. “Very well,” you say. “But if I find you brooding more than appreciating, I’ll push you off.”

Baelor laughs again, easier now, the sound loosening the last of that tight, buzzing tension.

“Then I’ll have to be very careful,” he replies with gentle mirth. “I doubt even a dragon could fly with a northern wolf clinging to his neck.”

“You’d be surprised, Your Grace,” you say. “We hold on.”

His gaze lingers on your face, softer around the edges.

“I’ve noticed,” he says quietly.

When he finally steps out of the alcove, straightening back into the Crown Prince before your eyes, the air changes with him. The heat doesn’t lessen, but it feels thinner somehow, less concentrated as if he’d been a furnace in that narrow slot of shadow and taken half the fire away when he left.

You stay where you are, for a moment. Your shoulders pressed to stone, cooled by shade. Your palms flat against the wall, picking up the faint grain of chisels long gone. Your toes still curled in your boots, as if bracing against a current that’s already passed.

—

You find him later where he said he would be.

The council had eaten most of the day. You know because your father came back from it looking like someone had shovelled another winter’s worth of snow onto his shoulders and left it there to freeze. His cloak had smelled of ink and old wool and the metallic tang of too many tempers held in check. He’d dropped into a chair with a grunt, hand scraping over his face, the lines around his mouth deeper than they’d been that morning.

“Daeron’s trying to juggle Blackfyre smoke and Reach hunger,” he’d said. “Every man at that table swears he only wants what’s best for the realm. Gods save us from men who want that.”

Then he’d bent, pressed his lips to your brow—a brief, firm touch, like the press of a seal in wax. His thumb had lingered at your temple for a heartbeat, rough callus warm against your skin.

“Don’t let them charm you into forgetting who you are, pup,” he’d murmured. “Not the king. Not his sons. Not anyone else.”

After that, he’d gone to write letters, the scratch of his quill following you out like a warning.

You wait until the bells mark late afternoon, their overlapping clang rolling up from the city in a muddled, brazen chorus. Then you take the narrow stair that corkscrews up through the Red Keep’s belly toward the outer wall walk. The air thins and sharpens as you climb. The close, beeswax-and-rush smell of the lower halls sloughs away, replaced step by step with something keener. By the time you duck through the low stone arch out onto the parapet, the wind has its teeth in you again.

It’s better up here. Cleaner.

It comes straight off the water, carrying salt and tar and the distant stink of fish and tanneries, but the height strips the worst of the sourness away. It feels like rinsing your lungs after a day spent breathing in smoke. To your left, King’s Landing sprawls down the hill in a jumble of baked brick and crooked streets. Sunlight glances off terracotta tiles and dull brown thatch; narrow alleys snake between sagging houses like forgotten knife-cuts. Smoke rises in thin, uneven threads from a hundred chimneys. Laundry flaps between windows like surrender flags. From up here, the noise is a constant, low roar: hawkers and hammers, wagon wheels on stone, the grind and scrape of a city rubbing against itself.

To your right, the Blackwater Bay curves away, its surface turned to molten bronze by the sinking sun. Ships bob there like seeds on dark water—fat-bellied cogs riding low with cargo, lean dromonds at anchor, a few long-necked galleys drawn up close to the quays. Masts make a black-limbed forest against the pale haze of the horizon.

Beneath your hands, the red stone of the wall is sun-warm and faintly rough, rasping your skin when you shift your grip. The crenels cut the world into a row of jagged frames. Directly below, the cliff falls sheer and hard, broken only by the white slash of waves battering themselves to froth against its base. The wind comes up from there with enough force to tug at your cloak, to pull a few strands of hair loose, to sting your cheeks.

You lean on the parapet and watch a gull wheel lazy circles over the water, its white wings flashing like a loose scrap of cloud.

Bootsteps sound behind you. Not hurried, not dragging. Measured. You know the cadence already, which is ridiculous; you’ve known the man for less than two weeks, and your body has apparently decided to memorise the sound of him.

“Lady Stark.”

You turn.

Baelor looks like the council wrung him out and left him here on the wall to dry.

His surcoat is gone, leaving a dark doublet with the top button undone, linen beneath damp and clinging at the hollow of his throat. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, exposing sun-browned skin and the pale memory of old scars. There’s ink on his right hand, a dark smudge along the side of his thumb, and a faint streak on his jaw as if he’d rubbed his face with ink-stained fingers in a moment of distraction. His beard is a touch thicker than it was that first night—dark and close, threaded with the faintest ghosts of grey at his chin and along his jaw.

He’s beautiful in the way mountains are: solid, unornamented, dangerous if misjudged.

“My prince,” you say, dipping your head.

He pulls a small face at the title, a quick twist of mouth and brow, then visibly remembers himself; the expression smooths away as if a hand had passed over wet clay, and he settles back into the careful, public version of himself.

“Forgive the delay,” he says, closing the distance between you. The wind plucks at the open edges of his doublet, flaring it just enough to hint at the breadth of him. “My father enjoys talking in circles when the subject is uncomfortable. Aerys enjoys sharpening them.”

“Did he at least let you sit down?” you wonder lightly.

“Occasionally.” The corner of his mouth kicks up, loosening the tired lines around his eyes. “Though Maekar kicked me under the table every time I suggested anything that might upset his plans to bleed our border lords for more levies.”

You can almost see it: long legs trading childish kicks while men argue over war and law around them.

“And did you upset them anyway?” you ask.

“Of course.” His ink-stained thumb taps once against the stone, dry humour in the motion. “What is the point of a council if everyone leaves content?”

A snort escapes you before you think to smother it.

He comes to stand beside you, close enough that the heat of him reaches across the space between again, his hands braced lightly on the parapet. His fingers spread along the stone, big-knuckled and nicked, ink smudge stark against sun-browned skin. For a few heartbeats, you just breathe together, looking out at the city spilled below like a game board someone has knocked with an elbow.

“You weren’t brooding when I arrived,” he says eventually, voice pitched light, eyes sliding sidelong to you. “I’m relieved. I’d hate to have to explain why the heir of Winterfell ‘tripped’ off my city’s walls.”

“I’m saving my brooding for winter,” you tell him dryly. “It’s more efficient. Fewer distractions.”

He laughs under his breath, that small, pleased sound you’re beginning to recognise and cherish. The one that slips out of him when you take him off guard. You feel it more than hear it, a faint vibration in the air between your shoulders.

“Does the view meet with your approval?” he prompts.

“It’s… different,” you admit, watching the way the light scatters on the water. “Winterfell is stone and snow and trees pressing close. Here it feels like the world is laid out in front of you, waiting to be counted.”

“Does that tempt you?” he asks softly. “Having it all spread at your feet like that.”

“No.” Your gaze follows a tiny skiff inching along the shoreline, wake scratching a thin white line across the bronze. “It tempts me to find where the edges are and dig my heels in.”

He smiles at that, quick and true. “Spoken like a Warden in the making.”

You turn your head just enough to give him a look. “Spoken like someone who knows what it is to stand where the ground is meant to hold firm,” you say. “How fares your frozen river today, my prince?”

He breathes out slowly, the sound scraping the fatigue from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Cracking,” he voices carefully. “But not yet broken.”

You let the words sit between you. The wind tugs more hair loose from your braids, whipping strands against your cheek.

“You can talk about it,” you offer quietly. “Or I can tell you the story about the time my uncle Brandon tried to ride a boar with a bucket on his head. Both are excellent cures for brooding.”

That draws another huff of real amusement; his shoulders ease by a visible fraction.

“Tempting as your uncle sounds,” Baelor says, “I’ll spare you the worst of council. The gist is this: some lords wish my father to make an example of every man who ever so much as breathed the same air as a Blackfyre sympathiser. Others wish him to marry me anywhere that will quiet the border for ten minutes. And my father wishes very much for some piece of this realm that does not constantly threaten to catch fire.”

“And what do you wish?” you ask.

His thumb starts that small, restless tap on the stone again. Once, twice.

“Peace,” he says, and you hear the longing in that word. “But not the kind paved over graves. The kind that lets a farmer plant without wondering which banner will burn his fields this year. The kind that lets children grow up thinking of harvests and hounds before they think of swords and sieges.”

You study his profile. The stubborn line of his nose, the old break in it, the faint grooves at the corners of his mouth; the tiredness pressed into the skin beneath his eyes.

“That’s kinder than most men I’ve met talk about peace,” you tell him quietly.

Baelor turns his head slightly, brow creasing as if the idea surprises him. “How else should one talk about it?”

“Like a prize. Something to mount on a wall and point at. Or like a weapon, something to bludgeon the other side with. Not many remember it’s meant to be lived in.”

He’s silent for a moment. The wind lifts the hair at your cheek again; you see his hand twitch, just barely, on the stone—a small, aborted motion in your direction. He reins it in, fingers re-spreading, knuckles whitening with the effort.

“My mother says I was always softhearted,” he reveals. “She meant it as both a compliment and a warning.”

“I don’t see softness,” you argue, your mouth thinning. “I see a man who knows what his strength is for.”

Baelor goes very still. You deliberately look away, giving him a moment to fold it up and decide what to do with it.

“So,” you prompt, letting your tone skate lighter, “if your lords are all so eager to marry you off to every corner of the map, why haven’t you let them yet?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Baelor’s head turn fully toward you.

“That’s… direct,” he says.

“I’m northern,” you remind him with a hint of a grin. “Our snows leave little room for delicacy.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. You can feel the pause, like a held breath stretched taut between you, and for a moment, you wonder if this is the time you’ve finally driven him back behind courtesy and distance.

Then Baelor exhales, wry.

“I haven’t married,” he says slowly, “because my father has not yet decided which problem I am meant to solve with my vows.”

You look at him properly now. “I thought princes married for love,” you say, solemn as any septa.

Baelor releases the most undignified sound you’ve heard from him yet at your jest, teeth flashing for an instant. “If I ever do, I suspect the singers will call it a scandal.”

“Love or scandal?” you ask.

“Either,” he says. “Both.” His mouth twists, that rueful, almost-smile tugging at one corner. “My father wanted me wed to a Dornish princess once, as he did, to bind those ties even more. Then the Reach pushed their own daughters forward. Fields for food, gold for ships. Some even suggested I marry one of Daemon’s brood, to ‘heal the old wounds.’”

He says the last like the taste of it sours his tongue.

You hum thoughtfully. “Would that have healed anything?” 

“No,” he replies, simple as a snapped twig. “It would have made it look, from certain angles, as though the Blackfyre line had a claim on me. It would have pleased some and enraged many others. The river cracking again, only in a different place.”

“So you refused,” you conclude.

“I… stalled,” he amends, mouth quirking. “I argued for time. For the realm to settle. I told my father I would not take a wife who might prove a knife in my bed.”

“Reasonable.”

“Yes.” His gaze finds yours, steady, weighing. “But not the whole truth.”

You tilt your head. “What’s the rest?”

Baelor looks away, out over the bay, jaw working once as if he’s chewing the words.

“The rest,” he says, voice pitching lower, “is that if I must share the weight of this crown with someone, I would like it to be a person, not just a house sigil. A mind I respect. A spine that doesn’t fold at the first gust. Someone who knows the difference between peace and victory, and doesn’t take either for granted.”

“That’s…” you begin, then stop, searching for the right word.

“Softhearted?” he offers, with a twist of self-mockery.

“Ambitious, my prince,” you say wryly.

That earns you a quick, bright flash of a smile, like sun off steel. “Most call me foolish for it,” he admits. “It is easier to wed a banner than a woman.”

“Banners don’t talk back,” you point out with a sage nod. “Or tell you when you’re being a fool.”

“Exactly. So that’s one reason I haven’t married.” His thumb scrapes lightly along the stone’s worn edge. “The other is that my father has been very busy deciding what use to make of me. There hasn’t been much time left over for deciding what I want.”

You turn that over in your mind the way you might test the balance of a new knife.

“You’re kinder than most men I’ve met,” you tell him, because it keeps circling back to that. “And wiser, too.”

Baelor blows out a breath, head tipping back a fraction. “I assure you, Lady Stark, I have the same petty vices as any man. I curse, I drink too much when I’m frustrated, I once broke Aerys’s nose in a fight when we were boys.”

“You say that like it’s a vice,” you remark dryly. “That sounds like admirable judgment to me.”

His laugh is startled and full, head dipping, shoulders loosening as if you’ve slid a blade neatly under some tight knot and cut it free. When he looks at you again, there’s something warmer than amusement there; something like gratitude at being allowed to be more and less than a symbol. Baelor studies you for a beat, eyes tracing from your hair, over your cheek, to your mouth—lingering there a fraction too long—before returning to your eyes. It feels like he’s measuring something that has nothing to do with inches.

“And you?” he prompts carefully. “Why has no northern lord claimed you yet?”

“Claimed,” you repeat. “Like a field. Or a particularly stubborn mare.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately,” you sigh. “I’ve heard it before, yes.”

You let your fingertips roam the top of the parapet, feeling the tiny chips and old tool marks, ordering your thoughts.

“In the North,” you begin, staring out over the water, “it’s not unheard of for daughters to inherit. My father has no sons. Just me. His brother Brandon holds a modest holdfast on the White Knife, but that’s not Winterfell.”

Baelor’s attention sharpens; you can feel it like a shift in the wind.

“Some of my father’s bannermen,” you go on, “would sleep easier if it were Winterfell. Brandon is the Old Wolf’s youngest son. That’s a man who rode south when the Targaryens called during the Dance and put steel in their cause when others were still weighing which way the dragon would turn. Since then, he’s worn your kings’ favour like a second cloak. Served as Warden to multiple Targaryen kings while my father and uncle were still boys.”

You can see it as you speak: your uncle towering in Winterfell’s yard, snow in his beard, laughter echoing like a war-horn; then the way men’s voices change when they say his name in a hall far from home. Brandon Stark. Battle-tested. Known quantity. Blood of First men rich in his veins. 

“They trust old stories and old blood,” you go on, “more than a girl who learned her ledgers at her father’s elbow. To some of them, I’m… an uncertainty. A soft place in the wall. They’d rather see Brandon’s line named heir outright. A man who has heirs and battle experience.”

Baelor’s jaw tightens, just a little. “If that’s what they want,” he says, “why haven’t they pushed harder?”

You huff a breath that isn’t quite a laugh.

“Because they’re patient,” you say with a shake of your head. “And loyal still. And they know how to count years. They tell themselves there’s no need for an open quarrel while I’m young and unwed. Better to hope I marry promptly, bear sons even more promptly, and let them grow up with their uncles and grandsires and Father’s old men at their elbows. I can be steward, or ‘Warden in truth if not in name,’ with a half-circle of older men to guide my hand until one of my sons is old enough to sit where I do. Then everyone can nod and say it’s only right that the boy take his mother’s place.”

The words taste dry as old, hardened snow on your tongue. You flick a bit of grit from the stone under your palm, because it gives your hand something to do besides clenching.

“In their hearts,” you finish softly, bitterly, “most of them see me as a stopgap. A bridge to carry Winterfell from one Stark man to another. Not the rock itself.”

Baelor is silent for a beat. Two. The wind tugs at his hair; his fingers curl once against the stone, a brief, contained flash of temper that doesn’t quite reach his voice.

“Idiots,” he says again, more flatly this time.

The small, fierce satisfaction that sparks in your chest is ridiculous and entirely beyond your control.

“It suited me well enough,” you say, forcing your mouth toward wryness. “I watched what they did with their wives and their smallfolk and thought: I would rather be alone with my wolves.”

“And are you?” Baelor asks, softer. “Content alone?”

You hesitate.

You think of Winterfell’s halls in snowfall: the slow, sure creak of old beams; the steady roar of fires; the familiar chorus of howls beyond the stone walls. You think of your father’s solid presence at the high table. Of Uncle Brandon’s thunderous arrivals, all noise and laughter and snow tracked over the floors, his brood of loud, sharp-eyed children tumbling at his heels. You think of the sudden, shocking heat of Baelor’s hand at your waist in a crowded hall; of “come here” sliding under your skin and staying there.

“I am content with my own company,” you reply carefully. “I am not content with being used as a solution to someone else’s problem.”

Baelor’s jaw tightens again. You can all but see him weighing that against his own life, full of problems he’s been shaped to solve.

“We are more alike than I realised,” he says quietly.

“Don’t tell the court,” you joke. “They’ll start composing ballads.”

“I’m fairly sure they already have.” His mouth twists, but with mirth this time. “At least three of them end in tragedy. One has us turning into dragons and wolves and eating each other. Aerys would like that one.”

“I’d prefer the one where I get my own sword,” you admit. “And keep Winterfell.”

“That’s greedy, my lady.”

“Unwilling to be swallowed whole, more like.”

Silence settles over you again, but it’s not empty. The sun has sagged lower, bleeding red and copper across the bay; the water below still glows like hammered metal. The wind has picked up, cutting through your gown in occasional sharp fingers that raise gooseflesh along your arms. Down in the city, bells start to ring again, answering each other in an untidy, overlapping chorus.

“You should have more say,” you blurt out, the thought tumbling out before you can dress it properly. “In who you marry. In how your story is written. You are to be king.”

“I have some,” Baelor clarifies softly. “More than most. My father listens. My brothers do. The lords… sometimes. But there are currents even a prince cannot swim against without drowning others.”

“Then don’t swim alone,” you say bluntly. “Find people who know how to stand in the cold and do not flinch.”

His eyes find yours again. Hold.

There it is—that feeling as if the air between you has gone thinner, more charged. That soft, dangerous easing somewhere inside him, in the set of his shoulders, in the small muscles around his mouth.

“I am trying,” he says, very quietly.

Something tightens in your throat.

“You have council again tomorrow?” you ask, because you are a coward in your own ways, and because if you stay inside that look much longer, you might lean toward him without meaning to.

“Tomorrow, and the day after,” he replies with an ironic twist of his lips. “Father is determined to keep us talking until war gets bored and goes home.”

“And in between?” 

“In between,” he replies, “I train, and I read reports, and I look forward to the next time I can escape my duties long enough to stand on a wall and be told that my footwork is sloppy.”

You stare at him, thrown off-balance by the ease of it, by the straightforwardness.

“That almost sounded like a compliment, Your Grace.”

“It was,” Baelor confirms smoothly. “I’m out of practice giving them to people who actually deserve them.”

You angle your head away, hoping it hides the way your pulse jumps. A gust of wind knifes up from the cliff, sharp enough to make you shiver. It slips under your cloak and gown, fingers cold as river water on bare skin. You can’t quite swallow the tiny full-body shiver.

Baelor notices. His gaze drops briefly to the subtle tremor in your sleeve, then returns to your face, something like a decision setting in his eyes.

“Come.” Not loud, not stern—just that same soft gravity as before, words that feel less like an order and more like a hand offered. “The stones will leech what warmth you have left if you stay much longer. Allow me to walk you back.”

“You make it sound like a perilous journey.”

“With this court?” he answers. “It is.”

You don’t argue.

You turn away from the parapet. Baelor falls into step beside you, his hand hovering for a breath near the small of your back before he thinks better of the touch and lets it fall. His stride shortens just enough that you don’t have to hurry to match him.

The guards at the tower stair straighten as you approach, spears shifting, boots snapping right under them. Baelor acknowledges them with a brief nod. Nothing grand, just enough to say I see you. Inside, the stairwell swallows the wind. The air grows warmer and thicker, smelling of hot stone, pitch from the torches, and the faint underlying musk of too many people. Your steps echo in the tight spiral, his bootfalls a steady, heavier counterpoint behind and beside you.

The corridor beyond feels dim after the blaze of the wall. Torches spit in their brackets, light pooling and spilling, leaving stretches of tapestry and stone in shifting shadow. Woven hunts and battles hang heavy on the walls, dragons rearing and knights charging in thread that looks oddly flat after the real sun.

Servants press themselves back as you pass, flattening against stone, eyes dropping, hands tightening on buckets and baskets. A pair of noblewomen drifts by in a ripple of silk and perfume; their conversation dies mid-sentence as they register you and Baelor together. They curtsey, heads dipping, eyes bright and voracious as they devour the sight of Stark grey and Targaryen black side by side.

You lift your chin a fraction and let your face settle into that faintly bored northern composure that has served you well since you were old enough to stand beside your father at court.

“Do you tire of it?” you ask quietly, once you’re past them. “The staring.”

“Yes,” he responds, without needing to think. Then, after a moment: “Less, when I’m with someone who sees more than whatever tale they’d like to drape over me.”

Your heart does that treacherous little turn again. “You’re very free with your flattery this evening, my prince.”

“I told you,” he replies softly, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Out of practice. I’ll improve.”

“I’m not sure my ego could withstand your improvement,” you mutter.

His chuckle is low, warm, close in the narrowed hall.

The talk turns lighter as you walk. Baelor tells you, with put-upon patience and poorly concealed fondness, about Aerys’s latest scheme to teach the rookery ravens to swear in High Valyrian. You counter with the story of your uncle Brandon trying to smuggle a half-frozen fox into the keep as a boy because he was convinced the kennels were lonely. He laughs, proper and unguarded, head tipping back just enough that the torchlight licks along his jaw.

Somewhere along the way, you realise you’ve stopped watching every word before you let it loose.

By the time you reach the corridor where your chambers lie, the weight in your chest feels altered. Less like a rock pressing down. More like a coal, banked and stubborn, warm even when you pretend not to notice it. You stop outside your door. Two northern guards flank it, grey cloaks hanging heavy, mail glinting dully beneath. Their faces are weathered, their eyes clear and cool. They look at Baelor with the same measured appraisal they’d give any man approaching the Stark solar in Winterfell.

Baelor seems to recognise—and approve—the lack of awe.

“They watch you well,” he notes.

“They know the value of what they guard,” you reply jokingly.

His gaze finds yours. Holds. Too warm, too intent. “Yes,” he exhales. “They do.”

The air between you stretches thin, humming with unsaid things. This is the moment when you should curtsey, offer something safe and innocuous, and slip inside before the walls grow more ears and mouths than they already have. Instead, you stand there, hand hanging uselessly at your side, pulse a drum in your throat, as Baelor steps half a pace closer.

“Thank you for the walk, Lady Stark.” The words are formal, but the way he says them feels anything but. “And for the company.”

“Thank you for not brooding,” you manage. “I’d hate to have to explain to my father why I threw his king’s heir from the walls for sulking.”

Baelor’s smile is slower this time, unfolding across his face like something he can’t quite stop.

“I will endeavour to remain unthrown,” he says.

Then, deliberate as any vow, he reaches for your hand.

You offer it. Your palm is cooler than his; your fingers are steadier than you feel. His hand closes around yours, large and warm, calluses catching lightly on your knuckles. You can feel the held-in strength there—a man who breaks bones and wields steel—and the care with which he reins it in. He turns your hand palm down. His thumb brushes once over the back of your knuckles, the touch feather-light, the sort of thing anyone else might mistake for nothing.

You do not.

“Good night, Lady Stark,” he says softly.

“Good night, my prince,” you answer, equally as softly, and your voice doesn’t wobble, which feels like a small miracle.

He bends and presses his mouth to your skin. It is nothing and everything. Not lingering, not scandalous. Just the barest press of warm lips to the ridge of bone and tendon, the ghost of his breath hot against chilled skin. There and gone. It still feels as if someone has reached inside your ribcage and quietly rearranged your organs.

Baelor doesn’t look away as he straightens. His eyes stay on yours, one dark, one light, and both blazing. There’s nothing boyish in his face; no awkward half-measures, no uncertainty. Just a man who knows precisely how much weight rests on his shoulders and, in this moment, chooses to let you see him beneath it.

Something in you answers. Quietly. Irrevocably. You realise—with a strange, bone-deep certainty—that if Baelor said come here in that same low, sure voice again, you would.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

For a heartbeat, the whole world shrinks to the space between you, to his fingers still lightly circled around your hand, to the fading warmth of his mouth on your skin, to the shared understanding that has been building, stone by careful stone, since the night his hand found your waist in a hot, crowded hall.

Then he lets you go.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs.

“You too,” you reply. “Try not to dream of cyvasse boards and cracked rivers.”

“I’ll do my best,” he tells you. “Though I suspect they’re more tenacious than you are.”

“You’d be surprised.”

His eyes warm again. “I look forward to it.”

He turns then and walks back down the corridor, cloak whispering over the rushes, boots quiet but sure. Guards straighten as he passes; he acknowledges them with that same brief nod, neither haughty nor humble. You watch him until he disappears around the bend, that broad back and dark head and the faint glint of silver at his jaw swallowed by shadows and stone.

Only then do you let yourself exhale.

Your hand still tingles where his lips touched it.

—

Your father is waiting for you when you enter your room the following afternoon.

You know it before you see him. There’s a certain way the air sits when Barthogan Stark is on the other side of a door—heavy, patient, like snow stacked on a roof. You push the door open, and there he is, standing by the small fire, hands wrapped around a cup that’s clearly been untouched. He’s still in his council leathers, grey wool and dark fur, sword-belt loosened but not set aside, as if some part of him refuses to believe the day is done.

He looks tired. Not the honest tired of a man who’s spent the day in the saddle, but the thin, worn kind that comes from listening to too many other people talk.

“Father,” you call out, closing the door behind you.

He looks up. For the first time in a long while, you see it plainly on his face—something like uncertainty, like he’s picked up a weight he isn’t sure where to put down.

Your stomach tightens.

“What is it?” you ask immediately.

Barthogan’s mouth twitches, as if he’d hoped for a moment to gather his words. “Straight to the point,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I know that look,” you say, crossing the room until you’re opposite him on the far side of the fire. “Bad news, or something you think I’ll call bad news. Which is it?”

“Both, perhaps,” he says.

He sets the untouched cup on the mantel with a small, careful sound. For a breath, he simply stands there, fingers braced on the stone as if testing its strength.

“Daeron asked to speak with me,” he says at last. “After council.”

You say nothing, letting your father fill the silence in his own time. He’s never been a man you could hurry, but he’s not cruel enough to make you wait longer than necessary either.

“You know,” he goes on, “that since Aegon’s Conquest there’s been an understanding between our houses.”

“Fire and ice,” you say at once. “Old tales. Aegon coming north, the Starks kneeling, dragons wheeling overhead. Your favourite story when I was small.”

“Aye,” he grunts tiredly. “Because it’s not just a story, pup. Oaths were sworn. Trust built. The realm held together by more than fear of dragonfire. The North has stood for the Targaryens when others turned their cloaks. Even in this last rebellion, there were wolves on both sides.”

You nod. You’ve read the accounts. Lords gutted by cousins, banners facing their own colours across the field. Blackfyre and Targaryen, red and black, spilled together in the mud.

“Daeron is not blind,” your father says quietly. “He knows the realm watches him. Knows some still grumble that dragons fought dragons, that the crown is cracked even if it did not fall.”

He straightens and turns to face you fully.

“He spoke of strength,” Barthogan continues. “Of symbols. Of how, in times like these, it is useful to remind men that the old alliances hold. That the North stands with the throne as firmly now as it did when Aegon first flew over the Wall.”

Your heartbeat picks up. You can see it beginning to take shape even before he says the words. A thought that pierces through your gut so fast you feel almost winded.

“He suggested,” your father goes on, “that perhaps it is time Stark blood joined the royal line proper.”

For a moment, you can’t breathe at all. The world narrows to the crackle of the fire, the soft hiss as a log shifts. You see it—sudden, bright, impossible—in your mind’s eye:

You, in a hall of red and gold, a crown heavy in your hair. Baelor beside you, beard a little greyer, eyes the same steady dark. Your hand in his across a map of the Seven Kingdoms, his thumb brushing your knuckles as you argue about riverlords and winter stores. Standing on this very wall walk years from now, shoulder to shoulder, the realm spread out below you like a promise you’re both responsible for keeping safe.

Husband and wife. Wolf and dragon. Fire and ice, not devouring, but holding the realm steady. Hope hits so hard it hurts. It feels like being struck with a spear made of light—blinding, sharp, lodged deep before you even know you’ve been pierced.

Your father is watching you.

Of course he sees it. He sees most things.

You try to school your face, to smooth it into something calmer, but you feel the betraying flare of hope, the way your fingers have curled against your skirts. For a heartbeat—only that—you let yourself live in it. That picture. That beautiful, shining future.

Then Barthogan says, very carefully, as if he’s placing stones one by one on ice and knows exactly where it will crack:

“We discussed a betrothal,” he says. “Between you and Prince Maekar.”

The ground goes out from under you. Not literally. Your feet are still on the rushes, the flagstones solid beneath. But your body refuses to believe it. Your knees go light, your stomach dropping as if the floor has tilted toward some unseen cliff-edge.

“What?” you hear yourself say.

It comes out wrong. Thin. You don’t recognise your own voice.

“Maekar,” your father repeats. “Daeron’s fourth son. He spends more time in armour than in the hall.”

You know Maekar.

You know the hard set of his jaw, the way his eyes weigh every man in the room as potential foe or ally and seem vaguely disappointed by both. You know his temper—quicker than Baelor’s, less leashed. You remember the way he’d spoken in council once, voice steel-hard as he argued for harsher measures at the Dornish border, and how the room had chilled though the fire still burned.

You also remember other things.

Maekar alone in the training yard in the grey light before breakfast, breath smoking in the air while southerners still clung to their featherbeds. Maekar, taking a blow meant for a green squire in the melee, stepping into it without thinking, shrugging off the bruise later like it was nothing. Maekar at supper with his cloak still damp from rain, eating in silence but passing half his trencher down to a new, scrawny servant boy at the far end of the table who looked like he hadn’t seen meat in weeks.

There is something in him you recognise. Plainness. A certain blunt, uncompromising edge you’ve seen in northern men who stand on walls in winter and don’t complain, because snow falls whether you grumble or not.

You have heard your father’s bannermen talk. If there must be a dragon in the North, they say by their cups, when they think you’re not listening, better the youngest—a hard steel sword, not a soft golden bauble. A fierce warrior to sire future Wardens. Targaryen fire in the blood of Winterfell, so no king ever doubts where the North stands.

Even you have thought it, in cold, tidy moments far from Baelor’s eyes and voice. On paper, in ledgers and alliances, Maekar is not a poor match. Youngest son, with fewer promises piled on his shoulders and more freedom to make Winterfell his true charge. No cyvasse of heirs and spares, not the whole realm balanced on your shared bed. A man who rides, fights, and speaks little. In some moods, you have found that almost… comfortable, in the abstract. Familiar. More northern than the Northmen, one Reach lord had muttered sourly after a council, and you had hidden a reluctant, treacherous flicker of agreement.

This marriage would bind Stark and Targaryen until the line ran dry. Dragons would have their blood in the North, in future Wardens. No southern king could ever again wonder how far the wolves’ loyalty ran; their answer would be written in the faces of your sons.

You can see all of that. Perfectly.

The room still feels too small.

“I—” you start, then stop, because if you keep going, you’re not sure whether you’ll laugh or say something unforgivable.

Your father’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Sit,” he orders quietly.

You don’t want to. You want to move, to pace, to walk until the walls stop closing in. But you sit because you were raised to listen when Barthogan Stark uses that tone, the one that says the snow is already falling and arguing with the weather will only make you colder and stupider for it.

The chair is solid under you. Your hands find the carved arms and grip.

“Why?” you ask.

It’s not the cleverest question, but it’s the only one that will form.

“Because it suits Daeron,” your father answers, blunt as the Northern stone. “It gives him what he wants—a Stark tied to his line, a public symbol of unity, a quieting of certain Blackfyre whispers. Maekar has a reputation for iron. Wedded to northern ice, it looks like strength, not compromise.”

He watches your face, weighing how much to say.

“He called it fitting,” Barthogan goes on. “The youngest son of a dragon-king to the only daughter of Winterfell. A fierce warrior, more steel than silk, more given to the yard than the tourney ground. ‘Your lords will like him,’ Daeron said. ‘He is nearer to them in nature than my courtiers. He knows cold, and hard marches, and the worth of a full granary. Let your daughter bear my son’s heirs, and no man will ever doubt that Targaryen blood beats in the Wardens of the North.’”

The picture he paints is clear. Wolf and dragon, bound in law and bed. Little boys with silver-shot dark hair and grey eyes, with dragons on their cloaks and direwolves at their heels. A line no rebel could easily pry apart, however they muttered of Blackfyre and old wrongs.

You can almost hear some of your father’s older bannermen murmuring approval. A good match. A high match. Better than we had any right to expect, with no brother between her and the seat. The youngest prince, a hard man, not given to frippery. A Warden in the making, if the gods are kind.

“And Baelor?” you demand, the name out before you can stop it, raw and foolish on your tongue.

Your father’s eyes narrow, just a fraction. “What of him?” he wonders carefully.

“Why not—” The word sticks in your throat. You force it out. “Why not Baelor?”

You don’t say: He is kind. He listens. He looks at me like he recognises something in me that he’s been missing all his life. He kissed my hand last night, and for a moment I thought the world was about to change.

Barthogan exhales through his nose. It’s not quite a sigh.

“Daeron will have his heir marry where it suits the realm most,” he tells you plainly. “The Riverlands, perhaps. Or the Reach. Somewhere with fields and grain and ships, somewhere that feeds armies. The North is a promise of endurance, of old oaths and winter teeth. Strong, yes. But not the coin he wishes to spend on his firstborn son.”

You swallow. The hope that had speared you moments ago feels jagged now, splintering under your ribs.

“And you agreed,” you say slowly. “To Maekar.”

“I agreed,” he rebukes, softer than usual, “to discuss it. To consider. To weigh what is best for the North.”

“And for me?” you demand.

The question hangs between you, heavier than any crown. Something in your father’s expression flickers. For the first time since you entered, he looks away, gaze dropping to his hands. They’re big hands, scarred and blunt-fingered, more comfortable on a sword-hilt than a quill.

“I have always tried,” he says quietly, “to make those two things the same.”

“That’s not an answer, Father.”

“No,” he agrees heavily. “It isn’t.”

The fire pops. A tongue of flame licks up, catches, settles. You feel cold, despite the heat.

“Say what you’re thinking,” he tells you. “You’ll burst if you don’t.”

“What I’m thinking,” you choke out, the words coming faster now that the dam has cracked, “is that you have just told me the king wishes to put Stark blood in the royal line, and for a moment—just a moment—you let me believe he meant to do it with a man I could at least imagine sharing a life with.”

Barthogan’s jaw tightens.

“And instead,” you go on, “you offer me to the one who looks at half the realm like he’d rather be cutting it down than ruling it.”

“Maekar is not a cruel man,” your father says sharply.

Images flick through your mind. Maekar dragging a green knight out from under a fallen horse, taking a blow meant for someone else; Maekar checking his men’s boots after they returned from a long march, cursing them for neglecting their feet. Even in your anger, you know it’s true. He’s not cruel. Just… hard. As winter stone. As bare iron.

“No,” you agree faintly. “He’s a hard one. There’s a difference, but not always a comfortable one.”

Your thoughts skid, slip, circle back to the same impossible image: Baelor’s mouth on your hand, Baelor’s laugh in the courtyard, Baelor saying come here in that low, quiet voice, and you moving without even thinking.

He doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t. Men like him are the last to hear about their own futures, sometimes.

“The North needs peace,” Barthogan says. “Real peace. Not just our own, but the realm’s. A Stark princess in the royal line says: we are here, we are loyal, we are settled. It makes it harder for Southern fools to talk themselves into rebellion again. It tells any man wearing a Blackfyre badge in his heart that if he reaches for a sword, he will be cutting his way toward his king’s cousins as well as his enemies.”

“And what do I say?” you ask, very softly. “When I look at my own reflection for the rest of my life?”

He flinches. It’s small, but you see it.

“You are my daughter,” he mutters, a gruffness and fierceness in his voice that pinches your heart. “My heir. I would gut the man who hurt you for sport. You know that.”

“Yes,” you say, because you do. “I also know you would raze a dozen keeps and marry all my future sons to krakens if you thought it would keep Winterfell standing.”

His mouth twitches. “You have my measure.”

“You have mine,” you insist. “So tell me truly. Do you think I would be happy as Maekar’s wife?”

Silence. It stretches, and the longer it does, the more it hurts. Finally, your father says, “I think that you could make a life with any man who wasn’t a monster. You’re stubborn, and you’re clever, and you’ve got more steel than half the lords I’ve met.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His eyes meet yours. You see the man who taught you to hold a sword and not apologise for the weight of it, who pressed your small hand to the weirwood and told you the old gods listened best to honesty.

“No,” he admits quietly. “I don’t think you’d be happy.”

The words are a knife. Clean. Honest, the way northerners always are. They still cut.

“Then why—”

“Because happiness isn’t the only measure,” he retorts sharply, and you hate him briefly for the truth of it. “Because there may come a day when the choice is between your happiness and thousands of lives you will never see. Because I was in the south when the Blackfyre banners rose, and I remember how quickly the world narrowed to blood and fire. I will do almost anything to keep that from happening again.”

“You’d do it with my marriage,” you choke out.

“I would do it with my own damned throat if that would suffice,” he snaps. “It won’t. The game they’re playing down here eats more than one man at a time, pup.”

You sit there, breathing hard, feeling like your ribs are too tight for your lungs.

Part of you understands. You do. You were never raised to believe your life would be entirely your own. Stark daughters are still Starks. They are walls as much as people. And if there must be a dragon put in your hall, Maekar is—gods help you—a sensible choice. A good sword. A hard shield. A man the North might follow, if they had to. Another part of you—the one that lit up on that wall walk when Baelor smiled, the one that melted when his hand found your waist—wants to throw that understanding into the fire and watch it burn.

“What if I refuse?” you question, voice quiet, brittle.

Barthogan’s mouth hardens. “Then I will stand with you,” he answers, and you hear the sincerity in his tone. “And the king will find another way to make his point. And some southern lordling will mutter about northern arrogance, and some Blackfyre sympathiser will whisper that the wolves care more for pride than for peace. And the river will crack somewhere else.”

He rubs a hand over his face, beard rasping under his palm. “I have not given my answer,” he says. “Not yet. I told Daeron I must speak with you. That the North does not barter its blood without consent.”

It hits you then, amid the sliding ground and the jagged hope and the anger that he came to you first. He could have agreed, he is your lord father, he does not need to speak with you first and seek your approval. He didn’t. Because wolves love fiercely and protectively, and a pack must always protect their own. 

“You could have said yes,” you murmur.

“I could have,” he agrees. “It would have been easier. They expect it of us, down here. That we nod and smile and let them braid our lives into their tapestries however they please.”

He looks at you, and there’s something like an apology in his eyes. Something like pride, too.

“But I have watched you grow,” he continues thickly. “Watched you stand in my hall and speak as sharply as any man. Watched you stare down lords twice your age when they argued for what would harm our people. You are not a stone to be moved on a board. You are a Stark, a wolf. You choose your own shape.”

You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.

“So,” he says, spreading his hands, bare of rings. “Here we are. I have told you the king’s mind. I have told you mine. The rest…”

He leaves the sentence trailing.

The ground is still sliding under you, but somewhere beneath the movement, there is bedrock. The old, stubborn thing in you that has always refused to be carried along without bracing its heels.

You think of Baelor again, unbidden: sweat-damp at the training yard, jaw shadowed with the start of a grey-threaded beard; laughing in the council courtyard; looking at you as if you were the first honest thing he’d seen all day. The feel of his lips against your knuckles, the warmth of his hand, the low pull of his voice when he said come here and the way your body had answered like it had been waiting for the command for years.

For one wild, impossible heartbeat, you imagine walking into King Daeron’s solar, placing your hands on the table and saying: If you want Stark blood in your line, you can damn well take it through the son who knows how to use it kindly.

The thought is so reckless it almost makes you smile. Then it fades, crushed under the weight of reality. You are one woman. The king is still the king. Men kill for less than defying his carefully laid plans.

The room is quiet. The fire snaps. Somewhere outside, the city murmurs with life. You realise there’s a wetness on your cheek. You wipe it away before it can fall.

“I need to think.”

Barthogan nods. “Take tonight,” he says. “And tomorrow, if you need it. The king has waited this long. He can wait a little longer.”

He moves toward you as if to touch your shoulder, to offer some clumsy comfort. You don’t flinch. But you don’t lean into it either. His hand settles there, heavy and familiar.

“I have never wanted to hurt you,” he says gruffly.

“I know,” you say.

You do. That’s the worst of it.

When he finally leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, the chamber feels both too big and too small. You stand very still for a long time, listening to the echo of his words and the ghost of Baelor’s mouth on your hand, and you think:

The river is cracking.

And this time, it’s under your feet.

The long tables below are a chaos of colour and motion. Platters of boar glisten with fat; geese lie breast-up and shining beneath sprigs of rosemary. Someone has overturned a dish of oysters near the lower tables, and the smell of salt and brine threads through roast meat and hot tallow, fighting with the sour-sweet tang of spilt wine. Fresh rushes, strewn thick earlier, are already bruised underfoot, releasing the crushed green smell of herbs trampled into damp straw.

Music leans over it all: a harp’s bright pluck, a fiddle’s keening line, a pipe’s reedy counterpoint. The tune threads through the noise, sometimes almost lost under the human sound, sometimes rising clear as a whistle over a gale.

Lyonel Baratheon’s laugh sits on top of everything.

He has always been appropriately named. Even when he is not drunk, he sounds it. Voice booming, rich, rolling through a room like thunder finding the weak stones. Tonight, he is less sodden than his reputation promises, but no less a tempest. His laughter breaks, then reshapes the noise, and people tilt toward it, toward him, the way trees lean in a prevailing wind.

Baelor feels him before he sees him on the floor. It’s in the way conversations shift, some voices brightening, others sharpening with wariness. In the way eyes turn. The air itself seems to cant a degree in the Baratheon’s direction.

And then he sees why.

The stag has set his sights on his wolf.

You are in grey again, of course—Stark will out, even in southern tailoring. The gown is cut for this heat: fabric finer than you’d tolerate at home, sleeves a touch shorter, the lines simpler than the southern ladies’ flounces but adapted enough not to cause comment. The colour, though, is the North all over: soft wolf-grey, drinking the candlelight instead of reflecting it, broken only by the fine silver thread that edges your collar and cuffs like frost traced along stone.

Your hair is pulled back in a practical knot that looks designed to survive both a blizzard and a brawl, pinned close and sure at the back of your head. The heat of the hall has still managed to coax a few strands loose at your temples; they curl stubbornly against your skin, catching the glow from the nearest candelabra. A faint sheen of sweat glosses the hollow at the base of your throat, just visible above the modest line of your gown.

You stand at the edge of the dance space, just beyond the sweep of the couples, one hand clasped around your own forearm. Your weight is balanced, ready to move, but your face has gone into that particular calm Baelor has learned to recognise. The court is watching you too openly, and you hate it, so you go still. You let their stares hit the winter-plain set of your features and slide off.

A wolf in snowlight, pretending to be a statue.

The music swells; a set ends. Couples peel apart with a rustle of silk and brocade, skirts flaring and settling, boots scuffing rushes. A lady in Reach green trips on a hem and stumbles into her partner, laughing too loudly, perfume sharp and floral even from a distance. Two half-drunk Riverland knights argue under their breath about whether the last step was meant to turn or cross, gesturing with their cups and sloshing wine onto the floor.

The space in the centre opens. Lyonel strides into it as if the floor were made for him.

He wears stormland colours—black and gold and the dark, damp green of woods beaten by rain. His doublet is well-cut but not fussy, the fabric pulling cleanly over a lean, hard frame built for sudden movement rather than sheer bulk. He is not huge like some tales make him; he is something worse for a man who might be your enemy one day—lithe, quick, all coiled energy and too sharp eyes.

His antlered sigil brooch, wrought in bright metal and dark enamel, catches firelight every time he moves, antlers flashing like a warning.

His cloak flares behind him like a living banner as he cuts through dancers and servants alike. He is not rude; he does not shove or bark. He simply walks as if everyone else will get out of his way, and the thing is, they do. It’s entitlement, yes, but it’s also the sure knowledge of someone who can charm or break you and hasn’t yet decided which he prefers tonight. Up close, Baelor knows, Lyonel is handsome in a way that makes parents wary and lovers stupid. Rugged rather than polished—his jaw shadowed by a dark stubble that’s edging into a beard, his straight nose bearing the faint crook of an old break, his mouth big and expressive. His eyes are where the danger lives: dark, churning, with something a little wild at the edges, like a cliff path that has no railing but dares you to run it anyway.

Baelor’s fingers still on the stem of his cup.

He watches Lyonel approach you with that deceptively lazy stride, the one that always reads as a man loping his way through the evening until, abruptly, it doesn’t and someone is bleeding on the floor. The Baratheon offers you a bow, surprisingly precise for a man whose laughter can crack a bench, one hand pressed to his own chest.

“Lady Stark,” he calls out cheerfully.

Even over the harp and fiddle and hum of talk, Baelor hears him. Of course he does. Lyonel knows how to lay a voice over chaos, the same way a drummer knows how to find the beat under noise.

“Would you do the storm the honour of letting it chase a wolf for a song or two?”

You answer. Baelor can’t make out the words over the music, but he sees the shape of your mouth, the brief lift at one corner that means you’ve said something drier than is strictly polite. He sees your eyes flick, quick as a dart, to the high table—to the king, to your father, to him.

Barthogan Stark, two seats down from Baelor, doesn’t shift much. The man is a mountain in wolf-grey, broad shoulders swallowing the chair’s carved back. One big hand rests around his cup; the other lies flat on the table, fingers thick and scarred. To most eyes, he has not moved at all.

Baelor, who has been learning to read lords like maps since before his voice broke, sees the tiny nod. The fractional drop of heavy lids. The almost-sigh of a man who knows he must let the young test their own footing on the ice. Daeron’s eyes cut sideways once, quick as a sword-feint. Baelor feels, more than sees, his father take it all in: Storm’s End. Winterfell. The dragon throne above them both. Alliances like stitches in a wound that has only just stopped seeping Blackfyre poison.

Baelor’s grip tightens on his cup until the fine metal bites into his palm.

You place your hand in Lyonel’s.

The dance begins.

You move well. Baelor knows that like he knows the weight of his own sword. He has felt the balance of you, the measured give when his hand settled at your waist, the way you read space and step with a fighter’s instinct for distance.

But there is something different in the way you move with the storm lord.

You are… lighter. Less guarded at the edges. There is a thread of wildness in your step, tonight, as if for the span of this tune you’ve decided to treat the dance less like a duty and more like a dare. Your skirts flare a little higher, your turns hitch closer to the line between correct and reckless.

Lyonel answers that without missing a beat, his teeth flashing in delight.

He leads you down the line with surprising gentleness for a man whose nickname was half-won in taverns. His hand is warm and steady at your back, fingers spread but not clutching, palm following the curve of your spine like he’s mapping it. For all his roaring reputation, his footwork is clean and sharp as any court knight’s. He doesn’t tug or shove. He invites, and you, damn you, accept.

Baelor feels that acceptance twist in his gut.

“Careful,” Maekar grouses again, voice low at his shoulder. “You’ll turn that wine to rubies at this rate.”

Baelor blinks down. The stem creaks faintly under his grip once more. He unclenches his hand with deliberate care and sets the goblet down. The wine inside rocks, then steadies. His fingers hum with the urge to close around something else. A wrist. A collar. The hilt of a sword.

“I was unaware I’d become so transparent,” he says.

Maekar tears off a hunk of bread, drags it through a smear of gravy, and pops it into his mouth with the leisurely air of a man enjoying excellent theatre.

“You’re not,” he replies after chewing. “To anyone else, you look like Baelor the Unshakeable, contemplating some grave and noble matter. Grain levies, perhaps. Fleet repairs. The nature of justice.” He lifts a pale brow. “To me, you look like a man trying to decide whether he wants to break Baratheon’s face or his fingers first.”

On the floor, Lyonel says something that makes you tilt your head up, eyes bright. Whatever it is, it’s audacious; Baelor can see the flash of it in the way Lyonel’s mouth twists, half-dare, half-invitation. You answer without flinching. Your mouth moves quick and sure, shaping words Baelor cannot hear but can almost feel—the clean, cutting weight of your northern humour. Lyonel almost recoils, then laughs loudly, a shorter, sharper sound, hand thumping his own chest as if to say, Well struck, wolf.

Baelor’s blood runs hotter.

Dragon blood, they all call it, like it’s a sort of blessing. Like it’s only about banners and skulls and the right to sit on a throne carved for a conqueror. They never talk about how it burns. He feels it now: wildfire threaded through his veins, pooling in his chest, heat licking along the bone. It coils under his sternum, wanting out. It wants him to stand up in front of half of Westeros, walk the length of the hall, and take you back—not gently, not with the careful courtesies he has shown you, but with his hand around your wrist and his other at your waist, claiming, fitting you back against him and letting the court choke on it.

Baelor keeps his hands exactly where they are.

“You’re steaming,” Maekar notes, lazy as a cat in a sunbeam, eyes sharp as a drawn blade. 

Baelor exhales slowly through his nose. The air tastes of hot fat and wine and the faint tang of iron from the sword-belts lining the walls.

“It’s a hot hall,” he answers stiffly.

“The hall was hot before you started glaring holes in it,” Maekar retorts with a snort. “You’re in a mood, brother. It’s very unlike you. I think you’ve frightened three pages and a Lannister already.”

“Only three?” Baelor mutters.

The music lifts, the pattern of the dance tightening into one of those showier figures the court favours. Couples draw closer, steps quickening. Layers of silk and wool swirl, colours blurring into brief storms of green and blue and red. Lyonel’s hand settles more securely at the small of your back as he guides you through the turn. It is an entirely appropriate touch—any dancing master would approve—but his thumb lies a fraction lower than it strictly needs to.

Baelor’s chest constricts.

He knows the arguments. Gods, he has made them in council himself.

Storm’s End held firm for the rightful king when Daemon Blackfyre unfurled his treason. Lyonel’s banners were among the first on the field at Redgrass Ford, his men breaking more than one Blackfyre flank. Baratheon ships guarded the Narrow Sea while the realm bled. A storm-and-snow match would bind two notoriously stubborn regions tighter to the crown. If Daeron asked him for a list of prudent alliances, he would put you and Lyonel in the first third without hesitation.

And yet he watches Lyonel’s fingers flex against the back of your gown as he spins you out, arm lengthening, then draws you in again, and all that careful thought goes to ash.

“You could ask her for the next dance,” Maekar suggests idly around a mouthful of bread. “You did it once, the realm didn’t fall into the sea.”

“No law says I can’t,” Baelor agrees. “There is also no law against stepping into the dragonpit and seeing how many skulls one can balance on one’s head. Wisdom is another matter.”

Maekar scoffs. “Since when have you cared so much for whispers? They’re already calling you half a dozen names because of her.”

Baelor has heard them. Baelor the Wolf-tamer. Baelor Winter’s Hand. The crown prince, who leads the Northern heir out of the crush and dances with her under dragon banners instead of focusing on more politically convenient ladies. Some say it admiringly, some with a curl of the lip, some with the wary tone of men watching the weather turn.

Daeron has not discouraged it. Let them talk, his father had said, eyes on a map littered with carved pieces. Let them think the North favours you. It is useful for them to imagine you have teeth at your back.

Father had not warned him that usefulness and desire could be such close kin under the skin.

On the floor, Lyonel leans in as he guides you through a cross-step. He bends his head close, bringing his mouth to your ear, saying something Baelor cannot hear but feels in his own spine all the same. Baelor’s body reacts before his mind catches up—his jaw tightening, shoulders coiling, the old training that measures distance and threat spinning itself up for a fight that will not, cannot, be allowed.

You blink, then your mouth breaks into something that is not your polite court smile. You laugh. Not the brittle, careful little cracks of sound you use to deflect stupidity. Not the weary huff you give when you’re mocking the south under your breath. A real laugh. Your head tips back for a heartbeat, eyes closing, throat bared in the candlelight. The sound doesn’t reach the high table over the music and the roar of the hall.

Baelor hears it anyway, inside his own skull.

He has made you laugh like that once. Perhaps twice. Both times alone, in smaller spaces, where he could afford to let his own composure loosen without the weight of a hundred eyes. Jealousy slides into him then, cold at the edges, molten at the middle. It is not the quick sting he remembers from boyhood, when Aerys out-argued him in history, or Rhaegel presented some verse the maester praised. This is deeper. It sits under his ribs like a coal that has been there a very long time, flaring now that someone has blown on it.

He takes a breath. And another. And another.

He is not a stripling to sulk because another man has taken one turn on the floor with the woman he—

No.

He does not let the thought finish.

Maekar watches him chew the inside of his cheek and sighs contentedly, like a man settling in to the second act of a very good play.

“You look,” his brother says, “like you swallowed wildfire and it hasn’t decided which way to go yet.”

Baelor lets out a sound that is half laugh, half growl. “I’m fine.”

“You,” Maekar continues like he hasn’t heard him, “are many things. Fine is not one of them. At present you are… let me see.” He tilts his head, pretending to consider. “Smouldering. Still. Badly.”

Baelor reaches for bread and tears it in half without meaning to. The crust cracks; crumbs scatter across his plate like snow over dark earth.

“Perhaps you’d prefer I tore my hair and raved,” he suggests dryly. “Would that make you more comfortable?”

“It would be refreshing,” Maekar tells him blandly. “You never do anything properly scandalous. I’m beginning to worry you’re not really our father’s son. Where is the dragon fire, brother?”

Baelor’s mouth tightens. “Lyonel Baratheon is a good man,” he says quietly. “He’s loyal. Brave despite his brass. Not as drunk as he wants the world to think. He fought where he should have fought. He laughed on the right side.”

“And yet,” Maekar prompts, eyes glinting.

“And yet,” Baelor says, very softly, “his hands are on what is not his.”

Maekar’s brows climb. “Ah,” he says, satisfaction like a knife. “There it is.”

Baelor shuts his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opens them, the hall is the same and not. Torchlight throws wilder shadows; the music feels just a fraction off, too fast, then too slow. The dragon in his blood hisses along his veins, wanting heat, wanting action. He strangles it with the discipline of a lifetime.

On the floor, Lyonel catches your hand and spins you under his arm. Your skirts flare, a wolf-grey storm around your boots. For an instant, the movement bares the strong line of your calves where the fabric parts. More than one man on the edges of the floor looks. Lyonel does too. His gaze flicks down, quick as any man’s, then snaps back to your face, attention anchored there. Some small, unwilling part of Baelor respects him for that.

He still wants to put his fist through the Baratheon’s roguish grin.

The song crests, then slows into its last figure. The fiddles draw out the notes; the pipes soften. Couples draw in for the final turn, bodies aligning closer. Lyonel’s hand slides a little higher on your back as he turns you, bringing you in along the length of his frame for three measured steps.

You step into it, trusting the pattern, the courtesy, the public eyes.

The dragon in Baelor—whatever that really is, old blood, old madness, old pride—thrashes once, hard enough that he has to set both hands flat on the table to steady himself. His fingertips press into the grain of the wood; the ring on his forefinger clicks faintly.

“What do you intend to do?” Maekar asks, unhurried, as if they’re discussing hunting plans. “Anything foolish?”

“No,” Baelor replies promptly.

“Do you wish to?”

“Yes,” Baelor says, before his instincts can bite down on the word.

Maekar bares his teeth in a grin. “Good. It’s when you stop wishing for that I’ll start worrying.”

The song ends. The last chord hangs, shivers, and breaks like a wave on rock. Lyonel bows over your hand, but he does not kiss it. He’s not quite that drunk, not in front of the king, not with Barthogan Stark’s gaze on the back of his neck, old wolf’s jaws ready to close around his throat should he overstep.

But his thumb lingers, for one extra heartbeat, stroking once along your knuckles before he lets go.

Baelor counts that heartbeat.

You step back, skirts whispering over the stone and rushes, and speak the expected courtesies. Lyonel answers with another easy grin and a shallow bow, then spins away, cloak flaring, already letting his eyes skim the hall for the next thing to amuse him.

You turn off the floor. You shift instead toward your father, toward the shadowed edge of the hall, toward the high table.

Your eyes find Baelor’s.

It is nothing. It is everything. Half a heartbeat, no more; if you held longer, it would become a scene.

He doesn’t know what you see.

He hopes you see the prince the realm needs: composed, steady, the man who sits at his father’s right hand and weighs war and peace with the same careful scales. The Hand of the King. Aegon’s blood. The dutiful son who will carry Daeron’s hard-won peace forward.

He fears you see the other thing.

The man with dragon blood snapping at his bones. The man who nearly rose from his seat to reclaim you from a stag’s arms in front of half of Westeros. The man who is remembering, with humiliating clarity, the exact weight of your waist beneath his hand, the warmth of your body when he guided you through a crush, and who would very much like to remind the hall whose palm rested there first.

Your mouth moves, the tiniest shift. Neither a full smile nor displeasure. A small, wry acknowledgement, something like: I see you.

Then you incline your head, just enough to be courteous to the high table as a whole, and the moment snaps. Another lord has already bowed before you, hand outstretched for his own turn in the pattern.

Baelor realises his cup is in his hand again. He has no memory of picking it up.

“Terrible,” Maekar notes conversationally.

Baelor takes a swallow. The wine is rich and thick, and it scorches his throat on the way down as if it were something much rougher.

“My wine?” he asks.

“Your mood,” Maekar says. “It’s dreadful. I’d say it doesn’t suit you, but it’s almost charming. Like watching Father misplace a document.”

Baelor exhales, a sound like flint scraping stone. “I will apologise to the pages and the minstrel tomorrow,” he says.

“You’ll have to,” Maekar agrees. “In the meantime…” He leans back a little, eyeing the hall with a soldier’s detached interest. “Remember, brother—stags gore from the front. Wolves from all angles. Stand too close when either of them lowers their head, and you don’t get to complain when you’re the one carried off on the antlers.”

Baelor follows his gaze.

Lyonel has claimed another partner—the Westerling girl this time, all dimples and pale silk, looking up at him like he’s some dangerous joke she’s not sure she should laugh at. His grin is bright, a shade more feral now that the wine has sunk deeper.

You have retreated to the edge beside your father, profile turned towards the high table. Barthogan says something low; you answer without turning your head, shoulders making that minute, familiar shift Baelor recognises as stubbornness pressing against duty. He wonders if you enjoyed the dance. Truly enjoyed it, the way your laugh suggested, or if you simply endured it with more grace than usual because you know you must.

He wonders if Lyonel noticed the small things Baelor does: the way your fingers tighten briefly before you step into a crowded space, the little notch that appears between your brows when you’re weighing risk, the fraction of a second before you decide to trust anyone’s hand on your back.

He wonders what you would do if he rose now. If he set his cup down, walked down the steps, through the heat and noise and gossip, and held out his hand for the next song. The dragon under his skin surges at the thought. Heat licks at his ribs, wanting out, wanting to brand something invisible and undeniable across the space between you: mine, it wants to say, for as far as the gods allow it.

Baelor sets the cup down.

He smiles, and it feels like a wound.

Duty first. Always duty first.

His heart, damn it, has not yet learned the order.

Knights move through the heat in gleaming mail and sweat-damp gambesons, swords flashing like splinters of sun. The metallic clash of steel on steel rings sharp and bright, underscored by the grunt of effort, the thud of blunted blows against shields. Squires scurry round them like harried crows—fetching water, dragging straw-stuffed dummies back upright after they’ve been knocked off their posts, tripping over their own oversized boots and earning curses for their trouble.

The smell is thick: hot metal, trampled sand, old leather, the sour edge of men working hard under an unforgiving sky. Now and then, a faint breeze stirs, carrying up a ghost of the sea from beyond the walls. Salt tries and mostly fails to cut through the city’s stew of smoke and sweat.

With the stone pleasantly cool at your spine and that rare breath of air threading through your hair, King’s Landing almost feels bearable.

Almost.

“Lady Stark.”

You hear him before you see him—his voice first, low and even, pitched with the unshowy assurance of someone long used to being heard without needing to raise it. Then the soft rustle of good fabric, the small, controlled jingle of a sword against its fittings. You turn towards the sound. 

Crown Prince Baelor stands a few paces away, framed by the archway that leads in from the garden path. The greenery behind him—orange trees in great glazed pots, dark leaves glossy with heat—throws his figure into sharper relief.

He looks different in daylight.

His dark hair is pulled back from his face, and the style bares the strong line of his throat and the cut of his jaw—and, when the light hits right, the first few threads of silver at his temples, fine as cobwebs catching the sun. There’s the start of scruff along his jaw, not neglect so much as the inevitable shadow of a long day that started too early. He wears a light surcoat dyed a deep, dry red, the colour of old wine or a dragon banner left too long in the sun, hanging open over an undyed linen shirt gone a little darker where it clings to his skin. No rubies are burning on his fingers, no embroidered dragons roaring from his chest.

He doesn’t seem to need them.

The dragon is in the way the space has already rearranged itself around him without anyone quite noticing—guards straightening at the arch, a squire nearly dropping a practice sword when he realises who’s in the doorway, heads turning like flowers seeking the sun. It’s in the little ripples of movement going outward through the courtyard, men dipping half-bows, conversation bending around his presence.

Up close, there are other details you didn’t have time to notice in the press of the hall: the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, etched by squinting into southern light and too many sleepless councils; the way his shoulders carry their breadth with an unconscious care, as if he is perpetually remembering not to loom.

“Your Highness,” you say, dipping into a curtsey that’s more inclination than performance—Stark-sparse, just enough to be unimpeachably proper. “I hope I haven’t stolen your vantage. It’s a good one.”

“On the contrary.” His mouth curves at one corner. Up close, you notice the slight unevenness of his lower lip, as if it’s been split more than once and healed a little imperfectly, same as the small crook of his strong nose. “I was hoping to share it.”

Movement flickers at the edge of your vision: ladies in pale summer silks drifting, not quite casually, into the opposite colonnade; a knot of younger lords materialising as if they’ve just remembered they adore the sound of swords. They settle themselves in pockets of shade with studied nonchalance, each one wearing the particular brand of indifference that only exists when someone is desperate to look like they’re not staring.

The whispers rise almost at once, small and sharp as midges over a summer marsh.

“—crown prince—”

“—wolf girl from the North—”

“—led her out of the hall last night, I swear it—”

You keep your gaze on Baelor and pretend you don’t hear a thing.

“If that’s the case,” you say dryly, “I fear I must disappoint half the court, Your Highness. They were very nearly convinced you were going to push me into the yard and have me spar a Kingsguard for your amusement.”

He huffs a quiet sound that might be a laugh, the corner of his mouth deepening. “I’ve given them no such impression.”

“You rescued me from a crush of bodies and whisked me away through a side gallery no one else seemed to notice,” you remind him. “I’m told that’s practically a love song, down here.”

One dark brow lifts the barest fraction. “And what is it in the North?” he asks.

“Mildly suspicious.”

The laugh that breaks out of him then is low and caught off guard, like thunder nudging into the open air by a sudden gust. You feel it more than hear it, a vibration in the warm air between you.

Across the courtyard, the watching cluster tightens its focus. Heads lean a little closer. Fans twitch. Fire and ice, dragon and wolf—the realm’s favourite story, being spun again in the angle of his shoulders as he inclines closer and the simple, stubborn fact that you do not step back.

Baelor crosses the last of the distance to the balustrade and takes up a place beside you. He leaves a courteous hand’s-breadth between your bodies, but the heat coming off him is a tangible thing, like standing near a sun-warmed wall. He doesn’t reach for you, but he sets his hands on the stone rail, fingers splayed. You notice his hands in spite of yourself: broad palms, long fingers, calluses roughing the pads where a sword hilt has bitten over the years. A faint white scar runs diagonally across the back of his right hand, disappearing under his cuff.

“You disappeared early from the feast after our… practical rescue,” he says lightly, eyes on the yard below. “I hope you weren’t plagued by too many questions.”

“Only from my father,” you say. “And those were about wine imports and garrison numbers.”

“Not about princes leading you out of crowded halls?” The corner of his mouth curves, but his gaze remains outward, as if he doesn’t entirely trust himself to look at you and keep the tone easy.

“I told him you were being courteous,” you say. “He seemed satisfied. Possibly offended you’d beaten him to it.”

That pulls a ghost of a smile to his lips again, small but undeniably pleased. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle. Below, two knights meet with a clash that sends sparks jumping, swords ringing. One overextends, nearly stumbles; the other pulls the blow, turning it into a more graceful disarm than it might have been. A squire jogs round with a waterskin, face red, hair plastered to his brow.

“So,” you say after a moment, watching the bout, “was there some royal matter you wished to discuss, Your Highness? Or did you hunt me down merely to ensure I had not been trampled under your court’s feet overnight?”

“I like to think of it as a… welfare inspection,” Baelor replies. “I’ve had a sudden influx of reports about wolves roaming my halls. It seemed wise to confirm no one had been bitten.”

You glance at him sidelong. In profile, you can see the faint silver at his temple more clearly, the strong line of his nose, the rough shadow on his jaw.

“If they had been,” you say lightly, “you’d know. They’d stop fawning and start telling you the truth.”

He turns his head enough to look at you properly, the movement unhurried. Up close, his eyes are warmer than you’d thought under all that control—dark, yes, but with lighter amber threads when the light catches them.

“You don’t think they tell me the truth now?” he asks.

“I think,” you say, keeping your tone mild, “they tell you the truth they believe you want to hear. And I think you are too polite to tell them how tedious that is.”

For a heartbeat, he goes absolutely still. Even his fingers on the stone seem to pause. Then his breath leaves him in a soft sound you might, in another man, call relief.

“You waste no words, do you, Lady Stark?”

“There’s very little point in them, down here,” you explain. “No one lets them finish a sentence before they’ve already twisted them into something else.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, “here you are, finishing yours.”

You lift one shoulder, a small, helpless shrug. “I’ve always been stubborn. A Stark trait, or so I’m told.”

“And sharp,” Baelor says quietly. “Your father has a blade of good steel in you.”

There is respect in it, not flattery. It lands more deeply than anything any lord has said to you since you arrived, all tired attempts to flatter your “stormy northern beauty.”

You clear your throat and look back at the yard, suddenly acutely aware of the warmth of him beside you, of the way his gaze lingers for an extra beat on your face before returning to the drills below. One of the younger knights misjudges a turn and goes down hard in a spray of sand. His opponent offers a hand, hauls him up by the bracer; they fall back into guard as if nothing happened.

“You train with them?” you ask, nodding toward the yard.

“Most mornings,” he says. “When the council allows it. Or when I decide the council does not.”

“Is that why you insisted on walking me back last night?” Your mouth says before you can think better of it. “You were stretching your legs after sitting too long?”

He glances over, caught off guard, and the quick flash of genuine amusement in his eyes feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“It seemed the least I could do,” he retorts. “After manhandling you like a sack of turnips.”

“You’ve clearly never carried turnips,” you rebuke.

This time, Baelor’s laughter comes quicker. It lines his shoulders in a looser shape, knocking something off his posture that was always on guard.

“I confess,” he says, “my rural experience is limited.”

“I’ll send you a crate from Winterfell,” you offer solemnly. “So you can practice. It would be a terrible scandal if the realm discovered their crown prince could not lift root vegetables.”

He turns toward you more fully now, one elbow hooked on the balustrade, body angling in your direction. The smile tugging at his mouth is tugging at something in you, too.

“You threaten me with agricultural training, my lady?” he wonders idly. “That’s a bold tactic with a man who commands the royal kitchens.”

“I have survived northern winters,” you reply promptly. “You cannot frighten me with cooks.”

That does it.

The laugh that bursts out of him is bright and startled, not the controlled, modest chuckle of a prince rewarding a jest. His head tips back slightly; his throat bares; the sound spills into the hot air and startles a couple of sparrows from the eaves ahead. You see at least three courtiers across the way, physically stop mid-sentence, and stare. You wonder, abruptly, how often anyone hears him laugh like that, if ever. You can’t help it; your own mouth curves, slow and genuine, the kind of smile that belongs more by a Winterfell hearth than in a southern courtyard under dragon banners.

When he looks back at you, still grinning, something in him shifts.

You see it in stages. The amusement remains at the corners of Baelor’s mouth, in the faint crinkling at the edges of his eyes, but it slows. Deepens. His gaze begins to move with a different quality—not the quick, sweeping scan of a man cataloguing a room, but the steadier attention of someone tracing a line they’ve just realised might matter. He looks as if he’s memorising you in pieces: the hard set of your eyes, the line of your nose, the stubborn tilt of your chin. The little crease that always forms between your brows when you’re thinking too hard. 

The smile on his face gentles, the way a sword tip sinks into earth instead of flesh. For a heartbeat, the weight of his regard is almost too much to bear. Not because it is heavy. Because it is steady, as if something in him that has been braced in every moment—against expectation, against failure, against the next demand of court or war—has, for this one small patch of shade in this one overheated city, quietly decided it can stop clenching.

You feel it in the way his shoulders ease, in the subtle uncurling of his fingers where they rest against the stone. In the way his breath leaves him slower, less controlled.

The world tilts a little. The clang of swords, the barked orders, the low mutter of court gossip, and the relentless glare of sun on red stone recede all at once. 

“Gods,” he says, almost under his breath, as if the words have slipped out unexamined. “You really aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

You blink once. “Should I be?”

He studies your face in silence, dark brows drawn together slightly, as if searching for something written somewhere you can’t see.

“Most people are,” he says at last. “Or they are afraid of what I represent. The crown. The dragons. The line of kings.”

“You’re a man,” you say simply, a little too bluntly, perhaps. “Men bleed. Men err. Men die. I was raised on stories of winter, Your Highness. Of things that do not die so easily. After that, it’s hard to be frightened of someone just because he sits in a prettier chair.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, helpless, but the look in his eyes is not amused. It’s… something else, deeper, wondering. 

“Prettier chair,” he repeats under his breath. “You’ve a talent for cutting matters down to the bone, my lady.”

“It’s colder up there,” you say. “We don’t have time to wrap them in ribbons.”

He exhales a breath that’s half-laugh, half something else, but his gaze doesn’t leave your face. You feel that look like a hand laid gently along your cheek, warm and careful and a little bewildered. On the far side of the courtyard, you can almost sense the court’s curiosity sharpening into something more pointed. Dragon and wolf, shoulder to shoulder, heads inclined. The heir of Aegon’s line and the heir of Winterfell, talking in low voices like two people instead of two sigils.

“Tell me something,” Baelor says suddenly.

You tilt your head. “That sounds suspiciously like a command.”

“A request,” he corrects, mouth quirking. “Though if you like, I can have the heralds announce it first. I’m told their voices carry wonderfully in this courtyard.”

“Spare me,” you say, this time smiling, too. “Very well. Ask.”

“If,” he says slowly, tasting the words, “the North were not bound by oaths. If there were no expectation that your house must send its heirs south, must attend court, must trade wolf for dragon in this dance we all pretend is voluntary—would you still have come?”

The question catches at you, hooks into a place you keep carefully out of reach. The honest answer rises, cold and clear, before you can school it into politeness that would be expected at court.

“No,” you tell him honestly. “I would have stayed where the air bites and people say what they mean.”

Baelor doesn’t flinch. He lets it land, lets it settle in whatever place inside him keeps tally of such things.

“But,” you add, because hard truths are not the same as unkindness, and your father taught you the honour in oaths, “if duty brought me anywhere, I’m… not yet sorry it brought me here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second, then lifts again, the movement so quick you might have imagined it.

“Not yet,” he echoes quietly.

“Winter is long,” you say, trying for lightness, for play. “I reserve the right to change my mind when your sun has baked me dry.”

A small, rumbling laugh escapes Baelor once more, and with it that telltale loosening along his shoulders, as if some invisible weight has shifted minutely again. It’s becoming disturbingly addictive to pry these breaks in his orderly demeanour.  

“You would find ways to keep your own weather,” he says. “I suspect you already have.”

“You think me so formidable, Your Highness?” you jest.

“I think,” Baelor says, the words coming slower now, “that you are the first person in this castle who looks at me and sees a man before a crown. And that is… rarer than you might imagine.”

You look at him then, really look, past the heat shimmer and the red stone and the stories wrapping themselves around him like smoke. You see the lines set into his face by years of being firstborn, the one who must always be example, shield, sword. You see the faint shadows under his eyes that speak of long nights bent over maps and messages, of Blackfyre names still being counted in his sleep. You see, beneath all that, a stubborn glint of something quieter. Not dragonfire. But instead, a flicker of exhaustion, and even deeper than it, something stubborn and kind that refuses to be worn away.

A man, you think. Not a myth, or a heir, or a monster. A man who has been treated like a symbol so long he’s surprised to find anyone still remembers his humanity.

“Men make better allies than myths,” you tell him, a touch softer. “Myths expect worship. Men can be spoken to.”

“And what do you intend to speak to me about, Lady Stark?” he asks, head tilting slightly, mouth fighting another smile.

“Turnips,” you say promptly, fighting to keep a straight expression. “And the scandalous lack of training your arms have in regard to them.”

Baelor’s head tips back again; laughter spills out of him, bright and full. A Kingsguard at the doorway tries and fails to keep his expression neutral. One of the ladies across the courtyard lifts a fan to hide her open-mouthed stare. Then the laughter softens, thinning into a breath as he looks back at you. There’s a look on his face now you haven’t seen before—caught somewhere between delight and something older, more heedful. As if he is aware that this, whatever this is between you, is dangerous, and cannot quite bring himself to care in this moment.

If the court is busy stitching a story of fire and ice around the two of you—dragon and wolf in the same patch of shadow, speaking as if you’ve known each other an age—let them, you think. They will spin tales regardless. They always do. Here, above the baking sand and under the relentless southern sun, with Baelor’s smile turned unguardedly toward you and some tight band behind his eyes finally easing, it feels less like simply existing without expectation for once. 

You shift a little, resting your forearms on the balustrade beside his. The stone is warm beneath your sleeves. Your hands don’t touch, but they lie so close that if either of you moved the width of a finger, skin would meet skin.

“We should start with the kitchens,” you prompt, keeping your face very straight. “If I am to tutor the future king of the Seven Kingdoms in proper agricultural respect, I’ll need allies among the bakers at the very least.”

“An alliance between crown and kitchen,” Baelor muses, eyes still on you. “The realm will tremble.”

“The realm will eat better,” you retort mildly.

He looks at you again, then—really looks, as if this is another angle he means to learn by heart. That softened, almost curious not-smile touches his mouth, pulling at one corner more than the other. The silver at his temple catches the light like frost in dark hair.

“I find,” he says quietly, almost as if confessing to himself rather than to you, “that I am very much looking forward to it.”

—

Your father calls your name the way northerners sound winter is coming—flat as stone, certain as sunrise, with a dry edge that almost hides the warmth under it.

“Daughter.”

His voice cuts clean through the hum of the Red Keep. You glance up from the window-seat. From here, high in one of the guest towers, you can see a thumb of Blackwater Bay between the huddle of red roofs and the outer wall, the water hammered copper by the sinking sun. Smoke hangs over the city like a low ceiling. Cookfires and tanneries and whatever else King’s Landing chooses to breathe.

“Father.”

Barthogan Stark fills the doorway the way he fills any hall: formidable simply by existing in the space. He doesn’t loom, yet he doesn’t need to. Broad shoulders, long shadow, the kind of stillness that makes lesser men remember they have spines and straighten them. His hair has gone iron-grey at the temples, the rest dragged back and knotted with northern practicality. No southern curls, no scented oil, no jewelled clasps. His beard is shot through with white and trimmed short, more for convenience than vanity. He wears plain wool in Stark grey, thick and good, the fur at his collar a dull, honest brown. The only concession to court is the silver direwolf at his shoulder.

He surveys the chamber once, taking in the carved bed, the painted screens showing dragons in flight over a city that shall never again see them. His mouth flattens when his gaze catches on the lion embroidered into the chair nearest him, its golden paw resting smugly on scarlet. One of many little details paying tribute to different noble houses of Westeros, you imagine, as is expected of guest quarters. 

“Nothing good,” he mutters, as if to himself, “ever comes of Starks going south.”

You almost smile. 

“You agreed to it,” you remind him. “The king’s invitation.”

“Aye.” He steps inside, the floor whispering under his weight. “Daeron’s ravens were very polite.” He shuts the door with a firm hand; the corridor noise—clatter of armour, a shouted order, a burst of laughter—dims to a muffled blur. “The realm needs to see its lords sitting at the same table again. Needs to remember we’re one kingdom, not five dozen petty grievances.”

“After Blackfyre,” you say quietly.

“Aye,” he says again, heavier this time. “After Blackfyre.”

For a moment, the room seems to carry the echo of another battlefield entirely—ash in the air, banners torn, the sound of steel on steel. You weren’t there, of course; you were too young and precious to be allowed anywhere near fighting, but your father was. The way his jaw sets at the reminder of the rebellion is telling enough.

He shakes it off like snow from his shoulders.

“The king has invited us to dine with the royal family,” he says more briskly. “His steward’s just left. We’re expected at the solar in an hour.”

Not the cavern of the great hall, then, with its echoing vaults and a hundred eyes. Something smaller. More private. More dangerous, in its way.

“Just us?” you ask.

“Just us.” He comes further in, his boots thudding softly against the rushes. “The king, the queen, his sons.”

He ticks them off in that dry, matter-of-fact way of his. “Baelor is the king’s heir and Hand besides. Of course, he’ll be there. Then there’s Aerys, books and prayers. Rhaegel, gods know what goes on behind those eyes. Maekar, all iron edges and iron opinions.”

His gaze flicks to you, sharp as a hawk’s despite the lines of tiredness at the corners. “And the North,” he adds. “In the shape of a grumpy old wolf and his pup.”

“I am not a pup,” you say automatically.

That earns you the barest twitch of his mouth. “You’ll always be my pup,” he shoots back gruffly. “Even when you’re sitting in Winterfell’s high seat and arguing with greybeards twice your age.”

You tip your chin up. “I don’t argue with them. I correct them, Father.”

“Ha.” The sound is low, almost a cough, but you know it for a laugh. “That you do.”

He crosses to the chair opposite the window and lowers himself into it with the care of a man whose knees are beginning to complain on cold mornings. The Lannister lion embroidery squashes indignantly under Stark weight. He notices, and for a heartbeat, his hand settles over the lion as if weighing it, then dismisses it entirely.

You hesitate, fingers worrying at the edge of your sleeve.

“Are you… displeased, Father?” The words come out before you can stop them. “About the Hand.”

His gaze sharpens. “Baelor?”

It’s an old habit between you, that steady look. He taught it to you himself: never drop your eyes if you want men to listen and respect you.

“A Hand who happened to find me in a crowded hall and insisted on escorting me to my chambers,” you clarify, keeping your tone mild. “The court hasn’t decided yet whether that makes him chivalrous or compromised.”

Barthogan snorts, a sound like a rockslide starting. “The court hasn’t decided if the sun rises in the east,” he says. “They’d hold council on which way piss should fall if it meant three more hours of gossip.”

“You heard, then,” you say.

“I hear more than these southerners think.” His big hands settle on the carved arms of the chair, fingers like old roots. “They forget the North has ears, even this far from snow.”

You pick at a loose thread on your skirt. It’s the same deep blue as the pools in the godswood at home, but here under southern light it looks almost black.

“Are you very cautious?” you ask, then force yourself to be more explicit. “About him? Or about what people will make of it?”

“Both,” he replies without ceremony. His eyes drift to the narrow slit of the window, to the thin wedge of bay and sky. “Daeron Targaryen is a clever man. Too clever, some would say.” A weighty pause. “He mended a realm his father almost shattered. The Blackfyre banners are ash, but there’s still smoke in men’s hearts.”

You can smell smoke now that he’s said it. Faint but ever-present, threaded through the city’s stink of fish and waste and too many bodies packed too close.

“He needs the realm to see the North at his table,” Barthogan goes on. “Needs them to look at you and think, ah, there sits the future of Winterfell, and she smiles at dragonkind without baring her teeth.”

Your laugh is more of a huff. “You sent the wrong daughter, then.”

“I only have the one,” he says dryly. “Seven spared me the trouble of spares.”

He shifts, the chair creaking under his weight. The sound is oddly comforting; furniture in Winterfell complains the same way.

“He needs unity,” Barthogan says. “He needs the lords who stayed loyal in the Rebellion to feel seen. He needs the sons and grandsons of traitors to see there’s a place for them if they behave. And he needs the North not to sit up there in the snow, brooding, while the rest of the realm stews.”

“And we need…?” you prompt.

He looks back at you, and there it is—that fierce, quiet affection, the thing that makes men mutter that Lord Barthogan is colder than ice until they see the way his hand settles on your shoulder when he thinks no one’s looking.

“We need them to remember there is a future for the North,” he explains. “We need them to know your name and your face and that you aren’t some half-wild rumour of a she-wolf in furs gnawing bones in a godswood.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds more interesting than embroidery and small talk.”

“Interesting gets Starks killed when they go south,” he grumbles. “And I’ve buried enough.”

He doesn’t have to say it again. It’s etched into the furrows around his mouth.

“But,” he adds after a moment, quieter, “the realm doesn’t stay mended if the North hides in its snow and sulks. So here we are. Wolves in a dragon’s den. You, my pup, at the king’s own table. Let them look. Let them see what waits in the cold when the snows come again.”

Something tightens in your chest, half pride, half dread.

“It didn’t feel like a ploy,” you say after a moment, thinking of Baelor’s hand at your waist. The steady weight of it, the way he’d guided you through the press like you were something precious, not something in the way or to be played. “When he helped me. In the hall.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Barthogan says. “By all accounts, Baelor is his father’s finest work. And also the man he least wishes to spend.” His eyes narrow. “He’ll not throw his heir about like a copper. That doesn’t mean there aren’t games on the board you can’t see yet.”

You thread your fingers in your lap. “You think I’m a piece.”

“I think you’re heir to Winterfell,” your father replies. “Which means you’re a piece whether either of us likes it or not. The question is whose hand moves you.”

You stare down at your own hands, knotted against the dark wool of your skirts. Fingers chapped from northern winters, the faint scars of old knife-work and forbidden training.

“And if I move myself?” you ask.

For the first time since he entered, your father’s mouth breaks properly, teeth flashing in a rare, sharp grin. It makes him look suddenly younger, like the man you’ve only heard about in old stories of duels and battles.

“Then I’ll be very proud,” he tells you frankly. “And worried sick, no doubt.”

A small laugh escapes you, the tightness easing just a fraction. Outside, a gull shrieks somewhere near the bay. The wind slides weakly through the window-slit, warm and sour compared to the bright bite of home. Even the air here feels crowded and wrong.

“Listen to them,” your father says, jerking his chin at the window, at the muffled roar of King’s Landing. Sounds rush in: distant hawker’s cries, the grind of cart wheels on cobble, the clank of gate-chains. “Learn what songs they sing when they think no one’s listening, but don’t let the noise drown you. You’re a Stark. There’s steel in you, girl. Remember that when you sit at that table.”

There’s a beat of quiet. The fire in the small hearth pops, resin spitting from a log of southern pine.

“Do you trust him, Father?” you ask softly. “Baelor. Do you think he’ll make a fair king one day?”

Your father sits with it for a long moment, eyes on you and through you and somewhere beyond the wall behind your head.

“I trust,” he says at last, “that he loves this realm. I trust that he feels the weight of it before he sleeps and after he wakes. I trust that he’s been taught, since before he could walk, that duty comes before desire, every time.”

Something twists under your ribs at that, sharp and inexplicable.

“That sounds lonely.”

“It is,” Barthogan agrees without so much as a blink. “Lonely men sometimes make the best kings.”

“Why?”

“Because they know what it costs,” he says, exhaling tiredly. “To use people as shields against their own emptiness. And because if they’re not careful, they forget they’re men at all and start thinking they’re gods that happen to walk and talk among us.”

You think of Baelor in the courtyard, shoulders unhooked for a moment, that quiet laugh shaking loose like stones in a thaw.

“He didn’t look like he’d forgotten,” you murmur.

“Good,” your father grunts, hauling himself to his feet with a soft noise that might be a curse at his knee. “Then perhaps the realm will be blessed with another good king.”

He crosses to you and, without ceremony, sets that big, scarred hand on the top of your head. His fingers find the place where your hair parts, callused thumb resting briefly against the line of your brow. It’s awkward and too gentle for a man who’s broken noses with those hands. It still makes your throat close up.

“Wash your face, pup,” he orders gruffly. “Change that gown. You look like you’ve been dragged behind a cart.”

“I look fine,” you protest weakly, but lean into his touch all the same.

“Fine is not what we’re doing tonight,” he states solemnly. “We’re showing a dragon king the face of the North five winters from now. Make sure it’s one they remember.”

—

The king’s solar is smaller than you expect.

Not small—this is still the Red Keep, where nothing important is ever truly small—but after the echoing cavern of the great hall, the space feels almost intimate. The ceiling is lower, the arched windows narrower, crawling with tracery that casts lacework shadows on the floor as the last light slants in.

Tapestries in deep, wine-dark reds and old gold soften the stone walls: scenes of Aegon’s Conquest, dragons arcing across skies the wrong colour, a river of armoured men burning. Between them hang narrower banners bearing the three-headed dragon, its black threads drinking the firelight. The smell hits you as soon as you step through the door—roast capon and garlic and sweet onions, the fatty comfort of lamb, cinnamon in the wine. Beneath it lurks the fainter scent of parchment, ink, and beeswax polish: a lived-in room, not just a showpiece.

A long polished table runs down the centre, set with silver that catches the candle-glow and throws it back in softer, warmer sparks. The board is well-laden but not absurd: no peacocks in their feathers, no absurd sugar castles. Bowls of olives, fresh bread still steaming, platters of simple, well-cooked food. A family meal dressed in royal clothes.

Daeron II Targaryen sits at the head, crown resting lightly in his hair. The lines on his face are not the purpled veins of excess you’ve seen on lesser lords; they’re the grooves of thought and worry, more laughter than intemperance. His eyes are sharp, weighing. He looks less like a dragon out of a song and more like a man who has spent too many nights bent over maps by candlelight.

Beside him sits the queen, composed and watchful, her hand resting on the table near his, not quite touching. Her gaze tracks each person who enters with quiet attention.

His sons flank him, four men cut from the same bone-deep heritage and yet startlingly different.

Baelor stands behind his chair when you arrive, speaking low to a maester you recognise from the council as Yandel, with his chain glinting dullly in the firelight. Baelor straightens at the herald’s call—“Lord Barthogan Stark of Winterfell, and his daughter and heir, Lady Stark”—and for a heartbeat, you see something flicker over his face.

Not surprise, but the opposite of it. The tiny easing of a man who has been waiting for something and sees it at last.

To Daeron’s right sits Aerys, narrow-shouldered and pale, his fingers ink-stained even at supper, eyes shadowed by too many hours in the library. To the king’s left, Rhaegel, dreamy and distracted, his gaze skimming the tapestries as if they’re half real. At the end, Maekar looks carved from one of Winterfell’s very own buttresses—solid, blunt, his jaw as square as his opinions, if the rumour is to be believed.

Heat from the hearth pricks your cheeks as you and your father move forward over the thick carpets. The dragon banners on the wall stir faintly in a draft.

Baelor inclines his head to your father first, the Hand acknowledging the Warden of the North. Then his gaze slides to you, and the room draws in at the edges, colours dulling, sounds dimming.

“Lady Stark.” The title sits warm in his mouth, as if he’s been turning it over in his mind. “You honour us.”

“Your Grace. Your Majesties. My princes.” You drop into your curtsey, the weight of your new gown—deep Stark grey brushed with white along the sleeves, silver thread catching the light like frost—pulling at your shoulders. “The honour is ours.”

Daeron rises enough to clasp Barthogan’s forearm in greeting. Up close, the king smells faintly of ink and cloves.

“Lord Stark,” he greets warmly. “I trust the southern sun hasn’t melted you entirely yet.”

Your father’s mouth gives a brief, reluctant twitch. “I still remember what snow looks like, Your Grace. Though Gods be good, your city’s heat is doing its damnedest to cook it out of me.”

“There are some in my court,” Daeron says wryly, “who would pay good gold to see winter softened. I am not one of them.”

Polite words follow about your stay so far, the state of the roads, and how the wolves of Winterfell have fared in this long summer. You answer when Daeron or the queen address you, careful and measured, letting your father absorb most of the conversation. All the while, that strange humming tension runs under everything. You can feel it the way you’d feel the air before a thunderstorm back home. The heaviness, the prickle along the skin that foretells something.

It lives in the way Daeron’s gaze keeps flicking, almost unconsciously, to Baelor when talk brushes the subject of the Dornish marches. In the quick, sideways glance Aerys and Maekar trade when Daeron mentions “old wounds” and “new loyalties”, and everyone hears Blackfyre without him saying it.

In the way Baelor speaks little but weighs every word as if testing its weight. You’ve seen storms building over the Wolfswood: clouds stacking, sky lowering, the world holding its breath. This feels like that. The Rebellion may be over, but the air still remembers. 

By courtesy, they seat Baelor at the king’s right hand, and you further down that side, closer than custom might strictly demand but close enough that you can hear Baelor’s soft answers without straining, far enough that no one can accuse you of hovering at his elbow.

Your father takes a place opposite you, where he can see everything and miss nothing.

The chairs are high-backed, with cushions stuffed with goose feathers rather than straw. You sit and feel the faint, unfamiliar give, the softness where Winterfell would offer solid oak. Wet wool, cold stone, pine-smoke, those are the scents you carry in your bones. Here it’s spiced wine, slow-burning wood, the waxy sweetness of candles.

Wine pours for everyone in attendance—rich red, catching glints of firelight. When the cup reaches you, your fingers brush the cool curve of silver. You glance up by chance and meet Baelor’s gaze.

For the space of a heartbeat, neither of you looks away.

“So, Lady Stark,” Daeron speaks, once the first platters have been diminished and the room has settled into the quieter hum of eating and low talk. “Tell me—what does Winterfell make of my court?”

You feel the weight of every eye in the room. You choose your words with care, tasting each one before you let it go.

“That it is… lively, Your Grace,” you say at last. “And that for all my father’s tales, I have yet to see a dragon.”

A polite ripple of laughter moves around the table, shoulders easing. Even Aerys’s pinched mouth curves, just a fraction. Daeron’s lips twist, a warmth bleeding into his face.

“May you never have to,” he reassures smoothly. “Men who call dragons often live to regret it.”

“Or not live,” Maekar puts in, his voice like gravel. The jest has teeth. The queen’s hand tightens around her cup until the knuckles whiten.

Rhaegel gives a small, breathy laugh that doesn’t feel quite attached to the present conversation.

Baelor’s gaze flicks to his youngest brother, steady, unreadable, then back to his father. “My brothers complain,” he says, tone mild, “that I speak too much of levies and musters and not enough of the dragons. They prefer the parts of our history where things burn.”

“We prefer the parts that aren’t ledger-books,” Maekar mutters. “Not everyone finds grain tallies riveting.”

Baelor’s mouth curves, just a little. “Riveting, no. Necessary, yes. The realm is held together with more bread than fire.”

“And what does Lady Stark think?” Daeron wonders, turning that keen gaze back to you. “Are we dull?”

You are acutely aware of Baelor listening now, though he doesn’t look at you directly. His fingers toy with the stem of his cup, turning it a fraction this way, that way, as if testing some inner balance.

“I think,” you articulate slowly, “if your court were dull, Your Grace, your ravens would fly more slowly. And my father’s hair would be much less grey.”

Barthogan lets out a harrumph that’s halfway to a smothered laugh. Daeron’s eyes warm again, casting an appreciative look toward your father.

“She has your tongue,” he says to your father. “And your nerve.”

“Her mother’s, more like,” Barthogan mutters. “But aye. The North doesn’t breed cowards.”

“No,” the king says softly, thoughtfully. “It most certainly does not.”

You allow yourself the smallest breath of relief. When you dare glance toward Baelor, you find his eyes already on you. He isn’t smiling, not quite. But something flickers there—approval, certainly, and something softer, like the first thaw of ice around a stone.

It feels, absurdly, like passing a test you never meant to take.

The meal unwinds as the sky outside darkens from copper to bruised purple. The princes speak, and when Baelor does, the others listen, including the king and even your father. When the talk turns to some small border quarrel in the riverlands, Daeron asks his heir’s opinion, which you find interesting.

Baelor sets his cup down, fingers briefly stilled.

“A lord on one bank,” he says, “and his cousin on the other. The river changed its course, and the land between doesn’t know which way to belong anymore.”

You can picture it as he speaks: a brown river shouldering its way sideways, eating into one field, abandoning another. Men standing on either shore, shouting their claims across the water.

“And what would you do?” Daeron questions curiously.

“Split the disputed land into thirds,” Baelor answers, with no hesitation. “The river is the realm’s. The fields go to the farmers who actually till them. And the Lord Who Thought He Could Cheat His Family,” his mouth tightens slightly on the title, “pays a fine heavy enough to remind him I am watching.”

Daeron’s brows lift. “You would fine him.”

“I would remind him,” Baelor says simply, “that I remember who bled for which banner, and that peace is a gift he should not pick apart like a scab.”

The room goes just a touch quieter. You can feel the history under Baelor’s words, all that Blackfyre blood not quite washed away by time and rain. Across the table, your father’s hand curls around his knife, thumb running once along the flat of the blade as if grounding himself.

Storm, you think again. Coiled above the roof, waiting for someone to call the lightning down.

Later, when the heavier dishes have been cleared and the talk has lightened into stories and small jokes, the tension in the room eases, but doesn’t vanish entirely. Aerys peppers you with surprisingly precise questions about snowfall patterns and the thickness of Winterfell’s walls; Rhaegel asks, dreamily, whether the aurora is truly like veils of silk in the sky or whether that’s just a poet’s fancy. Maekar wants to know how many spears you can put in the field come spring if the snows are light.

The queen listens more than she speaks. When she does offer a word, it always seems to be the one that smooths an edge or nudges the talk away from an old hurt. 

Baelor watches. And, now and then, when the noise crests and breaks and leaves small pockets of quiet, he watches you. You feel that strange energy again—storm and steel, duty and something heavier—beating under the table like a second heart. It lives in the spaces between words: in the way Daeron’s fingers rest on the stem of his cup as if it were a quill or a sword; in the brief, brittle silences whenever Blackfyre is almost mentioned and then swallowed whole by politeness. You can feel it in the timber of Baelor’s voice when he answers his father, something taut threaded through every measured syllable.

By the time the king finally rises, your skin feels a size too small.

Chairs scrape back over carpet and stone. Servants spill into the solar like water breaching a dam. Silver dishes get whisked away, the ghost of roasted garlic, lemon and fat lamb trailing in their wake. The candles are trimmed, wicks pinched and coaxed, the light flaring briefly brighter before settling into a warmer glow.

Beyond the arch at the far end of the solar, the adjacent hall waits already half-prepared. You can see it in glimpses as the door is propped and held: fresh rushes being strewn in loose, fragrant armfuls across the floor, the sharp green smell of crushed herbs rising as they’re trodden down. Torches are being lit one by one along the walls, the flames catching on polished shields and the gilt edges of carved dragons.

A small company of musicians takes their place on a low dais against the far wall—three men and a woman, instruments dark with use. A harp is plucked once, twice, a thin silver sound; a fiddle finds the melody, bow drawing out a note that starts soft as breath. A pair of wooden pipes joins in, turning the air bright. The music starts as background, polite and low, then swells as more bodies press into the space, as the private dinner uncoils into something larger, looser.

Wine flows again—richer, sweeter now—ruby-dark in crystal cups. Laughter lifts and tangles with the music. A low swell of conversation gathers in the rafters, words rising and falling like distant surf.

The king and queen drift outward, their children fanning with them into the broader hall as courtiers and lesser lords are admitted. The scent of the room changes as people pour in: more perfume, more sweat, the powdery sweetness of southern ladies’ hair, the faint sourness of too much wine on too many tongues. Heat builds, thickening the air.

You and your father stand to one side by a carved pillar, the stone cool against your back. From here you can see the whole room. The press of colours and banners, the flicker of torchlight across jewels, the first cautious pairs moving onto the cleared space at the centre of the hall.

Barthogan is a solid weight at your shoulder. His hands clasp loosely behind his back, but you can see the tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his gaze tracks everything—doors, exits, whose hand lingers too long on whose arm.

“Remember,” he says under his breath, not looking at you, “southerners dance with their feet and their tongues both. Mind where you step.”

You huff a quiet, nervous sound that might be a laugh.

A lord from the Reach peels away from the edge of the crowd and approaches, cloak in green and gold, the brooch at his shoulder wrought into an elaborate rose that looks like it might draw blood if you touched the wrong petal. He smells faintly of crushed grass and some light floral oil that doesn’t quite cover the wine on his breath.

He bows with easy, practised grace, the movement just shy of theatrical.

“Lady Stark,” he says, voice smooth as good olive oil. “Would you grant me the honour of this dance?”

You feel the weight of your father’s attention without needing to look. When you do glance up, Barthogan gives the smallest of nods, an almost imperceptible lowering of his eyelids. Politic not to refuse the first offered hand. The musicians have slipped into a tune with a strong, steady rhythm. Easy enough to follow, easy enough to lose yourself in.

“Of course, my lord,” you say.

His hand is warm and slightly damp through the fine kid of your glove when his fingers close around yours. He leads you onto the floor with the confidence of a man who’s been doing this since he could walk, cloak fanning behind him like a captured piece of summer.

His steps are correct—precise, even—but his grip is a shade too tight, as if he’s worried you’ll bolt. His smile shows perhaps a fraction too many teeth. The hall’s light glances off the gold thread in his sleeves and the signet on his thumb, making little flashes as you turn. As the dance's pattern unfolds, you become acutely aware of how exposed you are. Your skirts swish around your ankles, the weight of wool and lighter southern silks layered together. The brushed wool of your Stark-grey bodice traps the heat; you can feel a bead of sweat creep traitorously between your shoulder blades.

Your partner’s gaze keeps dropping, snagging at the hollow where your throat disappears into your high northern neckline, as if he thinks he might conjure bare skin by will alone. It makes your teeth itch inside your mouth.

And it isn’t just him.

You can feel the room watching. The way conversations falter for half a breath when you cross some line of sight; the way fans pause mid-flutter; the way two young knights at the edge of the crowd cut off their argument to follow your movement with barely concealed interest.

By the room.

By the court.

By—

You turn, skirts flaring with the motion. For a moment, the world spins, banners blurring, candlelight smearing into bright streaks. When it steadies again, your eyes snag on a familiar shape at the edge of the hall.

Baelor.

He’s half in shadow near one of the great stone pillars, where the torchlight doesn’t quite reach. One shoulder is braced against the carved dragon curling up the column, cup cradled forgotten in his hand. The wine inside has hardly been touched. The light from the nearest candelabrum catches on him in pieces—the high plane of his cheekbone, the strong line of his jaw, the severe, striking slope of his nose. The rest of his face is in soft shadow, but you don’t need more than the direction of his gaze to know where his attention is.

Not on his father, who is listening to Aerys with a patient, weary expression. Not on the shifting kaleidoscope of dancers and colours.

On you.

Directly. Fixed. As steady and unblinking as a wolf watching from the tree line.

Your step stutters. It isn’t much. A tiny falter, half a heartbeat laid wrong, but you feel it all the way up your spine. Your partner does, too; his fingers tighten reflexively on yours.

“Lady Stark?” he prompts, brow creasing.

“Forgive me,” you say quickly, pulling a smile onto your mouth like armour. “I was counting too far ahead. The music changed.”

It hasn’t. But it sounds different now, sharp and bright and far too loud in your ears.

The Reach lord huffs a relieved little laugh. “My fault entirely, I’m sure. You were moving beautifully.”

You force yourself back into the pattern—step, turn, cross—muscles remembering what your mind feels suddenly too scattered to hold. But now you are horribly aware, with every movement, of that gaze tracking you. When you move down the set, you feel it between your shoulder blades, a heat-and-weight sensation like standing too close to a hearth. When the pattern brings you round again to face his side of the room, you catch it full-on. Dark eyes, intent and unwavering, meet yours for a fraction of a turn before you get spun away.

It’s like walking past an open oven door, again and again. That brief lick of heat, followed by the shock of ordinary air.

The set changes; the music shifts into a quicker reel. Couples break apart, reform, partners trading down the line. Hands catch and release; silk whispers against wool. You move with the others, letting muscle memory do the work. Take this hand, step into that space, pivot, and offer your palm to the next waiting partner. The floor is now a mosaic of colour, cloaks and skirts flaring. The fresh rushes underfoot are already bruised and torn, releasing little bursts of crushed mint and dried lavender with each step, mingling with the smell of hot wax and wine.

You find yourself being carried nearer and nearer to the pillar where Baelor stands. Not by choice. By the inexorable pull of the pattern, that great, intricate machine of bodies and steps and tradition. One lordling misjudges his turn behind you, blundering with more enthusiasm than grace. To avoid being ploughed into, Baelor shifts—half a pace forward, off his pillar.

The dance swings you past.

The brush of shoulders is almost nothing. The briefest graze. Cloth against cloth. His doublet’s fine, close-woven wool, your own thicker Stark grey. The hard line of something solid beneath.

Almost nothing.

When his shoulder touches yours, it feels like someone has pulled a stopper out of your spine.

Heat shoots through you, a bright, electric shiver that seems to light up every carefully arranged bone and muscle from neck to heel. Awareness flares outward in a rush—of your own body, of the way your arm hangs, the angle of your head, the sudden, stunning proximity of his. The music drops away to a distant hum. The laughing voices, the scuff of shoes on rushes, the rustle of dresses, all of it goes muffled, as if someone has thrown a thick blanket over the world.

There is only the solid, warm press of Baelor’s shoulder against yours, the faint yielding give of it as he realises the collision and eases back at once, that tiny intake of breath you feel more than hear. The brief flare of his scent in your nose: clean linen, iron, a hint of the spiced soap the royal household favours.

You don’t dare look at him.

You fix your eyes dead ahead on the next figure in the pattern, on the open hand waiting for yours, on the bright smear of a red cloak, the glint of a pin. You step, you turn, you cross. Because if you stop now, you will draw every eye in the room, and you are not sure you can bear even one more.

But you feel it. Behind you, Baelor goes very, very still.

You don’t have to see him to know. Some part of you, some new nervous system running under your skin, registers it as clearly as if you’d turned. The way he locks in place, the way the space he occupies changes shape now that you’ve touched it.

As if the sudden lack of contact has shocked him just as much.

By the time the set winds down, your pulse is a wild drum in your throat, in your wrists, fluttering at the base of your skull. Your breath feels slightly wrong in your chest; too fast, too shallow for the measured pace of the dance. 

The last passes are done. The musicians let the final notes spill out and fade; the dancers dip and separate with little bows and curtseys, laughter riding high on the end of the tune.

“Thank you, my lady,” the Reach lord says, bowing over your hand, the rose at his shoulder bobbing solemnly. “You dance beautifully. The North must be drear indeed if they hide such grace in all that snow.”

“That’s the trouble with snow,” you reply coolly, withdrawing your fingers before his grip can linger. “It hides a great many things.”

His brows lift, caught between amusement and uncertainty. You don’t stay long enough to see which wins.

You step back off the floor, the world tilting for a moment as the movement around you shifts from ordered pattern to loose drift. Your intention is simple: return to your father’s side, where the stone is cool and the air slightly easier to breathe; find a cup of watered wine and some corner where the torches don’t burn so hot.

Instead, you almost walk into a different sort of wall.

Baelor is there.

He stands in front of you, closer than you expect, close enough that you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes. The pillar behind him throws a slice of shadow across one side of his face, but the candlelight from a nearby sconce has caught in his hair, turning a few strands at his temple to copper against the dark.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Up close, you can see the small disruptions in his usual composure. The looser strands of hair, the faint flush along his cheekbones, a warm undertone deepening his sun-browned skin. Sweat shines subtly at the edge of his hairline, though his collar sits straight and immaculate. His eyes are steady, but there’s something in them that wasn’t there at supper. A new tension, a different kind of heat.

“Your Highness.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, too thin in your throat. “Forgive me. I didn’t see—”

“My Lord Tyrell,” Baelor says, as if you haven’t spoken at all.

You blink.

He turns his head just enough to address your former partner, who has not actually moved far, hovering within earshot like a bee near spilt honey. Baelor’s tone is impeccably courteous, each word clear and cool enough to cut with.

“Thank you for claiming the first dance with Lady Stark,” he says. “It would be remiss of me, however, not to claim one myself.”

The Reach lord freezes. You can almost hear the quick skitter of his thoughts: crown prince, northern heir, political tides. His gaze jumps between the two of you, measuring distances you can’t see.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he says at last, bowing himself out with commendable speed. “I wouldn’t dream of standing between a dragon and a wolf.”

“Quite,” Baelor says.

The single word is mild, but something in it makes the small hairs on the back of your neck stir.

When his attention returns to you, it feels like a touch. His gaze is steadier now, the flicker from the pillar tempered, banked—but underneath it you can feel something fierce moving, slow and molten, like rock heated just short of glowing.

“May I?” he asks.

It is only proper, you tell yourself, faintly. The crown prince dancing with the heir of Winterfell. A gesture of favour, of unity after rebellion. One more visible thread in the tapestry of a mended realm.

Perfectly sensible.

Your spine still hums from that brief shoulder contact, as if some hidden storm is trying to find its way back onto your horizon. 

“You may, Your Highness.”

His hand finds your waist.

Not as it had in the corridor. That was swift and practical, protective, cutting through a crush to bring you out the other side. This is slower, far more deliberate. Baelor’s palm settles at the narrow curve of you, altogether aware of what that contact means, here, under a hundred watching eyes and listening mouths. His fingers spread, the warmth of his skin seeping through the layers of cloth, anchoring you more surely than your own feet on the rush-strewn floor.

His other hand takes yours. His grip is firm, as if telling your bones: here, with me.

The musicians strike up a fresh tune, this one a fraction slower, more measured, the kind that leaves space for conversation and scandal both.

You step in.

He leads well. Of course he does. Baelor does most things well when anyone might be watching; you are beginning to suspect he does them better when they are. His movements are precise without being stiff, guiding rather than dragging. When he turns you, it feels less like being steered and more like being shown where the space is—here, step here, there is room for you here with me.

“Lord Tyrell seemed reluctant to let you go,” he says lightly as you sweep through the first turn. “I hope I haven’t offended him.”

“I doubt he’ll hold a grudge.” Your mouth feels dry, but your tongue finds the words anyway. “There’s only so angry a man can be at a prince who saves him from standing on my feet.”

“You were perfect,” Baelor says, a little too quickly.

You blink up at him.

His jaw flexes, as if he’s annoyed at himself. “Your footwork,” he clarifies smoothly. “Impeccable.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, soft and surprised. It feels like something tension-struck suddenly cracking, letting air in.

“Careful, Your Highness,” you joke lightly. “People will say you notice my feet.”

“I notice many things,” he says, and there’s an edge under the words that makes heat curl low in your stomach. “Most of which I keep to myself.”

“Such as?” you ask, the question out and hanging between you before prudence can tug it back.

His gaze drops.

It’s not the kind of lingering, obvious rake you could slice apart with a single sharp northern remark. It’s smaller than that, and somehow far worse for it. One heartbeat, he’s looking at your eyes, the next, his attention flicks down, snagging on your mouth.

It catches there.

You feel the change in him; tiny shifts, all internal. The way his hand at your waist tightens infinitesimally. The way the air around you seems to thicken. The way his focus sharpens, narrowing as if the world has reduced itself to the shape and movement of your lips forming whatever word you were about to say.

The rest of the hall blurs at the edges. The rise and fall of the music scoops out the space around you and settles inside your ribs. You’re aware, distantly, of a lady’s high laugh somewhere to your left, of the clink of a cup against a platter, but it all feels far away.

Then, as if he realises precisely what he’s doing, Baelor drags his gaze back up.

You can almost see the muscle of his will working—the way he hauls that impulse up short, reins it back. His fingers tighten fractionally around yours; his hand at your waist flexes like he’s reminding himself of the line between what he wants and what he’s allowed.

You should say something. Tease him, maybe. Break the tension before it pulls too taut.

Instead, what comes out is a slightly breathless, “Such as?”

He swallows.

“Such as,” he says, voice a shade lower now, pitched for you and you alone, “the fact that you look far more at ease standing at the edge of a room than at its centre. And yet you walk into its heart whenever duty asks it of you.”

“That’s hardly a secret.”

You mean for it to be dry, dismissive, but it comes out soft. Your own voice betrays you, wobbling just a little on the first word.

“It is to those who only see the second part.” He sweeps over the planes of your face, searching. “They think courage is never being afraid. They don’t understand that it’s walking forward when you are.”

You blink, thrown off-balance in a way that has nothing to do with the dance.

“I am not afraid.”

Baelor scrutinises you for a long moment as he turns you neatly through a tighter figure, steps never faltering. In his gaze, you see again that look from the night before in the gallery. The softening, the unhooking of some inner brace inside him. As if, with you, he allows himself one breath where he is not entirely prince, entirely Hand, entirely duty.

“No,” he says quietly. “You aren’t. Not of the things they expect, at least.”

“And what do they expect?” you ask.

“Dragons,” he says at once. “Kings. Crowds. The press of eyes.”

His hand at your waist shifts slightly as the pattern brings you closer, your bodies aligning for a few steps before the dance draws you apart again.

“And what am I afraid of, then?” 

You mean it as a challenge, but it doesn’t quite land that way. There’s too much naked curiosity under it. Baelor considers you as he would a difficult piece on a cyvasse board, head tilted just enough that you see the thoughtful crease between his brows.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs at last, “of being turned into a story you didn’t write.”

Your breath catches.

The music swells at that exact moment, as if someone has tugged the thread of your pulse into the harp strings. Your foot almost misses the beat; he feels it and adjusts without thinking, a subtle shift of weight that supports your misstep and smooths it into the pattern so perfectly no one watching would ever know.

“Am I wrong?” he hedges softly.

“No,” you reply, because there’s no point lying to someone who has just laid you open so neatly.

“I know something of that fear,” Baelor admits gently. “The songs they would write about me. The titles they already have waiting for me. Baelor this, Baelor that.” His mouth twists, a flash of bitterness quickly caged. “Sometimes I wonder if there will be anything left of the man when they’re done crowning him.”

The pressure of his hand at your waist feels suddenly less like a claim and more like someone holding on to keep from being swept away.

“Then perhaps,” you begin slowly, feeling for the words as you might feel for a foothold on ice, “we should write our own stories.”

It is a reckless thing to say. In this hall, in this city, under these banners, wolf and dragon talking of writing their own tales. It’s the sort of thought that gives bards verses and kings headaches. But Baelor’s eyes catch on yours, brightening for an instant with something dangerously like recognition. Like agreement. Like hunger.

“What kind of story?” he wonders, still that soft cadence to his words.

“A better one.” It sounds childishly simple. It feels like putting your hand into a dark hole without knowing what’s inside. “One where you’re not just a pointy chair. One where I’m not just a convenient piece on your father’s board.”

“And who are you in that story?” he presses, the words barely clearing his lips, almost lost under the bow’s stroke on the fiddle.

You hold his gaze.

“Myself,” you tell him. “And that will have to be enough.”

Baelor’s hand tightens at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you acutely aware of the shape and reality of his palm, his fingers. As if confirming that you are, in fact, there—solid and warm and not some imagined thing conjured in a lonely mind. Something in his expression shifts again. That softening, yes, but there’s something almost pained in it now. As if he’s been very thirsty for a very long time, and only just now realised what it is he’s been missing.

“It is.” The words sound pulled out of some deep, stubborn place in him. They feel heavy in the air between you. “More than enough.”

The dance carries you in a slow turn around the hall.

You’re aware, dimly, like noticing the weather through a thick wall, of the court watching. The prickle of glances on the back of your neck, on your bared hands, on the line of his palm at your waist. But inside the small circle of Baelor’s arms, the noise is muted.

There is only the steadiness of his lead, the reliable give and take of the steps, the heat of his body a breath away. The weight of his gaze when it betrays him and drops to your mouth again—quick, involuntary—and jerks back up like he’s furious with himself for slipping.

You let yourself smile, just a little, because suddenly you are not afraid of that fury. Not when it isn’t aimed at you.

“Careful, Your Highness,” you breathe once more. “People will say you’re staring.”

“Let them.”

There’s a quiet intensity under it that makes your pulse falter, then race to catch up.

“They’ve said worse,” he adds after a breath.

The music builds toward its final turn, the fiddle climbing, the pipes weaving around it. Baelor spins you out, your skirts flaring, the world momentarily a blur of colour and light at the end of your arm. Then Baelor draws you back in. Closer than the pattern strictly demands. For one suspended instant, your bodies align from chest to knee. You feel the solid line of him, the way his ribs expand with his breath, the heat rolling off him in waves that have nothing to do with the torches.

Your free hand lifts halfway, fingers curling like they want to catch at his shoulder, at the edge of his collar, just to steady yourself.

His breath ghosts warm across your cheek, stirring a stray strand of hair at your temple.

Ice and fire, you think, a little wildly. People always say one must melt for the other to live. Perhaps they’ve never stood this close and felt how both can burn.

The last note hangs, quivering, then falls away.

Baelor releases you with exquisite care, as if he’s setting something fragile down. He steps back just enough to be proper again, distance flicked back into place like a cloak. He bows over your hand. His hair slips forward a little as he does, catching the candlelight. For a second, you think he might bring your knuckles to his mouth.

He doesn’t.

You’re not sure if the lurch in your stomach is relief or disappointment.

“Thank you for the dance, Lady Stark,” he says, voice level again, the prince neatly settled back over the man. “It seems the North has taught you more than how to survive wolves.”

You incline your head, hoping no one can see the way your pulse is hammering at your throat. “And the South,” you manage, “has taught you more than how to burn things.”

His mouth curves again, seemingly helpless against your words. It’s quick, almost secret, there and gone before anyone who isn’t watching him as closely as you are could be sure it was ever there. 

Dragon and wolf, turning together under the eyes of a kingdom that has only just finished bleeding from its last great story.

Inside your chest, something that has always braced for the cold—for snow and stone and the long, patient waiting of northern winters—feels, for the first time, the dizzy, terrifying possibility of choosing the flame instead.

It’s an old northern trick. Head down, shoulders steady, move like a shadow along the wall, a wolf on the prowl unseen but ever watchful. Your father has gone on ahead with the king and his council, leaving you to find your own way back to your chambers. Winterfell’s halls never felt like this. Here, the Red Keep seems to breathe and move around you, full of hot blood and sharper teeth than any wolf. Someone’s sleeve catches on the edge of your own; a jewelled clasp scrapes your wrist, and you jerk back on instinct. You murmur an apology, the words swallowed by the noise, and edge closer to the wall, feeling the rush of bodies pressing past.

That’s when the crowd surges.

The doors behind you open again with a thud, and a fresh crush of courtiers spills out, seemingly all at once. A tall knight in a gilded plate cuts across your path; a lady with a fan like a small battle shield sways into you, chuckling too loudly, flushed from wine. Your shoulder hits stone, and you almost bare your teeth in irritation. The air leaves your lungs in a soft, muffled sound that no one hears. You’re not used to this many people in your space, breathing down your neck, and your neck prickles. 

You don’t see him at first, but you do feel him.

A warm pressure closes around your elbow, steadying you before you can stumble. The grip is sure but careful, fingers splayed so as not to bruise. Before you can turn, that touch slides—down, in, claiming a span of you that no one at court has dared to yet.

His hand finds your waist.

Not a greedy clutch or a drag. But a quiet, decisive claim, palm fitting to the narrowest part of you as if it was always meant to rest there. He doesn’t pull; he guides, the way one might guide a skittish mare out of a tight pen. The heat of his body is at your back, a wall as solid as any of Winterfell’s stones, and suddenly the crowd is no longer pressing you into the wall; he is moving you through it.

“Forgive me, my lady,” a low voice murmurs just behind your ear. “There’s more room this way.”

He steps forward, and you find yourself moving with him, his hand a firm point of balance against your waist. People part without thinking; even in the crush, bodies turn, shoulders dip, conversations falter for half a heartbeat as they register who is passing among them.

Prince Baelor.

You’ve seen him from afar, of course.

At the high table during the welcoming feast, back when you first arrived, where the firelight turned his dark hair copper at the edges. In the training yard, in passing, long-limbed and lethal with a spear, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is and has no need to prove it. Beside the king in council, broad shoulders bent over a table of maps, the Hand pin gleaming across his breast. He carries all three faces with him now—the warrior, the prince, the Hand—as he clears a path for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The southern ladies watch you pass with wide, speculative eyes. Their whispers press in around you like heat, and you know full well what they’re thinking.

A northern wolf on the Crown Prince’s arm.

Not his arm, you think desperately, bones quaking beneath your skin. His hand. His hand is on your—

You barely catch yourself before your feet tangle in the hem of your gown. Baelor’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, fingers curving more securely into the fabric at your waist. Gentle, still, but not in the least uncertain. The contact steals the rest of your breath. You have been shoved and jostled and knocked sideways plenty of times in the past, but this is something different. 

This is a man who knows the weight of his own body, of his own strength, and chooses—deliberately—to make you feel safe beneath his touch.

It is ridiculous how your bones seem to melt around that realisation.

By the time your thoughts catch up, he has manoeuvred you into a small side gallery off the main corridor—a little alcove open to the night, its stone balustrade looking out over the black curve of Blackwater Bay. The noise of the court drops away like a curtain falling. Only a few stragglers pass the archway, casting you quick, curious looks before hurrying on.

Baelor steps back. His hand leaves your waist, the loss of it sharp as stepping out of a hot bath into cold air. Your skin remembers the shape of his fingers even as his touch fades, phantom-strong still.

“My apologies,” he says, giving you space, and God be good, he even bows a little, as if he hasn’t just steadied and steered you through the throng like you weighed less than a sword. “The crowd was… overzealous.”

You swallow, trying to coax your voice back into existence. You have faced down freezing storms and hungry wolves. You have stood before your lord father’s council and spoken on matters of grain and garrison. None of that prepared you for Baelor Breakspear looking at you as if you are the only person in all of King’s Landing who matters at this exact moment.

“It was…” You clear your throat, the words scraping on their way out. “Thank you, Your Grace. I was managing well enough.”

One dark brow lifts, visibly amused. “Were you?”

Sensation of heat creeps up your neck, and you’re unsure if it’s embarrassment or anger, or both. 

He does not resemble the Targaryens of the old songs. No otherworldly silver hair, no jittering violet gaze. Baelor is all warm gold skin and midnight hair already catching a few strands of grey, Dornish sun softened by the formidable Valyrian bone structure. The dragon is in the tilt of his nose, the high cut of his cheekbones, the fine line of his mouth and the steely gleam in his dark eyes.

He looks at you steadily, and you have the unpleasant suspicion he can read more in your silence than you’d like.

“I am not accustomed to so many people,” you manage at last, clasping your hands in front of you so he cannot see them fidget. “Winterfell’s halls are quieter.”

“And colder, I imagine.” His mouth curves, but there is no mockery in it, only curiosity. “Your father has told me tales of snows higher than a man’s head, of wolves the size of ponies.”

“They’re only that big when you’re very small,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Or when the men telling stories have had too much wine.”

He laughs. It’s not loud, not like some of the booming, performative mirth you’ve heard at the feast. It’s low and genuine, like the rumble of distant thunder rolling across the fields in high summer.

“So there are no monstrous beasts lurking in your forests?” he asks.

“Oh, there are,” you say quietly. “They just don’t always have four legs.”

His eyes sharpen on your face. You regret the words as soon as they’re out, but you steel your spine and hold his gaze. The north teaches you to stand firm from a young age; the south seems to require it even more.

“Court can be… trying,” he says after a beat, gentling the subject with care. “Even for those born to it. You’ve only been here a week, my lady. It is no failing to find the noise overwhelming.”

You wonder if he finds it overwhelming, too—the heir to a dynasty unlike any other in the world, the half-Dornish boy who grew into a man caught between too many expectations. You have heard the whispers about his mother’s people, the sneers for his sun-dark skin, the grudging admiration for his skill in battle.

You know what it means to be out of place.

“Winterfell is quiet,” you tell him, surprising yourself. “But it’s a good quiet. Solid. The kind that lets you hear your own thoughts.” You glance back toward the corridor, where the hum of voices still spills past. “Here, it feels like my thoughts are drowned before I can have them.”

Baelor nods, slow, as if weighing your words. “You are your father’s heir, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then they will not be drowned,” he says simply. “They will learn to swim. And those who would prefer not to hear them will have to learn to listen.”

The certainty in his tone startles you more than the feel of his hand had.

“You sound very sure of that, Your Grace.”

“I try to be.” That hint of humour returns, dimming the intensity of his gaze just enough to let you breathe. “It is expected of me. People are comforted by conviction, even when it’s borrowed.”

“That seems… dangerous,” you say. “To borrow conviction.”

“It can be,” he agrees with a pleased nod. “So it’s important to borrow from the right people.”

His eyes catch yours. For a moment, the air between you feels as thick as honey and twice as warm.

“And who do you borrow from?” you ask curiously, because your mouth is braver than your good sense.

“From those who know how to stand in the cold,” he says softly, “and do not flinch.”

The world narrows in, down to the shape of him against the torchlit stone, the calm weight of his attention. You have never felt so acutely the distance between your body and someone else’s. A step. Less than that, maybe. You remember the heat of his palm through your gown, the steady line of his fingers, the way the crowd parted as if he carried his own weather with him.

There are worse storms to be caught in, you think.

A shout from the main corridor breaks whatever held the moment taut. A serving boy runs past the archway, chased by another, laughter echoing behind them. The spell shivers and eases, dispelling. Baelor straightens a little, the prince’s mantle settling more visibly around his shoulders again.

“May I see you safely back to your chambers, my lady?” he asks. “It seems I’ve already half-abducted you from the feast. I’d rather not leave you to brave the crush alone again.”

“That’s not necessary,” you begin automatically. “I won’t wish to trouble you.”

Northerners do not like to seem fragile; Starks, least of all.

He tilts his head. “Indulge me, then.”

You hesitate. You can hear the court whispering already, if you close your eyes. The northern lady on the prince’s arm. The wolf at the dragon’s side. Oh, what tales they’ll spin out of the sight of you side by side, and yet…

You are tired of being a story told by others.

“I suppose,” you say, unable to scrub the wariness out of your voice, “if Your Grace insists…”

The grin that answers you is brief but unexpectedly bright, one quick flash of unguarded warmth that softens the stern, strong angles of his face.

“I do,” he says, offering his arm.

You place your hand on his forearm, careful, aware of every point of contact. The fine fabric beneath your palm, the solid muscle beneath that, the way his skin heats the air between you. When you step back into the corridor, you feel the weight of a hundred eyes. You hold your head high, the way your mother taught you before she died. A Stark does not bow to the weather, you remind yourself. Starks are of old blood, steel and ice, everlasting. 

When you step back into the corridor, the noise washes over you in a hot wave. Laughter, clattering plates, the distant shrill of a pipe. The torches spit and smoke, scenting the air with pitch and singed dust.

You feel every pair of eyes. Every turn of a jewelled head.

Baelor moves as if he does not. As if the crowd is nothing more than a current he’s long since learned to read. A subtle shift of his shoulders here, a courteous incline of his head there, and the sea parts for him in due deference. The hush that follows your wake is thin but perceptible, like the trail of a blade through water. When a young lord, flushed and unsteady, staggers too close, Baelor’s free hand comes up between you and the impending collision. His palm brushes low at your side—just a ghost of contact at your waist as he guides the man past with a quiet word.

It is almost nothing.

Almost.

Your breath slows in your lungs. Your body knows the shape of that hand now; your bones seem to bow under it like a sword under a smithy’s hammer. The place where his fingers rest for that heartbeat feels branded. He does not look down at you right away. It would be too much, you think, to meet his eyes in the same moment his hand is on your body. Instead, he steers you past another knot of courtiers, past a herald arguing with a servant over spilt wine.

Only when the press thins a little does he speak.

“How are you finding the south, my lady?” he asks lightly, as if making idle conversation in a garden instead of cutting a path through a hall of vipers. “Truly. Not the answer you give my father.”

The honest answer rises, sharp and instinctive, before you can dress it in courtesy.

“It’s… overwhelming,” you admit warily. “Too hot. Too loud. Too much of everything, all at once.” The words taste like snowmelt and iron on your tongue. “The walls feel close, and the sky feels far. It smells of roses and rot.”

Baelor’s mouth twitches. “Rot?” he echoes, visibly amused. “I’m not sure the Master of Whisperers has turned that phrase yet. I’ll be sure he hears it.”

Heat flickers up your neck again, this time at your own lack of tact. “I did not mean—”

“I asked for truth,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “And you gave it to me. It is… rarer here than you might think.”

He glances sideways at you then, eyes catching the torchlight. There’s humour there, yes, but something else coils beneath it, something like relief.

“What does Winterfell smell of?” he asks curiously, keeping an easy, unhurried pace. “When it is not buried in snow tall as a man.”

The corridor takes a slight bend, opening up, awashed in the golden glow of torches. Your skirts whisper against the rushes; your fingers flex once against his sleeve, steadying yourself more than your feet require.

“Pine and smoke,” you answer, unable to keep the wishful note out of your voice. “Wet stone. Horse and leather and cold iron. The kennels, if the wind is wrong.” Your mouth curves despite yourself. “Wet wool, too, in winter. Everything smells faintly of wet wool.”

“And you miss that?” His tone is faintly incredulous. “Kennels and wet wool?”

You think of empty courtyards glazed with frost; of dark pine branches loaded with snow, bending but not breaking. Of the comforting roughness of your father’s cloak around your shoulders, scratchy and heavy and honest because back home, words and oaths are sacred. The weight of awareness you get whenever you sit next to the weirwood trees, feeling like every Stark whose come before you is pressing their attention into your skin, urging you forward. 

“Yes,” you say simply. “Very much.”

His smile softens, the sharp edges of his face easing for a moment into something almost boyish despite the faint brushes of grey you glimpse across the scruff on his face and temples.

“You sound homesick, Lady Stark.”

“I am,” you admit, more bare than you would care to admit. “But I suppose homesickness is easier to bear than being foolish.”

“Foolish?”

“To be offered a place at court and complain that the tapestries are the wrong colour,” you say dryly. “The south has… beauty. Even if it shouts it.” Your gaze snags on a high-arched window, on the spill of moonlight over red stone. “I don’t know yet if I like it. But I can’t say it’s dull.”

A low huff of laughter escapes Baelor. “That may be the kindest thing anyone has said about King’s Landing in years. Not dull. I’ll inform the small council that we can put it on the banners.”

You hazard a sidelong look at him, emboldened by your own honesty. “And what does it feel like to you, Your Grace?” you wonder aloud, scanning the mighty stone structure. “This city. This court. You were not born to it either, not entirely.”

His jaw moves, a small shift beneath sun-browned skin. The hand on your arm remains steady, heavy weight.

“It feels,” he replies slowly, “like standing in a room where everyone is shouting in a language you learned late. You know the words. You know what to say. But some part of you is always listening for a cadence that never comes.”

“Dorne,” you say softly.

“My mother,” he corrects, just as soft. “And the Marches. And the men I fought beside in the Stepstones who never cared what name my grandfather bore. Here, everything is flattery and intrigue. There, it was whether you held the line.”

You imagine him not in a gilded plate but in plain mail gone tacky with salt and blood; imagine that same steady hand closing around a spear instead of your arm, ending lives instead of preserving them. A man who knows the weight of his own strength, and the weight of others’ lives in it.

“That sounds lonely,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His gaze flicks to your face. “It is,” he admits, much to your surprise. “Sometimes. But then, I suppose any place where you must be two things at once is lonely.”

You swallow.

“I know something of that. Stark and heir. Daughter and—” You cut yourself off, teeth closing on the word. Lady. The one who will have to be hard enough for both, a placeholder until you marry and your sons inherit Winterfell instead. “The hall looks very different when you sit in your father’s chair instead of standing before it.”

He hums, a thoughtful, rumbling sound. “Do you miss being only one thing?” he questions, but you can tell it’s not an attempt to pry, and more so genuine curiosity he’s indulging in.

You consider his question properly, rather than offering him the fabricated response that would be safer. You’re nearing the quieter wings now, where guest chambers sleep behind thick doors, and the clamour of court is more blissfully muffled, giving you a moment to hear each other properly.

“I miss,” you say at last, “having room to make mistakes where fewer people could see.”

He laughs again at that, a warm, surprised sound that feels less like thunder and more like the crackle of a hearth catching.

“You may find,” he retorts, a smile in his voice, “that most of us are still making mistakes. We’re just better at pretending they were intentional.”

“That sounds very southern,” you say primly.

“Oh, it is,” Baelor agrees with a low huff. “We dress our errors in silk and call them a plan.”

A smile tugs at your mouth, reluctant but real. “In the north, we bury ours in the snow and pretend they were never there.”

“I’ve heard,” he says mildly, “that the things buried in the north have a way of walking again.”

You meet his eyes properly then, the weight of his words settling between you like a stone dropped in deep water. For a heartbeat, you think you see something there—a question, perhaps, or a warning, or recognition.

“That depends,” you say, voice low, “on what you put in the ground.”

His gaze lingers on you. The world tilts, just slightly. Then he exhales, the moment easing.

“I see,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I shall try not to offend your gods, then. I’m told they prefer honesty as well.”

“Yes,” you say, fingers tightening briefly on his sleeve. “They do.”

You turn another corner together. The torches here burn lower; the stones are cooler underfoot. The murmur of the feast has dulled to a distant roar, like the sea against cliffs. He slows as you reach the stretch of corridor that leads to your chamber. You recognise the heavy-carved door at the far end, the two guards posted discreetly beyond it—Stark men, standing a little straighter as the prince approaches.

Baelor comes to a halt a few paces short, so you are not under their direct gaze. Only then does he gently disengage his arm, leaving your hand suspended stupidly in the air for an instant before you recall it to yourself. The loss of contact is abrupt, like stepping out from under a fur cloak into naked winter wind. You feel the awareness of him along your skin where he is not touching you.

“Here we are,” he says quietly. “Unabducted, as promised.”

You huff, the sound almost a laugh. “I don’t recall giving you leave to abduct me in the first place, Your Grace.”

His eyes glint. “Ah, but I recall saving you from assault by silk and steel in the king’s own hall. We might call it a kidnapping in your defence.”

You dare a little tilt of your chin. “If you wished to impress a northern lord, Your Grace, I fear you would have to drag me over your shoulder rather than lead me politely by the arm.”

The grin that flashes across his face is quick and wicked, gone almost before it fully forms, a glint of heat entering andleaving his gaze in a blink.

“Duly noted,” he murmurs, and there is something in his tone that makes your stomach dip. “I will revise my tactics should the need arise.”

You hold his gaze, somehow impossibly darker in the shadowed hall, but it does not frighten you. There’s no ill will to be found on his face, and while you’re well aware men can be deceitful and hide their intent well, there’s something in the prince’s expression that eases your hackles down. 

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, your gazes locked. 

“Thank you,” you say finally, because Stark courtesy runs as deep as Stark stubbornness. You dip your head in a grateful half-bow. “For your help. And for asking how I fare and not how my father thinks I fare.”

“You are very welcome,” he returns promptly, unblinking as his gaze slides across the planes of your face. “It is… a relief, Lady Stark, to speak to someone who does not answer every question with flattery or a calculation.”

You hesitate, then venture, “You seem to me a man who does many calculations, Your Grace.”

“Oh, I do,” Baelor admits, amused again, skin around his eyes crinkling like he’s pleased you noticed. “But every now and then I like to remember what it is to simply listen.”

Something in your chest loosens at that. “I hope, then,” you say, “that I did not disappoint.”

His gaze sweeps your face again, and you feel it like a touch—cool across your brow, warm along your cheek, skimming over the curve of your lips so swiftly you would have missed it had you not been watching him just as closely.

“On the contrary,” he murmurs. “You have given me more to think on than half the lords I’ve spoken with this fortnight.”

Your throat feels too dry, but you still force yourself to speak. “That seems unwise,” you manage after a beat. “To let a homesick northerner trouble the mind of the king’s Hand.”

Baelor inclines his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he says, a small wrinkle appearing between his strong brows. “Or perhaps that is exactly the mind I should be troubled by.”

The words hang there, a small, bright spark in the dim corridor. You glance away first, pulse thrumming in your ears while you fight to keep your expression perfectly schooled. 

“We have kept late enough hours,” you begin, retreating a half step into politeness because you can feel the ground tilting under your feet. “I should not take more of your time, Your Grace.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Baelor,” he says, almost too low to hear.

You blink. “…Your Grace?”

“If we are to be honest with one another,” he continues, a glint back in his eye, “it seems unfair that you have given me snow and rot and wet wool, and I have given you only titles. You may call me Baelor when we are not being watched, if you wish.”

Your heart gives a single, startled thud. “That would be… irregular,” you acknowledge faintly.

“Nearly everything worth doing is,” he replies quietly, then his tone gentles. “But I will not press it upon you, my lady. I know wolves walk slowly with their trust.”

You draw in a breath that tastes of stone dust and something else. Metal, maybe, or dragonfire, that these halls still recall from the age when dragons still flew through the skies.

“Then you must allow me a compromise,” you hear yourself say. “It would not do for word to spread that I address the Crown Prince like an old friend after a single walk down a hallway.”

“Of course not,” he says solemnly, though you can see laughter waiting at the edge of his mouth.

“So instead,” you continue, feeling oddly reckless, “you’ll have to endure something only a little less improper.”

His brows rise, waiting patiently. You give him the full weight of your Stark gaze, cool and steady, and bow your head just enough that it could be courtesy or defiance.

“Good night,” you say, every word measured, “my Lord Prince.”

The title should sound stiff, far too formal on your tongue. It does not. It sounds like a jest between the two of you alone, like you’ve taken his rank and wrapped it in something warmer. For a heartbeat, he just scrutinises you. Then that smile breaks over Baelor’s face again—real and surprised and vividly, disarmingly pleased, making him look moons younger. It softens the battle-hardened angles of his handsome face, turns him from statue, a fable, to man, flesh and blood.

“Lady Stark,” he answers, and now it is you who feels seen, the words settling over your shoulders like a cloak sewn to your exact measure. “Sleep well. Try not to dream too unkindly of our rot and roses.”

“I shall do my best, my Lord Prince,” you say dryly. “Though I make no promises about the roses.”

He laughs, low and delighted. It feels like a secret you’ve earned. He steps back then, just enough to bow properly. It is not the deep, sweeping gesture he gives the queen or the king, but neither is it the perfunctory nod you’ve seen him grant lesser lords. It is something in between, tailored to fit this narrow stretch of corridor and the strange, fragile thing that has grown between you in it.

When he straightens, he looks briefly, dangerously as if he might say more, ask more. But the guards at the end of the hall shift, armour chinking, and the spell trembles, coming apart at the seams.

“Good night,” he says again, more composed. “May the gods—old and new—watch your rest.”

You incline your head once more, fingers curled tight in your skirts to keep from fidgeting, then turn toward your door before your resolve can crack.

You feel his gaze on your back all the way to the threshold.

Only when the door has shut behind you, and you are alone with the banked fire and the distant, muffled roar of the city, do you let yourself sag against the wood. Your heart beats high and wild in your throat, like a trapped bird. You cross to the window on unsteady legs. Blackwater Bay lies beyond, a dark, glimmering curve, torchlight from the harbour pricking its surface like fallen stars. The night air that slides in is cooler, but still heavy compared to home. It smells of salt and smoke and something metallic underneath.

You press your palm to your waist, to the place where his hand rested. Your fingers span only half the space his did; the memory of his touch burns in the gap between, forcing a shiver.

It is absurd, how it unsettles you. How a single hand at your waist, a single walk down a crowded hall, a single traded jest—Lady Stark. My Lord Prince—can make the Red Keep feel… altered. Tilted, as if someone has shifted its weight on the hill by a fraction of an inch. 

The south is still too bright, too loud, too hot. The air still feels crowded. You still miss the honest cold of Winterfell with a dull ache that never quite leaves your bones. But tonight, when you close your eyes, you do not only see red stone and leering gargoyles and tapestries heavy with dust and history of blood and fire. You see a prince who moved through a crush of bodies as if they were nothing but reeds in a current, who put his hand between you and the world and did not once pretend you were a burden to bear.

You hear his low voice sounding out Lady Stark as if it is a name he chose for himself, not one sewn onto you at birth. You hear your own, reckless tongue calling him my Lord Prince as if the words can both tease and test at once.

Later, much later, you will understand that this was the first time you spoke to one another not as pieces on a board—north and crown, wolf and dragon—but as two people standing in the same crowded, suffocating hall, both trying to remember how to breathe.

For now, you only know this:

In a place that still does not feel like yours, under a sky that feels too far away, someone reached out and steadied you without demanding anything in return.

If dragons can learn to move carefully, you think, fingertips pressed to the phantom mark of his palm, perhaps wolves can learn to bear the heat.

Scarcely two weeks had past since you had been placed within the retinue of Kiera of Tyrosh, the beloved wife of Prince Valarr Targaryen, presented with moderate ceremony in one of the many halls of the castle, before half a dozen watching and scrutinising ladies. Your grandmother had overseen every single stitch of the gown you wore that day, hawk-eyed and unsparing.  

“Not too ostentatious,” She had hissed, bony fingers tugging at the sleeve. “But not forgettable.”

The sigil of your House had been embroidered subtly along the cuffs of the sleeve, visible to any who looked closely. It was meant to whisper lineage without begging for notice. 

Lady Kiera had received you with grace that day. The Tyroshi princess possessed a soft voice and careful manners. She had spoken kindly to you, warmly even. But you could not say the same for the rest of the household.

The other women of her retinue had measured you with polite smiles and narrowed eyes, from the dainty pieces of jewelry you wore in your hair, down to what you had worn on your feet. They knew why girls like you were sent to court. You were not there to merely pour wine, or carry messages. You were there to be seen, to be chosen, to be advantageous. 

You were meant to glide through this world as though perfectly born to it. Instead, you felt as though you were forever a step behind the music.

You now stood between two towering shelves, heavy with the histories of Old Valyria, your fingers curled into the skirts of your dressto keep them from shaking. The silk had been imported from Qarth, her father and grandmother had insisted on it, and dyed a rich colour that marked your House. It caught the candlelight beautifully. 

You had been proud to wear it at first, but now it felt like armor too heavy for your shoulders.

You pressed your mouth close against the sound that was threatening to escape your throat. You would not sob. You would not!

Eldest daughters do not sob.

Eldest daughters secure futures.

Eldest daughters win over alliances.

If your grandmother could see you now, she would be livid. A woman from your House did not weep in shadowed corridors. A woman of your House did not skulk between shelves like a frightened little girl.

The words rang sharp and restless in your mind.

At the same time, the hidden pocket sewn into your skirt was heavy with your father’s letter. It had been opened and folded so many times that the creases had begun to gray.

“You will shine, daughter.” He had written. “Remember why you’re there.”

As if you could forget.

A fortnight at the Royal Court had taught you more than home ever had. You had learned how laughter could slice without drawing blood. How admiration and how words could be measured like coin, offered only when it profited the giver. How even the kindness from the great ladies often carried calculation beneath its courtesy.

Lady Kiera was gracious, you had to admit. You could not accuse her of mistreatment or cruelty. But she was surrounded by women born into influence, women who had navigated courts since girlhood. And they watched. And they weighed. And they judged.

Every night, you replayed every conversation you had had, counting any missteps. Had you spoken too quickly or too softly? Had you smiled enough or too much? You could not help but feel that you were failing at every step.

A tear escaped despite your best efforts, despite your resolve, sliding hot and humiliating down your cheek. Your throat burned, as if you had swallowed smoke. You drew in a trembling breath, then another, and then another, fighting for control. 

Turning further into the shadows between the shelves, you pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, biting your lower lip, willing the sound that threatened to come back to retreat.

You would not sob like a child. You would not, you could not… The tremor in your breath refused to obey. It slipped free from you anyway, soft, humiliating.

“I would not recommend The Doom of Valyria for comfort reading.”

A voice came from the end of the aisle. It was not sharp or mocking.  It carried a low, measured warmth that did not belong to the draft-prone corridors of the Red Keep. You froze, your breath catching violently enough that you feared you might choke. Slowly, you turned, blinking through your wet lashes.

Prince Baelor Targaryen stood at the end of the narrow passage between shelves, one hand resting lightly against a spine of a book, as though he had paused mid-selection. 

You had seen him before. Not closely though, never closely.

You had seen him across courtyards, from the far end of long tables, in council chambers you were not meant to linger. He was not loud in the way princes were in the stories her Septa had told to her and her sisters. He did not laugh loudly, nor allow his temper to show. He listened as though words were coins, and he meant to spend none carelessly. You had seen how he spoke to courtiers, to council-members and servants. There was never rebuke or scorn found in his words. Admiration had taken root in you before you realised it had been planted at all. But you had not been sent to court to admire princes who were beyond your reach.

He was the Crown Prince, the Hand of the King, a man seasoned by war and council both. You were a fortnight at court and already nearly in tears in a library. You had no right to such fantasies.

Yet you had found yourself marking his presence in rooms without truly meaning to. The steadiness of him, the quiet charm and grace. The gravity that seemed to gather around him like a cloak.

And now he was here, in front of you. 

The candlelight traced the lines of his face. The strong, thoughtful set of his brow, the beard threaded faintly with grey, kept neat and close. His dark doublet was newly changed, charcoal and black, the silver Hand of the King with the dragon scales pinned at his breast catching the light with a restrained gleam.

He had changed his clothes before supper. That was the first absurd thought that crossed your mind. The second was that he was far more handsome at arm’s length than he had ever been from across the hall, in the quiet, commanding way of a man accustomed to being obeyed and yet not too eager to command.

His mismatched eyes, one dark brown and the other light blue, same as his sons’, were fixed on you. 

You dropped into a curtsy too quickly, vision blurring, nearly tangling yourself in the silk of your dress. “Your grace! Forgive me, I did not mean to-”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” His voice was low and gentle, the sort that did not need to be raised to be heard.

“I fear I startled you.” He added, not stepping closer. “That was not my intent.”

Your cheeks burned hotter than the candles lining the table beyond. You were painfully aware of your reddened eyes, of the tears you had not managed to hide. Could the floor swallow you whole?

“I shall leave at once.” You said quickly. “I would not intrude upon-”

“You are not intruding.” The words were firm. His gaze flickered to your face, to the tears you had failed to wipe away, and then, deliberately, he looked aside to spare you the humiliation of being examined when in distress.

He moved then, coming a step closer, but remaining a respectful distance. A small linen square appeared in his hand. He extended it, not pressing it upon you, merely offering it.

“In case the dust proves troublesome.” He said, a faint smile on his mouth. 

A lifeline offered, as though it were nothing at all.

You stared at the handkerchief for a long moment. Then you crossed the distance between you and took it, your fingers gently brushing against his.

The contact was fleeting, but it felt like striking flint.

“Thank you, your Grace.” You said timidly, dabbing at your eyes. The linen was clean, scented with mint and fresh flowers. “You are very kind.”

“The Red Keep is not always so.” He replied. He tilted his head slightly to the side, considering you. “One must balance it, when one can.”

You managed a small smile of your own.

Silence settled between you, but it did not last long, as words tumbled out of you in your need to disrupt it.

“I did not think princes had time to visit libraries.”

“I do not, I’m afraid.” He admitted, glancing at the shelves. “Though I wish I did. It is the only place in the Red Keep where no one demands something of me.”

The confession was quiet, almost wry. It felt like you were let in on a little secret. 

“I feel the same way.” You said before caution could catch up.

Something passed over his eyes. Something akin to recognition.

He moved towards the long table nearby and drew out a chair. He did not sit, he waited. 

You frowned faintly, confused at his actions.

“For you to decide,” he explained gently, “whether you prefer solitude… or company.”

Baelor said that so simply, but they struck you harder than any barbed remark from the ladies in Kiera’s retinue. No one had asked your preference in anything since you arrived. Not even in your father’s hall had such questions been posed without some sort of expectation behind them.

You still hesitated. You could almost hear the shrill voice of your grandmother, admonishing you. You do not deny a prince of the realm.

But this did not feel like a command, it felt like a choice that was yours alone to make. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, before softly saying: “Company.”

Something in his expression softened at that. He inclined his head and only took his seat once you had taken yours opposite him, after having reached for a nearby volume. 

Minutes passed. Your breathing steadied, and the tightness of your throat loosened. You clutched his handkerchief loosely in your lap.

You stole glances at him when you thought he would not notice. He did not truly read, his fingers tracing absently along the edge of the pages. His shoulders, broad beneath dark wool, seemed heavier now in stillness than they ever had across a hall. Up close, you saw the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, earned by laughter and strain. Responsibility clung to him as tangibly as the silver Hand at his breast.In the candlelight, he seemed less of a prince at that moment, and more a man worn thin by the stress and expectations of his station. Yet unbowed by it.

You had heard whispers of his fairness in council, how he listened even to those beneath him. How he did not mock weakness, nor tolerate cruelty. It had been that steadiness that had first drawn your foolish admiration. Now, sitting across from him in the hush of the library, the feeling deepened into something warmer.

“I am afraid I will fail…” You said suddenly, the confession slipping free before your pride could catch it.

He lifted his gaze to you at once. “Fail at what?” 

“At… at what I was sent to do.” Heat rushed to your face, your eyes dropping to the handkerchief. “My father… he…” It felt disloyal to speak of pressure, especially in front of him. “He believes I may be of use.”

“Use?” Baelor repeated unkindly.

You nodded. “To my house.”

When he answered, his voice lowered. “Serving your house, wanting to do so, that is no failing.”

“But…” Your voice cracked. “I do not think I am suited to this place.”

A faint sigh left him. 

“No one is.” He said softly. “We endure it. Some may learn to shape it, if they are fortunate.”

You looked up then. He was watching you fully now, not as a prince assessing a courtier or petitioner, not as a man weighing advantage, but as one person listening to another. There was no calculation in his expression, like you found in so many others. Only attention.

“How long have you been here? A fortnight?” He asked, pulling you ways from your tangled thoughts.

“Yes…”

“The Red Keep requires longer than that to defeat a person.”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You clapped your hand over your mouth, mortified.

But his mismatched eyes warmed, faint amusement lighting them.

“There.” He said “You see? It has not defeated you yet.”

“Your grace… my prince,” You asked before sense could intervene. “Why are you so kind to me?”

For a heartbeat you feared you had overstepped, as the question hung in the air. But he did not bristle.

“Because you were crying.” He answered simply. “And because this castle… this court is seldom gentle.”

Something shifted in you then, a warmth spreading low through your chest and stomach, unfamiliar in its tenderness. Fresh tears threatened to fall, so you stood quickly instead, smoothing your skirts.

“I have taken too much of your time.”

”You have taken none.”

You curtsied properly this time.

“Thank you, my prince.”

You extended your hand, offering his handkerchief back.

“Keep it.” He said, that smile from before returning.

As you stepped between the shelves, his voice reached you once more.

“You need not shine all at once. Stars that burn too brightly attract hunters.”

You paused, turning slightly towards him. “And what of those who burn quietly?”

He held her gaze. “They endure.”

You left a steadier step than the one that brought you to the library. You would replay every word Baelor said to you before sleep claimed you. You knew you would scold yourself for the warmth spreading in your chest, when you remembered his eyes and the brief brush of fingers against yours.

But for the first time since arriving at court, you did not feel alone within its walls.

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No one had foreseen it—the great spring sickness that swept through Westeros, sparing neither noble nor smallfolk. Few survived more than a day once the fever took hold. Baelor Breakspear had come perilously close himself. Each dawn brought news of another maid, another sworn sword, another child carried out wrapped in linen.

Yet nothing struck him like the word that his niece, Aelora Targaryen—eldest daughter of his brother Rhaegel and Alys Arryn—had fallen ill.

It demanded more courage than any tourney field to face her now. She was the one weakness he had never confessed, the love he had long condemned in others of his blood.

When he entered her chambers, the air was stifling. Curtains drawn tight, braziers dim. She lay pale as moonlight, trembling beneath heavy furs, her nightgown damp with sweat clinging to her fragile frame.

“Niece,” he said gravely, posture rigid, every inch the prince.

He dismissed the maesters for a time. He did not trust his voice to betray how deeply he feared a realm without her—or a life he could not endure.

She sat up, the covers slipping into her lap and revealing the white nightgown clinging to her fever-warmed body. “Uncle,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard at the sight of her, his eyes involuntarily tracing the outline of her body through the thin fabric. The fever had stolen her usual color, leaving her cheeks hollow and eyes sunken, but she was still...his Aelora. "You should be resting," he scolded gently.

“I can’t,” she murmured. “Thinking keeps me awake.” She coughed softly into one of the many cloths.

He picked up the cloth, his large hands gentle as he wrung it out in a basin of cool water. "Too much thinking will make you worse," he murmured, as he cleaned the bloodied cloth, a job for servants or a maester.

She studied the rigid line of his back, the stiffness in his shoulders unmistakable even in the dim light. The muscles beneath his attire were drawn tight, as if he were bracing against something unseen. “You’re tense,” she said quietly, her voice still rough from illness, but certain.

He paused, the cloth dripping water onto the stone floor. "The realm is tense," he said evenly, not turning to face her. "The sickness takes too many. The king grows impatient. The gods seem deaf." He finally turned, meeting her eyes with that familiar sternness. "You should not concern yourself with my burdens."

She nodded faintly, then stretched, the movement slow and languid despite her weakness. The sheets rustled softly as she shifted, easing herself back against the pillows and turning her head to the side, letting it rest there as if the weight of it had become too much to hold upright.

He watched her stretch, his eyes involuntarily following the lines of her body beneath the thin nightgown. The movement made her chest heave slightly, drawing his gaze to her breasts before he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. "You should not exert yourself,"

“I am well…” she said, though her voice wavered, the pause lingering as if even she did not quite believe it.

"...For now," he interrupted firmly, approaching the bed. "But the fever can return without warning. You're weak from it already." He paused, his hand unconsciously moving to rest on the bedpost near her shoulder.

“Could you call a maid, Uncle? I need to change…” she said softly, her gaze lowering as if the request cost her more than she wished to show.

"Of course," he replied immediately, moving to pull the bell cord that would summon a servant. As he did, he leaned close to adjust her pillows, his arm brushing against hers. A faint scent of sandalwood and leather—his personal scent—wafted over her.

“You smell nice…” she murmured, the words escaping almost absently, as though she hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

He froze, his arm still supporting the pillow. For a moment, he didn't move or speak, his breath catching slightly. When he did speak, his voice was rougher than before. "It's just my soap," he said dismissively, stepping back as a maid entered the room.

She looked at him for a moment longer, her gaze lingering as though searching for something in his expression. Then she turned her attention to the maid, her composure settling back into place.

"Princess?" The maid curtsied, noting the princess's flushed cheeks and disheveled appearance. "Would you like me to help you change?" She asked softly, glancing between the princess and the prince, sensing an undercurrent she didn't quite understand.

“Yes… thank you…” she said softly, the words trailing off as though she lacked the strength to give them more weight.

As the maid approached, Baelor turned abruptly and walked towards the window, his back to the room. He stood there, looking out at the gardens of the Red Keep in Kings Landing, his hands clasped behind his back. The maid helped Aelora change into a fresh nightgown, chattering softly as she worked.

She watched his back as he chose to remain in the chambers, the tense line of his shoulders making her pause. Then she shifted her gaze back to the maid, raising her hands in quiet readiness.

The maid peeled off the sweat-soaked nightgown, revealing Aelora's pale skin and the lingering marks of sickness. Baelor's jaw tightened as he heard the rustle of fabric but did not turn. His shoulders were rigid, fists clenched against his cloak. "All done, princess," the maid announced cheerfully. "Shall I bring broth?"

“No need—” she began, but didn’t have time to finish before he spoke up, his voice final and unyielding.

"She needs broth," Baelor interrupted sharply, still facing the window. His voice was commanding, leaving no room for argument. The maid curtsied quickly and hurried out. As soon as she left, Baelor turned around slowly.

His eyes swept over her form, pausing briefly at her face before moving down to her thin arms and the nightgown that hung loosely on her frame. He approached the bed, stopping a few steps away. "You should be in bed," he said gruffly, gesturing to the pillows.

“And you have many obligations other than being here, Uncle…” she said, offering a weak, tired smile.

"None greater than this," he said quietly, the admission slipping out before he could stop it. His hand flexed at his side, fists unclenching. The broth arrived in short order, and he dismissed the maid with a sharp nod. He sat on the edge of a chair near the bed, arms crossed. "Eat. I'll stay until you do."

She slipped under the covers, her eyes lingering on the tapestry above her bed. Slowly, she began to eat, though her appetite was barely there, each bite more out of routine than hunger.

He watched her pick at the broth, his expression unreadable. After a few moments of silence, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. "Aelora," he said softly but firmly enough to command her attention. She turned her head towards him reluctantly. "More," he ordered gently but insistently.

Her throat worked as she swallowed, but he saw the effort it cost her. He stood, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside her—he sat closer than duty allowed. His hand reached for the spoon, taking it from her fingers. "Open," he commanded, his voice low. The bowl trembled between them.

He spooned out another mouthful, holding it to her lips. "Swallow," he instructed, his gaze locked onto her mouth. She swallowed obediently, her throat bobbing. He fed her like this, one spoonful at a time, his hand brushing against her lips with each feeding.

As he fed her the last spoonful, his fingers lingered against her bottom lip. For a moment, he seemed frozen, his blue eyes darkened with an emotion he quickly concealed. He pulled back abruptly, standing and setting the empty bowl aside. "Rest," he ordered gruffly, turning away to compose himself.

She lay back, her eyes drifting upward to the canopy above, tracing its folds as if seeking comfort in the familiar shapes.

He heard her settle into the pillows, the mattress creaking softly beneath her slight weight. He should have left. The council was waiting. The king—his father—needed decisions. Instead, he stood frozen by the bed, his hands trembling at his sides. "I will return later," he said quietly, not moving an inch.

“Thank you, Uncle…” she murmured softly, her voice carrying a hint of gratitude and fatigue.

His heart clenched at the title, a bitter reminder of their relationship. He didn't correct her, just nodded stiffly. "Sleep," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

You tried to gasp in a breath but there was a weight pinning you down. Smoke burned your lungs and your eyes. Your left arm couldn't move but you were able to bring your right hand up to wipe your face, trying to clear your vision. The only light in the rubble came from a shower of sparks a few feet away, emitting from a panel half-ripped from the wall. There was very little to orientate yourself by.

"Hello?" you tried to call but you couldn't take a deep enough breath to yell. The muffled ring in your ears told you that at least one of your eardrums had ruptured.

Evaluate, you thought in the tone you used when triaging patients, shoving down a wave of panic. You tried to squeeze out from under whatever was pressed across your back. No good, too much weight.

There wasn't a tremendous amount of pain but you worried at the numbness from your waist down, behind whatever was restraining you.

Evaluate.

You tested moving your legs, your feet, your toes. It felt strange but yes, you had movement.

Spinal cord potentially compromised but not severed, you diagnosed as clinically as possible.

Something overhead gave an alarming groan.

Alert help. Report your position.

"Hello? I'm by the crane operator booth. Can anyone hear me?"

You couldn't get the volume you wanted and you automatically tried to inhale deeper. You couldn't and had to fight another wave of panic. The animal part of your brain wanted to claw the twisted metal of the deck, trying to squirm free, but when you twitched, something above you groaned again.

You had no way to know how perilous the collapsed structure was. A wrong move could bring it all down.

A fresh wave of smoke irritated your nose and you coughed weakly. From far away, you heard the muffled sound of a woman saying your rank and last name.

"Here," you choked out. "I'm here."

A blue light shimmered a few feet away, the lower half of a blue-tinted woman, her upper body phased through the rubble. Then she shrank until she fit the space, adjusting like a camera lens. A hologram.

She repeated your rank and last name. "We have your location," she said, your damaged hearing distorting her voice. "Sit tight, a rescue crew is on their way."

You tried to respond but the smoke triggered more coughing, so you nodded.

"I'll stay with you for as long as the holo-emiter holds," she said, gesturing towards the ruined wall panel that continued to spark.

"Thank you," you managed to say. "Casualties?"

She glanced up and away as if receiving new information. "Reports coming in of injuries but no fatalities. Your alert gave enough time for almost everyone to get clear."

"Good." You made yourself slow your breathing down, taking shallow breaths since you couldn't take deeper ones. For a moment, your head swam and it felt like the floor tipped. Your fingers scratched for a hold on the crumpled metal.

The sound of your rank and name cut through the terror. "You're all right," the woman assured you. "You're not falling. Try to stay still. Silver Team will be back on site in a few more minutes. John will be here soon."

It gave you something to focus on other than bring trapped. The way she knew that the mention of John would comfort you, that she didn't call him Master Chief like most people did, even the mannerism of how she'd looked away, like someone was speaking in her ear...

"Your name wouldn't be Ms. Classified, would it?" you asked haltingly and tried to smile.

"That's... not inaccurate," she said and maybe it was your blurry vision but you could've sworn she gave you a fond smile, like she knew you. "I'm not supposed to tell my name."

You tried to say it was all right but couldn't draw enough breath.

"Ah, screw it," she said. "What are they going to do, fire me? My name is Cortana."

You must've blacked out because the next thing you knew, she was kneeling next to you, her small holographic hand resting atop your outstretched arm as she repeated your rank and name.

If you could get a breath, you needed a good, solid breath. Your chest instinctively fought to expand but couldn't beneath the pressure bearing down on your back. Something above you slid and the pressure abruptly worsened. You clawed, you fought, you struggled to breathe. To live.

"John, get here now! The support beam is failing!"

"Not his fault," you tried to say. "Tell him. Not his--"

Metal screamed and everything went dark.

You woke, grasping at nothing. You still couldn't get a deep breath but this time you were on your back and it felt like someone had laced a corset brutally tight around you.

"Easy there. You're all right," said a deep voice.

Your vision swam and then Spartan Vannak-134 appeared out from the dim lighting. You were still clawing at the air, trying to sit up, and he caught your hand a little awkwardly in his much larger ones.

"Where?" you gasped.

"You're back on Reach, in medical."

Once he said it, details emerged like a black and white picture filling in with color: the beeps of the monitors, the distinctive antiseptic smell. Your hearing was still deadened but not as much as before, meaning they had already begun healing therapies on your eardrums.

Anything you might've wanted to say dissolved like sugar on your tongue before the words could be spoken. Your head seemed too full. I'm drugged, you thought and that was the last thing you knew for a while.

Voices drew you from the murky depths and you tried to open your eyes but couldn't.

"Hold her hand," Vannak said in a quiet rumble. "She likes that."

A new hand gently folded around yours and your fingers instinctively gripped hold.

You woke, feeling the phantom press of metal bearing down on you, forcing the air from your lungs. You tried to sit up, your limbs flailed, uncoordinated and leaden. A second hand closed around yours and a feminine voice began to softly sing, a lullaby in a language you didn't recognize.

The room was blurry but you caught a glimpse of red hair -- Spartan Riz-028. You went under once more, dreaming of music that soothed your fears.

Later, there was a new voice to lure you up from the sticky darkness.

"Poor little thing. She looks so small."

"She'll heal. Hold her hand, it helps."

At some point, you jolted awake to find your hand cradled carefully within Kai's.

"Hey," she said, sitting up straighter in the chair next to the bed. "You need anything?"

Your head felt less stuffed with cotton than before but now that cotton seemed to have been transferred to your mouth. "Water?" you croaked.

She jumped up and returned shortly, carrying a cup with a straw in it. You intended to sit up but a searing pain in your ribs immediately convinced you that was a bad idea and you let her help you by holding the straw to your lips.

"Slowly," she advised.

Once you'd taken a couple of sips, you mumbled your thanks then promptly passed out.

You thought you'd closed your eyes for a brief moment but when they fluttered open, it wasn't Kai sitting in the chair, holding your hand.

As soon as John knew you were awake, he was on his feet, carefully brushing the fingertips of his free hand along the curve of your cheek.

You mouthed his name.

"Rest," he said. "I'm here. You're safe."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, you truly felt as if you were. Your mind let go.

"And how's our favorite mech, the Hero of the Pit?"

"That's not a very heroic name," you confessed, smiling as Maria and then Jamie entered medical.

You were sitting on the side of the bed in generic gray scrubs, waiting for Dr. Savannah to give you final instructions before your release. It had been two days since the explosion. Your hearing had, thankfully, returned to normal. The rest of you... not so much but you were on the mend.

They both gave you careful hugs.

"You look a lot less like you were squashed by a building," Jamie said sincerely and Maria punched his arm. "Hey, that was a compliment!"

"Don't make me laugh," you begged, holding your left side. They'd fused your broken ribs back together but the tissue damage would take longer to resolve. Still, aches, pains, limited motion and all, you knew you were very lucky.

"I hope they're giving you a nice vacation, at least," Maria went on.

"I should be ready for light duty in a week."

"Technically, I said we'd evaluate you for light duty in a week," Dr. Savannah corrected as she entered. "Afraid your friends will have to catch up with you later."

They said their goodbyes and, as they left, you started to stand. The doctor quickly said, "No, you don't. I don't want you walking on that leg."

"It's not broken," you argued.

"Not anymore," she countered. "Stay put. I got you a ride."

"I don't need to be wheeled back to the barracks." You tried to keep your tone confident but the truth was even that little bit of exertion had left you feeling twinges all along your left leg. Your left shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat.

"Well, good thing you're wrong on both counts," she said, winking. "And here he is now."

John came through the door, dressed in his undersuit as if either about to head to the Brokkr stations to have his Mjolnir mounted up or returning from having it removed. You didn't even realize you'd moved to rise again until Dr. Savannah put a practiced hand on your good shoulder to keep you down.

"I'll be sending PT to you twice a day, starting tomorrow," she said. "They'll help you to get your strength and mobility back. Around that, rest. Catch up on your reading, watch some thoroughly trashy movies, and keep your feet up. Not too far up, though. Nothing too strenuous. Make him do all of the work."

That got you to look at her and she waggled her eyebrows.

John cleared his throat slightly, a faint but definite flush creeping up from his collar. "Yes, ma'am."

"All right, see you back in a few days, sooner if anything else develops. You know what to watch for."

It wasn't until she stepped back and John approached that it clicked.

"You're going to carry me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated in a murmur that shivered straight down your spine.

Since your left side had taken the brunt of the damage, he put your right to his chest and cautiously picked you up in a bridal carry. Despite the care, being moved set a thousand things to hurting and your breath hitched as he straightened.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you said, your tone tighter than you would've liked. You thought, I hope nobody sees me being toted around like this, but, as soon as you left medical, you realized that no one was actually looking at you.

I think if Master Chief offered to drop me and pick up any marine, ODST or officer in this hall, they'd be hopping into his arms before I even hit the floor!

At the first turn he made, you realized the rest of it. "This isn't the way to the barracks."

"Nope," he said and you knew him well enough now to see the hint of a smile in his eyes.

You didn't have to wait for further clues, there was only one place, then, that he could be taking you. "How many strings did you have to pull for this?"

"Not as many as you might think," he demurred. "Your actions saved lives."

And they could've blamed you for failing to make sure a bomb hadn't been sent to the Pit in the first place. The curly tailed Warthog had been your responsibility, after all. You'd been curtly informed of all that when they'd debriefed you the first day you'd had your eyes open for more than 15 minutes.

You doubted they'd told that to John, though.

When you reached his room, he maneuvered so to get his thumb on the panel without jostling you too much. The lights came on as he took you through the doorway and then he paused.

"Kai," he rumbled, shaking his head. "She said studies show people heal better with color. I should've known she'd overdo it. Say the word and I'll have her in here clearing this out."

"It's your room," you said, "but personally, I love it."

The duvet on the bed and the pillows on the couch were now a rainbow of jewel tones. A tapestry with a field of sunflowers dominated the wall at the foot of the bed and you could've sworn there was a dusting of diamond glitter shimmering on every wall, sending tiny holographic rainbows through the air in all directions. But the main thing that caught your attention was overhead.

"She put up stars," you said, brightening.

"Ah, that one was actually me," he confessed. "You seemed to really like those in her room so I thought..."

You stretched up in his arms, inhaling a little sharply at the stab of pain in your left side, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I love them, John. Thank you."

A short time later, you found yourself lying on the bed in the darkened room, looking up at those stars. John had profusely apologized for not being able to stay after getting you settled in. He'd turned down the bed so you wouldn't have to, had put your padd close at hand on the nightstand to the right along with a bottle of water and a couple of emergency ration packs in case you got hungry before someone bought you a meal. He'd even procured you a set of unthinkably soft civvies to change into, exactly your size and in your favorite color.

You couldn't imagine that a Spartan had ever taken care of a sick or wounded person before, other than in a battlefield triage situation, so he'd probably found a checklist from somewhere to guide him. His earnestness to make sure he'd done everything right sent warmth flooding through you.

Before he left, he'd paused to kiss the top of your head.

"You know," you said, lifting your chin, "my lips aren't broken."

He hesitated. "The last time I did that, an entire base fell on you."

"Only the warehouse part," you said dismissively, "and there was absolutely no correlation, I promise."

He tried to smile at that but his eyes still showed concern.

"I promise," you repeated more seriously and he exhaled as if about to make a tremendous leap. His kiss was so soft and gentle, it was barely more than a whisper against your mouth.

Once he had left, you'd considered taking Dr. Savannah's advice and watching a holo, reading something on your padd, or doing any number of things to pass the time but ultimately, you'd wanted to appreciate his handiwork.

You’d come home from a night out, absolutely plastered. In the haze of your memories, you can vaguely remember one of your friends using your phone to call Jake while you were out at the bar. He’d picked up on the first ring and you could hear his voice saying your name like a question over the phone.

“Is that Jake?” your words were slurred but your eyes were bright and shining. Your friend shushed you gently and readjusted your phone against their ear. You tried to grab for it and they turned away from you, keeping their free hand wrapped around your arm.

You can’t remember much of what was said in the conversation, only that your friend told him you needed a ride home and that Jake was already out the door. You squirmed in your friend’s grip, reaching for the phone again. “Lemme talk to ‘im.”

In a blink, your phone was back in your possession but the call had ended. You think you remember frowning at the screen when you noticed. 

“C’mon, he’s gonna be here soon,” your friend said, tugging you towards the entrance of the bar you were at. Sure enough, he’d arrived not even five minutes later. He looked a little tired, fighting off sleep while he waited up for you to come home. 

“Jake!” it came out in something close to a gasp, a great big smile lifting your cheeks. Your inhibitions were low as you stumbled towards him and all but collapsed against him, his arms coming around your waist to catch you. His t-shirt was soft against your cheek and you remember keeping your nose pressed against his chest for an almost embarrassingly long time because he smelled so good. 

He’d smiled and nodded at your friend in a quiet thanks before he led you to his car. You had held your breath while he buckled you in and tried to focus on one point on the horizon to wade off the nausea creeping up. Jake let you lean most of your weight against him as he helped you inside and to your room where you collapsed onto your bed. 

As soon as your head hit the mattress you felt a sleepiness take hold, your eyelids feeling heavier with each blink. You’d groaned when Jake made you go into the bathroom to change for bed and he’d helped you take your makeup off when you were too stubborn to do it yourself.

When you were all settled into bed, advil and water on your bedside table for the morning, he’d turned off your lamp and got up to leave. You feel a slight bit embarrassed when you recall asking him to stay with you before he could leave the room. You hadn’t really expected him to agree, but he did. 

You lift your head off the pillow and it immediately begins to throb, making your face scrunch up and your eyes squeeze closed. Through the building tension, you remember the water and pain relievers he’d set out for you on your nightstand. Your eyes peel open just enough for you to grab them and swallow the pills down with water. 

After setting the water back down, you look over at Jake sleeping in the spot next to you. He looks so serene, features completely relaxed and his face slightly smushed against your spare pillow. His hair’s a bit of a tousled mess from sleep and the sight of it makes you smile. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he mumbles, eyes still closed. His voice is deeper in the morning, this you already knew but hearing it immediately after he wakes up, in your bed no less, makes a thick, gooey warmth cloud your chest. You roll your eyes, though he can’t see it, fighting off the embarrassment tickling your nerves at having been caught staring at your sleeping roommate. 

“I didn’t think you’d stay,” you say after you’ve laid back down. His eyes blink open and he’s quiet for a minute. He holds your gaze for a minute, lets it wander across your face and then back to your eyes. He shrugs best he can, laying on his side. 

“You asked,” he says simply, like it’s obvious. You swallow and nod. He looks over your features once more, almost like he’s committing them to memory, and Jake realizes he likes having you to wake up next to. 

After that first morning, the two of you find almost any excuse you can to share a bed at night. 

You can’t sleep and knock on his door in the middle of the night, complaining of a minor nightmare. Jake puts his sheets in the wash and claims he doesn’t have a made bed to sleep in, despite the spare set of sheets in the closet. He hosts movie night in his room under the guise of the couch suddenly being too small. 

Slowly, over the course of many nights and phases of the moon, something in your dynamic shifts. He’s a lot more touchy with you, his fingers lingering against your skin. You get braver by kissing his cheek before you get out of bed the last few times. 

It’s an unspoken change, one neither of you really feel the need to address. That is, until excuse number fifteen—the storm outside might make you lose power and it’s better to just sleep in the same bed in case that happens—and he’s holding you in his bed.

The rain splashes against the windows, flashes of lightning lighting up the room as thunder cracks overhead. It’s quiet though in the comfort of his sheets. You can’t decide if you’re starting to prefer his mattress to yours. A hum of your name breaks you from your thoughts and you adjust your head to meet his eye. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts and you try to bite back a smirk. 

“That’s never good,” you muse. He laughs and shakes his head. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he restates. There’s the beginnings of a nervous blush creeping across his cheeks. “Maybe we should do this…permanently.”

You blink at him, eyes a little wide. “This, like, sharing a bed this?”

He nods and you think this is the first time you’ve ever seen your roommate so nervous. You start to smile. You make him nervous. The thought makes you feel giddy inside. 

“Yeah. Okay,” you agree and you can feel him physically relax against you. “Now you can stop lying about not having sheets on your bed or the couch being too small.”

It’s crowded inside, though you should’ve expected that with it being the weekend. One after a successful mission, no less. You shoulder your way through hordes of Navy personnel and the occasional local, paying no mind to the strange looks you’re getting for still being in your pajamas at a bar. 

You spot Rooster back by the dartboard and pool tables and he catches your eye over the crowd. He meets you halfway with a relieved look on his face. 

“Sorry we call-” you cut him off before he can say anything else.

“Where is he?” you ask, peeking over his shoulder. You miss the knowing gleam in his eye.  

“Where’d you think?” He turns towards the dartboard and points, your eyes following. Sure enough, there’s Jake, throwing darts at the board and somehow still managing to hit bullseye even when completely drunk. You shake your head and let Rooster help lead you over. 

“Hey, Hangman! Your ride’s here,” he shouts over the crowd. Jake turns around from where he was going to collect the darts with a complete look of confusion. 

“I didn’t call a ride,” he says and Rooster all but smirks. He nudges you forward and Jake’s face seems to light up like a switch was flipped when he notices you.

“What are you doin’ here, sweets?” he asks, completely forgetting about the darts he was trying to retrieve. You try not to let it show how much the pet name affects you.

“Taking you home,” you say. You wave Rooster off, offering him a small thank you for calling. A pout forms on his face as he seemingly remembers what he was doing right before you showed up. 

“But I’m in the middle of a game,” he says, sounding like a little kid whose parents just told him no.

“And you were doing great but we gotta get home, okay?” you ask, coming up to him and wrapping an arm around his waist. He sighs, his chin tucking against his chest. He lets you lead him towards the bar doors, one of his arms coming around your shoulders. 

It’s a bit of a struggle getting him out of the bar. His footsteps are clumsy and he’s leaning on you just a little too much for you to also walk properly. It doesn’t help that the bar is flooded with people. You manage to get him to your car and into the passenger’s side.

He fumbles with the seatbelt and you huff, leaning in and helping him pull it across his chest and clicking it into place. You move so you’re not leaning over him and his head lazily slumps over to look at you. There’s a dopey smile on his face and he reaches up to boop your nose. 

“Pretty,” he says, the word a little slurred. You shake your head but let yourself smile. You lean back completely to close the car door.

“No puking in my car, Seresin,” you try to sound threatening but you doubt he can tell in his inebriated state. He gives you a salute and you laugh a bit, closing the door and moving over to the driver’s side. 

You drive the two of you home, the streetlights sporadically illuminating your faces with a yellow glow. Living with Jake, you were privy to sides of him not many other people were. Drunk Jake was one that rarely came out but proved to be a sight whenever it did. 

When you get to the little place you share, he has to lean almost all his body weight on you while you walk from the car to the front door and inside. You toe your shoes off whilst he all but kicks his off in a pile by the door. While you’re busy locking the front door behind you, Jake disappears off into the living room. 

He collapses in a heap on the couch, body sinking into the cushions. You groan, dropping your keys against the kitchen counter as you head into the room. 

“Jake, c’mon,” you say, a little exasperated with your hands on your hips. He smiles serenely up at you, seemingly amused by you. You move to stand in front of him and hold both of your hands out for him to grab. “We need to get you in bed.”

He rolls his eyes. 

“I am in bed,” he protests, sinking deeper into the couch. You huff, taking a moment to rub at your forehead. 

“No, you’re on the couch,” you say, once again holding out your hands to help him up. He doesn’t budge, going so far as to start to lie down. You purse your lips. “Hangman, seriously. It’s time for bed.”

This seems to stop him in his tracks. His legs come back off the couch, his facial expression dropping. His lips seem to pucker out into a pout as he looks at you. You’re a little confused. 

“Are you mad at me?” he asks. You sigh, your eyebrows pinching together. 

“What?”

“You called me Hangman,” he points out, blinking up at you. His green eyes are almost doe-like. “You only call me that when you’re mad.”

Your shoulders sag and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment. When you open them again, he’s still staring at you with that same kicked puppy expression. You shake your head. “I’m not mad at you, Jake. Just wanna get you to bed, that’s all.”

He blinks at you for a second, considering, and then he’s reaching his hands up towards you. You grab hold of them and step back, helping tug him off the couch. You don’t anticipate the momentum he brings and suddenly, his body is pressed right against yours. 

Your hands have come to press against his chest, a last ditch attempt to keep him from falling on you completely. His face is suddenly really close to yours, the proximity taking your breath away. You think you see his eyes flicker down to your lips but you’re sure it’s just your mind playing tricks. 

“Careful,” you finally mutter and his eyes come up to meet yours. You take a cautious step back, letting your hands fall back to your sides. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You follow close behind him as he walks a little less clumsy down the hall to his bedroom. He sits on his bed while you dig through his drawers for his pajamas. You can hear shuffling behind you but you don’t expect to turn around to a halfway undressed Jake. Your face feels extremely hot. 

“You change while I get you some water, okay?” you leave the pajamas near him and don’t even wait for an answer before you’re leaving the room. You fill a glass from the kitchen with water and grab some pain meds from the bathroom. 

When you come back, he’s changed clothes and crawled into bed. You set the water and pills down on his bedside table carefully. At the sound of your name you look over at Jake. He’s looking at you in a way that makes your chest flutter. 

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for taking me home,” he says and you smile, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. “Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”

“I was never mad at you, Jake,” you say, shaking your head. He just stares at you, moving so he’s propped up more against his pillows.

“I like you,” he says and you hate how it sends your heart racing because he doesn't mean it like that. 

“I like you, too,” you respond. He nearly groans. 

“No, like I really like you. Like, like like you.”

Oh.

Your lips part and your eyes go a little wide. It feels like your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. You blink at him, fighting back a smile though the ghosts of one curls around your words. 

“You’re drunk,” you eventually say, shaking your head. He hums. 

“Maybe…but I won’t be in the morning,” he says, the look in his eyes seeming more sober now than ever. Your face feels warm and your eyes shine. You smooth out his blankets and press a kiss to his forehead before standing up. 

“Then tell me in the morning,” you muse. You stop at his door, turning to look at him. He’s already staring at you, a small smile on his face. You think this might be your favorite thing about seeing him drunk. His face softened, no sign of the cocky, big ego on his face. “Get some sleep.”